I judge a painting on a simple term,
one benchmark that covers them all -
considering everything else I ask:
‘would I have this up on my wall?’
I love to read other's poetry
and I hope that they love to read mine.
There's much to be gained and lost (only time)
and iron, it is writ, sharpens iron.
And yes, I can list the things I insist
make a poem a wonderful thing:
what does it say and without cliche;
does it rhyme when it's read, does it ring?
Does it resonate, this topic they chose?
Is their point belaboured or brief?
What image was used to start a thought?
What thread runs through the motif?
Criteria piles up and gets in the way -
are there artless gauges or signs?
Perhaps, in the end, did it make me say:
‘How I wish I had written these lines’?
A bubble’s blown with wonders:
What bustle for mere trifling!
It well knows life is fleeting,
It bothers still, nor ponders.
Look, after all fret and fuss,
And all their belaboured life,
Poor humans sunk are in strife,
And still seem to miss the bus.
Look at us: greed nor is lust,
Learn to draw a lot from us,
Stop making all needless fuss,
Blown, life’s bust, back to whence just!
Here’s hull of life that lives full:
Rid all heretofore old school.
____________________________
A bubble lives its life it knows best: all bubbling, a blissful life, going with the flow, never to resist, and yet lives a full life how so short, and then be ready any time to get bust— a simple rule of their life’s school. Three quatrains of ABBA rhyme, ending with a couplet and sonnet’s turning point called Volta.
Musings |19.12.2017|sonnet
A poet writes to share a secret depth
Of feelings within their soulful breast.
They write to grasp onto immortality,
To be remembered beyond their death.
8-16-19
ARBITRIUM DIVISA Contest
Sponsor Gregory Barden
Taken from my poem titled "A Poet's Gift
A Poet's Gift
A poet writes to share a secret depth
of feeling within their soulful breast.
They write to grasp onto immortality,
To be remembered beyond their death.
A poet shares emotions inked upon the
Page that cannot verbally be conveyed.
They dwell in a world of dreams, of dark
And light, of imagination, of metaphors,
Where heartbreak heaves and love believes.
Poets dwell where nature inspires, and
Longing desires may elevate or decimate.
They feel compelled to write day or night
From their innate state of expressiveness.
Music, dance, and art entwined, are all a part
Of creating that sonnet, free verse or rhyme
Which may capture hearts in belaboured sigh,
Cause tears to well, the heart to swell, joy to
Bloom, cause lovers to swoon in blissful reverie.
Poetry...the greatest gift a poet yearns to share
With sensitivity, with naked open heart laid bare.
7-23-19
________________________________
Written on 18th April 2004, a Maundy Thursday, one of the three
sacred holy days forming the Christian spiritual calendar: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Mark. A contemplative piece set in Shakespearean sonnet style depicts profound human transition from spiritual exhaustion to divine surrender. It talks of stripping away the external ego to find internal sacred peace.
____________________________
When hope feels thin, and your horizon far,
When righteousness your own for little counts,
Broken and bruised and battered when you are,
When your wasted shadow forever haunts;
When rites and rituals robbed are of magic,
And piety nor pilgrimage might please,
Belaboured worship loses all its logic,
Divine grace seems to gasp for fresher lease;
When you are keen to off-load your old self,
To fill life’s vacuum with His holy presence,
Too keen to leave behind all power and pelf,
The heart whilst craves a deep unending silence;
Ready thence you’re to embrace divine bliss,
To fill your life with fullness that is His.
_____________________________________
Sonnet | 13.04.2004 |
In single file with rifles in their hands
belaboured breath under an airless sun,
slip sliding swiftly, softly shifting sand
beneath their boots the sparkling granules run.
When they set out, those twenty-two brave men
all battle hardened, making this Platoon
were slowly picked off, time and time again
by next door's dog, or buried with a spoon.
And just when safety seemed to be in sight,
gazing skyward, the Captain cursed their luck,
they backed off from it's shadow, wreathed in fright,
their doom sealed by a bright pink rubber duck.
A child's imagination knows no bounds
for in their world, enjoyment's always found.
For contest 'Sandbox', sponsor Anthony Slausen
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.