What is this kind of "love" (sonnet)

The third week in a row, he cancels out
On visiting the kids he claims he loves.
What is this kind of "love" he speaks about?
It surely doesn't show in what he does.
He doesn't call them on the telephone.
He calls their mother names and epithets.
He leaves them wondering what they've done wrong,
Wonders why cold shoulders are all he gets.
He leaves them drunken messages to hear,
Assuming they'll know he was "just kidding."
Which does he love more, his kids or his beer?
It's hard to tell by the way he's living.
Why can't he just step on up to the plate
Before they're grown and it is far too late.  

The Storm's Increased (sonnet)

I saw a lighthouse drawing me to shore,
A beacon of hope lit my shadowed path.
Distraught, I prayed in anguish to the Lord,
"Please let this storm I'm fighting be the last."
The thunder raged about me 'round the clock,
The waves came up and over on the deck.
I felt my ship pulled near the jagged rocks,
Yet still I clung to hope and craned my neck --
Yearning for a glimpse of the distant shore,
Longing to be rescued from all the pain,
Buffeted by gales I couldn't ignore,
Drowning in bucketfulls of pouring rain.
Just when I thought I'd find a resting place,
The storm's increased and trashed my flimsy faith.

A Swing and a Miss (sonnet)

I'm up to bat, the bottom of the ninth,
Our team has now fallen so far behind.
I tap my shoes, and step up to the line,
Aware the responsibility's mine.
I wait for the pitch, swing with all my might,
And get nothing but a whiff of hot air.
I regroup, regrip, and retake my stance,
Stare down the pitcher with an icy glare,
Waiting for a fast ball; give me a chance. 
I look to the outfield and choose my spot,
Ready my bat for the oncoming ball,
Hoping for something hittable; it's not,
It's a curve, and I can't connect at all.
Just when I thought I knew what life's about,
A swing and a miss, and I've just struck out.