Tag Archives: Poems

Sonnet 5

I’ve long been fascinated by the sonnet. The awkward three stanza arrangement. The sing-songy feel but the absense of too strong a rhyme. I’ve written a few, and I’ve decided that I’m going to post some of them here.

Despite “sonnet” actually stemming from the term “sonetto,” meaning short song, sonnets are generally meant to be read as sentences, not especially in stanza form.

Anyway, this is sonnet #5.

From January first it’s hard to see
whatever lays before us, far or near.
Designing different fates, but what will be
will be despite resolving else this year.
The clouds that cloud the vision in my mind
cannot contain the sunlight rays that band
together, shining promises I find
give comfort as she holds me by the hand.
So while we wander round this endless rhyme,
and searching for a meaning to it all,
I find that I can face the plain of time
if she is there to catch me when I fall.
The plan to play an ever-growing part,
made easier when cradled by the heart.

for JPS

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Project X

I searched with my good eye
and turned to the side,
“This train isn’t leaving –
your grandmother lied.”

It’s pure like an iceburg
(but just half as wide)
and cutting the onions
Penelope cried.

You drank from the carton
and toed through the tide,
reclining the seat back,
enjoying the ride.

A pinball was jagged,
or so Milly spied,
and sandpaper napkins
were what Jeffrey tried.

And ever so slightly,
as Sandy Jo pried,
the turnip was rolling
and catching a stride.

Deb’s always the bridesmaid
and never the bride
So there she lays pond’ring
her own suicide.

Her passion, she’s finding,
she now can confide,
is bathing in vats of
cool formaldahyde.

It’s not so much flying
as much as a glide –
All these green tomatoes
are half-baked, not fried.

Yet there, in a zip top,
the leaves had been dried
and friends of the party
were stuck on the slide

Seems Katie, not Booker,
will serve as the guide,
since sweet cousin Lizzy
has never applied.

The rules penned by Justin
were meant to abide
the by-laws by Preston
and, yet, were denied.

He said “Glass champagne flutes
were not made to hide!”
Yet, beneath crates of yam paste,
young Allison died.

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60 Days

60 Days
a poem by AS

In 60 days the sun will shine, the bitter cold here, left behind
I rearrange my daily parts – a chapter ends, a new one starts

Who knows what tales lay ahead as I move on down there instead
I slowly filter out my wares and organize and weigh my cares.

“I love this place” I said I learned, a gentle red of light sunburn
Let’s see what future dreaming buys, what chances here materialize.

An afternoon, but not too late, with warming air that circulates
and cools the gentle forehead sweat and proves to me suspicion yet.

A different sort of life to lead, a different sort of smile you need
don’t sit back and observe the tale – stand up, take charge, try not to fail.

So 60 days must slowly burn, and 60 nights I’ll toss and turn
I can’t fast forward the calendar run, so I’ll cross them off there, one by one.

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