Michael Coy Poet Sonnet

Feminine Endings

We've worn out yet another Anno Domini. 
We're twelve months - if not wiser - surely older. 
You call it a relationship, this boulder 
which hangs about me like a Shi'ite's bomb, and he, 
at least, can choose his cut-off point. From shoulder 
to knee, I'm (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda 
Meir, but we don't flow. We ooze. Like hominy 
grits, turgidly. But denser. Stodgier. Colder. 
Where once fizzed electricity, hums static. 
The best and worst of me is best termed "womanly" - 
irrational, irascible, erratic. 
I'm sure my verse is worse. Tot up each billable 
pretentious periphrastic polysyllable. 
But you? You're spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.

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Darren White March 8, 2017 at 2:25 AM Wow... That's a despiteful sonnet with a lot of anger. There are a lot of words there I had never heard of, like hominy, I had to look that up. A relationship, not only turned cold, but sour, bitter... Great sonnet. Darren White March 8, 2017 at 6:55 AM Yes, you did. That rhyme IS difficult. Michael Coy March 8, 2017 at 6:49 AM I'm always grateful, Darren. I tried to use some especially difficult rhymes in this one.