As we grow older it may really be
that form itself begets satiety,
so here’s an empty plate with nothing onit
beyond the snack of cooking up a sonnet.
When reading rhyming poems, they soon rhyme us,
worm in the brain and push our words around
until the flowing line, sans fume or fuss
congeals in lilting rhythm and pleasant sound…
though not without a twist, from time to time,
a prickly pun, stiletto irony,
an eyebrow raised, a character maligned,
some sly rebuke of fatuousity.
Yet all of this is but the darker side
of all the light such lines may cast upon
the heart that soars, the joy that opens wide,
the mind, the soul that breathes to heaven’s sun;
for sonnets are prime cuttings of the art
of making poems; the craft both whole and part.