Author's Notes:

Every summer:

Since 2016, I've participated in a month-long writing contest. The rules are simple: on the first day of the month, everyone participating has to submit something they've written specifically for the contest. By the 15th of the month, everyone has to have 12 pieces submitted to continue, and by the end of the month, in order to be considered for inclusion in the anthology, we all need to have 25 pieces submitted.

The editor, Lise Quintana, would then choose one piece from everyone who'd fulfilled the terms, and Zoetic Press put out the collections under the title Write Like You're Alive: here are links to the 2016 volume, the 2017 volume, and the 2018 volume. They're completely free to download, and I've got a poem in each.

In 2019, however, Zoetic Press announced that they're essentially going out of business, so Michael K. Hill from Tangent Press East stepped in to coordinate this summer's event. Casting my brain about for a theme I could use, I recalled that Pony was approaching its end. So I thought I'd write a sonnet cycle about that, one sonnet per day for the whole month of August.

And with the Actual Last Weekend practically upon us, here are those thirty-one sonnets. I gave the whole thing the title Nag-mificent Obsession and subtitled it A Half-Century-Old Brony's Sonnet Cycle Focused Upon the Upcoming Conclusion of the "My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic" Cartoon Series After its Nine-Year Run.

Mike

One: Giddy-Up

Explosions rarely discommode my brain.
Unbridled passion? Nope. I don't recall
Infatuation driving me insane
Before the Ponies. How'd I ever fall?

My teenage years, I guess, contained the lust
That crashes through the best of us. And yet?
Obsession couldn't overcome mistrust:
Myself, the folks around me. Life's a threat!

I've never kissed. I've never held a hand.
I've never brushed an errant lock away
From any woman's face. I never planned
To symbolize the nerdiest cliché—

But here I stand, an unrepentant geek,
To praise the Ponies' charm, their strange mystique.

Two: In My Geekitude

When asked, "Invisibility or flight?"
"Invisible," I answer every time.
Unnoticed, overlooked, and out-of-sight
Remain my goals. Consider how sublime

To vanish, insubstantial, more than gone.
Experience has shown I bother folks
Like sandy socks or someone else's yawn.
My very breathing seemingly provokes.

Which isn't true. My relatives and friends
Declare enjoyment, having me around.
And yet the sticky tongue of doubt extends
Throughout my thoughts until I'm nearly drowned.

But truth is secondary. What I feel,
However false, is carved in stone and real.

Three: A Geek by Any Other Name

Irrationality, I hold, defines
The truest form of geek—which would be me.
Believing though the evidence aligns
Contrariwise, I skirt reality.

Like everyone, I see the facts and choose
To go the other way, to trust my heart.
Except I don't. My heart's decrees confuse
And stupefy, the thing a faulty part.

Humanity and geeks contain a lot
Of similarities but differ thus:
When people know they're right, I know I'm not.
No matter what, I'm wrong, no muss, no fuss.

I double-check but never second-guess.
It helps to keep the damage somewhat less.

Four: Isn't This Thing Supposed to be About "My Little Pony"?

Fantastic stories draw me, moth to flame,
The ones where creatures talk and beasts emote.
Cartoons and comics: lacking any shame,
I spend my money keeping them afloat.

Attracting my attention, though, they fail.
Despite their artists, writers, crew, and staff,
They sink without a ripple, hardly flail,
And leave behind a single paragraph.

So when I read of Pony coming back,
I sighed extensively and braced myself
To watch the program quickly going slack
Until a month would find it on the shelf.

I watched the double episode premiere
And loved it, even wiped away a tear.

Five: Into the Ponyverse

Admittedly, a reason Pony struck
Me right away's the slightest bit mundane.
Despite the story running them amuck,
The characters have jobs they each maintain.

It's work they all enjoy, and even more,
They're good at what they do. It's really rare
On television shows to not abhor
The grinding nine-to-five, to strive and care.

Employed at jobs I love, I play guitar
And sing in church; I write my sweet grotesques;
I host a college radio bazaar;
Around the library, I man the desks.

I've held these four positions decades now,
Content as only lazy dreams allow.

Six: Meet the Ponies!

The characters themselves are analogues—
Or archetypes or something. I admit
I understand it less than any frog
When terms get technical: I'm quite unfit.

And yet the cast exemplify their types.
The scholar lacking wisdom? Check! The fool
With hidden talents? Check! The farmer snipes?
The jock? The whisperer? The one in tulle?

Accounted for, they start to stretch, expand
As episodes continue. Lines are blurred.
Embodying their opposites, they stand
Increasingly apart throughout the herd.

Becoming heroines, becoming round,
They grow to meet the destinies they've found.

Seven: Fluttershy

Withdrawn, she shivers, sometimes even cries,
And cares the most what other Ponies think.
She breathes and tastes them all, can feel their eyes
Dismissive—rightly so! She wants to sink.

Around, before, beside her, though, her friends
Include her necessarily, by rote.
She wants to thank them, wants to make amends;
Their happy, quick denials clear her throat.

With baby steps, she blossoms bit by bit.
Collapsing often, still she can't deny
Her growing spine, her wants. She won't submit
When inner voices try to terrify.

I sure identify, but have to say
She's grown much more than me in every way.

Eight: Pinkie Pie

Her frantic antics often disobey
The laws of nature, Ponies, time, and space
But all for laughter's sake, her vast array
Of oddness serving friendship's sweet embrace.

External brashness tries but can't disguise
Her need for validation. Cheers, applause,
A simple smile or happy puff of sighs:
She twists herself in knots to serve the cause.

Among her friends, she gets a chance to breathe.
She doesn't take it. Still, she knows it's there,
Receives the gift that lets her doubts unsheathe,
And punts them lest they straighten out her hair.

While extroverts exhaust me, Pinkie walks
The line in ways a skosh unorthodox...

Nine: Rarity

Immaculate, projecting style and grace—
Possessing both those qualities as well—
She weeps, mascara running down her face,
Alone within her private carousel.

Perfection beckons, always unachieved
But always sought, a shining, distant star.
She wants its constant pressure unrelieved,
Demands the target move however far.

The others keep her grounded, let her know
They hear her when she cries: she's not alone.
Assisting with her businesses, they grow
And help her stretch her narrow comfort zone.

Artistic, still she expedites her plan.
I've watched approving since the show began.

Ten: Rainbow Dash

Extreme in all she does, her heart demands
A life of constant striving after goals.
Agility and speed: no record stands
Before the skills her toned physique controls.

Humiliation flickers through her thoughts,
A running sore. She knows its frigid touch
And helps when friends get caught within its knots
Despite the way she feels it overmuch.

An unexamined life's the only prize
She'll never reach. The others won't allow
Her selfish sight to dominate her eyes,
Will pull her out and teach her how to bow.

Her stubbornness is mine. I wish it weren't.
I watch her lessons cringing like I'm burnt.

Eleven: Applejack

A rock, a tree, an anchor: on and on,
The metaphors for strength accrete, expand
Until she vanishes, her nature gone,
Enwrapped within an endless, fraying strand.

She knows the sting of loss, has swallowed pain,
Digested it, and bucked its memory.
An arching brow expresses some disdain
But never holds an ounce of cruelty.

Her friends provide adventure, drama, thrills,
Or just a walk and talk, a quiet pause
Amid the grind. Beyond her orchard's hills,
She finds a greater life, a larger cause.

Routine defines her steady faithfulness:
Like her, I've learned there's more to happiness.

Twelve: Twilight Sparkle

A stodgy scholar, largely humorless,
Discovers friendship, saves the world, and moves
To Ponyville to try togetherness.
Surprise! She finds, with friends, her life improves!

Her course of study leads her further on—
Adventures snarling traffic, lessons learned—
Until at last she greets the golden dawn
With wings and horn, her princess status earned.

And still she panics, needs her friends' support.
Her magic nonpareil is not enough
To win the day, produce results, and thwart
Whatever villains think themselves so tough.

A geek, in other words, who made the grade,
Exemplifying traits my brain's mislaid.

Thirteen: And Everypony Else

Equestria, the Pony realm, supports
A vibrant cast of sundry mythic folks
Like dragons, hippogriffs, the standard sorts
Of creatures modern fantasy evokes.

Immortal sisters rule from Canterlot.
Controlling sun and moon, they each display
A horn and wings, but goddesses, they're not.
Or even queens: they're princesses, they say.

The world as much as anything attracts
My rapt attention, keeps my eager gaze
Imbibing while the stories run their acts.
The rampant cuteness fills my craw for days.

But more than cute, the show begins to seep
Within my blood and bones, to strike me deep.

Fourteen: A Ponyville State of Mind

Imaginary? Sure. Like all cartoons,
It's pixilated imagery, unreal.
Reality, however, coughs and swoons
Before the juggernaut of how I feel.

Recall I mentioned earlier the way
That facts and truth are optional at best?
Acknowledging the stunning exposé
Of proof, I disregard it: such a pest!

The Ponies, though, distract both brain and heart,
Divert my squinty eyes, and charge unstopped
In waves that bid my itchiness depart,
Defenses cut away, my shields dropped.

I see them, see myself and far beyond
The inner tumult years of doubt has spawned.

Fifteen: Fantasy vs. Reality

I tried to read the book A Game of Thrones
But quit a dozen endless pages in.
Perhaps I lack the proper pheromones
To find enjoyment watching others sin.

Except a villain written well will twist
My heart around, will perk my little ears,
Will make me yearn for heroes who'll insist
Redeeming grace arrive with joyful tears.

Complexity is great, but hopelessness
Will strain belief beyond credulity.
To pout and claim the world cannot possess
Intrinsic love's naive, it seems to me.

The Ponies know from jealousy and hate,
But goodness lurks to soothe and moderate.

Sixteen: The Advent of Nightmare Moon

Celestia and Luna rule the world—
I've mentioned them—immortal alicorns
Possessing every Pony virtue swirled:
They've earthly strength with wings and also horns.

A thousand years ago, the sisters fought.
Consumed by jealousy and wounded pride,
The younger, Luna, grumbled, madly thought
Her night was disregarded, pushed aside.

Transformed by hatred, Luna burst, became
The monster Nightmare Moon, and tried to slay
Celestia, to drive her out and claim
The throne alone by banishing the day.

Betrayal, greed, sororicide: you know,
The stuff you find in every children's show...

Seventeen: Interregnum

Subsumed within the Nightmare, Luna tore,
Destroyed Celestia's defense with glee.
Celestia, despairing, nearly swore
And called the Elements of Harmony.

The sisters used these magic gems to keep
Their nation safe. About to swoon,
Celestia succeeded, eyes aweep,
And locked her sister mad within the moon.

A thousand years alone upon the throne,
Her sister's frozen silhouette above,
The Elements reduced to useless stone,
She waits the prophecy with fear and love.

For magic tells her Luna will return,
But will she come to parley or to burn?

Eighteen: The Rescission of Nightmare Moon

The show begins with Nightmare Moon's return,
A thing that only Twilight's books foretell.
She tries to tell her teacher her concern;
Celestia assures her all is well.

So when the Nightmare stops the dawning day,
It's up to Twilight's sudden little group
Of local Ponies. Through the disarray,
They find the useless Elements and swoop.

The Elements respond, our heroines
Enlivening the stones to face the threat.
The power rises, cloaks their very skins,
And cleanses Luna, weeping true regret.

Destruction's not the answer: that's the key
To bring about a Pony victory.

Nineteen: The Philosophical Pony

"Deceptive depth" is not the proper phrase
To label Pony. Philosophical
As any eight-year-old, the show displays
Its title plainly, broad and scrutable.

When friendship grows, our lives will surely gain
A certain magic. Simple, straight, direct,
The message leaps and glitters, can't contain
Clandestine meanings. No, they're striped and checked.

Applying such a simple thought becomes
The crux that spins the characters about.
The show examines, gives a laugh, and plumbs
The shadowed corners friendship leaves in doubt.

Distraction rules the world; a quick cartoon
Can moor my psyche's runaway balloon.

Twenty: Because I've Only Used the Word "Archetype" Once So Far

Consider all the archetypes involved
And then consider how to make them friends.
As writers—most of us, I mean—we've solved
Related story problems, twists, and bends.

The brain, the joker/jock, the down-to-earth,
The fashion plate, the partier, the shy:
A quest unites them, brings their group to birth,
But afterwards, what keeps away "goodbye"?

Experience is what, the daily grind,
The ups and downs the characters commit.
The writers focus two-by-two to find
Affinities, connections, ways they fit.

The big adventure starts the series out.
The episodes that follow banish doubt.

Twenty-One: Slice of Life

For me, the point that sets the show apart
Concerns the question, "Yeah? What happens next?"
Our heroines succeed with spunk and heart,
Reform the world, then turning unperplexed,

They settle back to jobs and home and town
And start the true adventure: what to do.
Their lives have changed, but nothing's upside-down.
They've gained a group of friends is all that's new.

And yet? Disruptive! Monumentally!
Routines established years ago explode
When other Ponies blithely disagree.
Opinions crowd and bleat and discommode.

For twenty episodes, the show explores
How friendship happens, stumbles, skips, and soars.

Twenty-Two: Fights and Arguments

Recall "invisible"? The word I used
To tag myself when all this guff began?
Opinion's part of why I'm so confused.
I hate my brain for holding them, would ban

My inner critic ever speaking out
And bloviating stupid folderol.
"I'm always wrong!" I try to scream and shout,
But still opinions stew, grotesque, banal.

I stutter when confronted, squeak and flail
And lack the mental stamina to form
Defending arguments. My statements fail
To stop the flood. I'm lost within the storm.

The Ponies, though, they often disagree
While still remaining friends. A fantasy?

Twenty-Three: Arrested Development

The seasons flow, the characters advance
A bit for some, for others quite a lot.
It's television, after all: the dance
Of growth and static fills the highest spot.

Development's a tricky thing for shows.
As soon as episodes appear, they're bound
For random repetition. No one knows
The order. Continuity gets drowned.

Before this iron rule, the Ponies shake,
But still they manage, passing through the years,
To learn from every trial, each mistake
An opportunity for joy and tears.

Again, I watch it happen, blink, dismayed
And wonder how the heck to make the grade.

Twenty-Four: The Crux

Inside my head, the Ponies clash and blend,
Insist I pay attention, urge, incite,
Declare that magic waits: "A single friend
Will bear you upward, spin you toward the light!"

I have my friends. We meet for D & D
On Saturdays about a month apart.
Enjoyable, of course, but honestly,
If magic's there, I haven't seen it start.

Perhaps because I've known them decades now?
I breathe the old familiar atmosphere
And don't detect the flash, the spark, the wow,
The scent of roses sparse, the muffled cheer.

When people change, they're s'pposed to leave behind
Their former lives. But mine remains, I find.

Twenty-Five: Welcome to My World

I walk to work and back, about a mile
Along a stretch of lovely ocean beach.
Assisting folks with books and such, I smile—
And call the cops to handle any breach.

Alas, it happens. Keep a public space,
And sometimes folks'll start to shout or snore.
For most, a word's enough that they'll embrace
The proper way. If not, they're shown the door.

I strive to make a friendly spot without
Conveying any sense of ownership.
It's all about the sharing. Try to flout
The rights of other folks, you take a trip.

It's less than once a month a jerk gets banned.
I wonder: would the Ponies understand?

Twenty-Six: Reality vs. Fantasy

Redemption's still the standard song they sing,
But Ponies use a prison under ground—
With triple-headed dog and everything—
To store offenders shown to be unsound.

Perfection calls, remaining unattained
But sought with zeal and gusto unsurpassed.
Neuroses flourish, find themselves restrained,
And form the base that underlies the cast.

Our heroines are those who recognize
Their inner vices, blemishes, and bumps,
And seek to cut them back, to minimize
The damages they cause, the leaks and lumps.

Adventures form a small minority
Of what they do. It's just the same as me.

Twenty-Seven: An Underlying Metaphor?

Within Equestria, the Ponies thrive
Amid their trials, form relationships
That wobble now and then, can float and dive,
A roller coaster always turning flips.

Within our human sphere, the same applies—
At least it holds in spheres that I frequent.
Of course my life consists of pies and skies
And all the privilege they represent.

For Ponies power nature: make the clouds,
Control the rain and wind, create the snow.
Without them, nothing lives and silence shrouds
Equestria, above, between, below.

I'm straight and white, American, and male.
Within the show, my biases prevail.

Twenty-Eight: Pon-lesse Oblige

Now dragons, griffons, minotaurs exist,
But they're the tag-alongs, the afterthoughts.
Creation spins when Ponies give a twist;
The others watch dependent, tied in knots.

"Exceptional," a Pony might declare
Her nation, might decide her culture's best.
"Enlightenment like ours, we have to share
And spread the Pony way from East to West!"

Is friendliness a universal trait?
Compassion? Understanding? Everyone
Throughout the world attempts to elevate
Related virtues, honesty and fun.

Hegemony? Or freedom to engage
With finer attributes? The battles rage.

Twenty-Nine: The Ticking Clock

I haven't any answers. No one does—
Except for those convinced they somehow do.
They fill the nets and webs with constant buzz
Describing ways of life they know are true.

Conflicting visions flare accusingly.
Explosive, every argument constricts,
Destroys the fading possibility
Of compromise. The very word convicts.

The Ponies focus, touch upon the core,
The commonalities we all believe.
There's principles we simply can't ignore
And truths that reach beyond what we perceive.

Unless there's not. Recall I'm always wrong.
At least with Ponies, though, we get a song.

Thirty: What Pony Means to Me

Simplicity's the word I often use
To summarize myself: a simple heart,
A simple mind, some simple clothes and shoes,
A simple life a breeze could blow apart.

Adrift and blessed with zephyrs, I've become
Exactly who and what I want to be:
An indecisive milquetoast, keeping mum,
Creating gentle pieces constantly.

The Ponies give me hope and entertain
My inner cynic, critic, all the rest:
The voices sacred, stupid, and profane
Whose fatuous expounding I've suppressed.

It teems with themes my every part can watch
And takes those other voices down a notch.

Thirty-One: "Stories About Ponies are Stories About People"

Another thing the show has led me to?
Community, and that's the place I'll end.
Creative works like none I ever knew:
To call it "fanfic" seems to condescend.

I've learned as much from comments I've exchanged
With authors writing Ponyfic as all
The classes, talks, and seminars arranged
In college, school, or church assembly hall.

The title here's a line I won't forget
However long I'm putting words to page.
Imagination strikes its sparks, and yet
The writers' task is making them engage.

Another couple weeks, the show is gone.
Its lessons, though, will stretch and carry on.