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Poems On / About SONNET  7/30/2014 8:06:52 AM
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  157.     

Fourteen Verses

My passion is to write modern sonnets
Yes indeed modern not traditional.
Iambic pentameter I regret
Is too restrictive and conditional.
I had observed that many years ago.
Expression of thought is more important
Than any well-placed iamb, apropos.
These little songs* are not songs at all; shan’t
Pretend when they're not. Mine are messages
That I compose within fourteen verses:
Some assurances, other presages.
They are my work for better or for worse.
If I fail to convey in fourteen lines
I'd nothing to say and wasted your time.

* Sonnet means little song.
 
Albert Ahearn

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  158.     

Sonnet Minus One: A Jest [Acrostic on THIRTEEN LINES]

This is not a sonnet, can’t you tell? It
Has a line less than it should, for, hell, if
I am to be printed in this broadside,
Rules require the lines to number oddly.
This allows me eight lines at the first, but
Even though my rhyming is well-versed, as
Every critic knows the issue’s passed, that
Never will this poem be a classic.

Literati want their sonnets catholic
In the best King’s English Shakespeare hath, and
Not the three-legged race this thirteen-liner
Eggs the couplet-craving crowd unraveled:
So, I scorn to tread the road more traveled.
 
Richard St. Clair

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  159.     

Sounds Uttered

A sound uttered by the same sonnet is unique,
You bellow in the extreme, unlike my sonnet;
The laughter attached is liking me and you,
But my poetry has love behind it, behind it.

This simple recipe called sounds of letters
Places me to say what I like about the way;
It is the way of the proud men that I speak
And not of those who shun and become remorse.

This sound I read as a letter or two shall accompany
Me and others of the same crowd, calling them
Not ignorant people, not backward groups
And not stupid or horrendous individuals.
 
Naveed Akram

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  160.     

An Ever Fix'd Mark

Long journey

missed trains

late trains

(lost trains?)

last
train
at last

brings me to you
in the early hours

of the morning

yawning I

enter like a thief
in the night

to find you
naked

on the ground
as if drowned

Shakspeare's Sonnets
at the outermost reach
of your fingertips

as if you had expired
reading it

my shirt clutched
in your hand

its cuff
stroking your hair

it's collar between your
open lips

my kiss
startles you awake

still cobwebbed
with dreams

you tell
of how

you tried
to stay up
to stay awake
to wait up for me

but sleep
kidnapped you

& hid you
in full view

upon the living room floor

dressed only
in a sonnet

with only
this shirt

for comfort.

I gather you
up

carry you
across the threshold

(never so naked a bride)

of our now
dawn brightened bedroom

you the most
precious

thing on my eart

I lay
you in bed

like a seashell
I had found

marrying our minds

truly

admitting

no impediments.
 
Dσnall Dempsey

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