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Sonnet, Sort Of

June 27, 2013

chagall backdrop

Chance, fling, sing, dance,
Prance, wing, sting, romance,
Someday, maybe, anyway,
baby, I’ll say, we’ll see.

Sonnet line-endings I will never use,
Petrarchan, octave and sestet pairing,
so much to gain, ergo plenty to lose,
when poets go astray, lose their bearing.
It’s easy to just settle, stop caring,
take to hypnotics, or just plain old booze,
get caught in sun spots, in solar flaring,
perish in flame before paying the dues.
So I buckle down and get serious,
edit and rewrite, until it’s just right,
like courting a young and elusive Miss,
who smells like lavender, emits sunlight.
Move quickly now, inch in to steal a kiss!
Better yet? Wait till the cover of night.

Tags: Art, Forms, Iambic pentameter, Literature, Petrarchan sonnet, poetry, Rhyme scheme, Sonnet

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Walled In

Filed under: Poetry — 2 Comments

April 6, 2013

Read Walden again to regain
the remains of what’s sane.
Thoreau’s thorough, throughout I thought.
My ache for an acre or two, won’t do.

Sharing berth, sun and earth,
milking time, all its worth.

Persist, exist, merely;
subsist.

Time is the currency of choice.
Steadfast, intent, I avert diversions
pecuniary;

peculiar
habit this nine to five,
it keeps me from keeping
holy,

wholly alive.

Everyday’s a weekend; weakened
daily.

I need to go backwards,
to get ahead, I’m losing
step.

A new cadence, known decadents,
decades of whispering
about different drummers: hum-drum rumbas.

Nobody’s doing this samba,
sadly. Somnambulists get in the way.

Got to get far away, to get
closure.

A room by a pond, unfurnished to go.
I won’t be sticking around to get stuck.
Bound homeward, upward, northward, and westward,
into the wood, Henry David, I go.

Hi-ho!