Tag Archives: sonnet

#488: My son at eighteen years becomes a fan . . .

I’m having a really hard time with the idea that the 8th of April might be the first day on which I don’t complete the composition of two poems, one of which must be a sonnet. I could let myself off the hook, I suppose, because yesterday I posted a 28 line sonnet, or, rather,Continue reading “#488: My son at eighteen years becomes a fan . . .”

#486: I wouldn’t call myself insomniac . . .

Here’s the seventh sonnet on the seventh day, a full week of two poems a day for a month. Right about now, the 20 days ahead is looking to me like a long haul. Today’s sonnet includes some extra-credit, bonus material. Sometimes 14 lines is not enough. So how about a twenty-eight line sonnet? Or,Continue reading “#486: I wouldn’t call myself insomniac . . .”

#484: Kevin was obsessive, compulsively so . . .

Kevin was obsessive, compulsively soand would sometimes anger when things didn’t gothe way he liked, would bite with sarcasm, poke at his wife, but this was his worst. Even though he’d say that when he metmy sister, he was a drugged-up mess, from the beginning none of us saw this. What we saw was aContinue reading “#484: Kevin was obsessive, compulsively so . . .”

#482: Shakespeare tried to immortalize his love . . .

Shakespeare tried to immortalize his lovein sonnets, in perfect iambic linesand in masterful metaphor, enjambed rhymes.What lives on is the poem, not the person. But it’s better than nothing, I suppose,and everyone who dies should have a poemcomposed in their memory, 14 lines,a poem that preserves something of a soul, that argues that the worldContinue reading “#482: Shakespeare tried to immortalize his love . . .”

#480: My brother-in-law died from his cancer . . .

My brother-in-law died from his cancerat home on February twenty-fifth.I hadn’t seen him since October lastwhen he still had some hair and could carryon with conversation as if he was not really sick. Even then, though, he hadconfined himself to the sofa; he could physically do little else and welikely knew that it would neverContinue reading “#480: My brother-in-law died from his cancer . . .”

#478: So I resolved in the new year to try . . .

So I resolved in the new year to trya meditation practice once againafter a two-year mindfulness dry spell.Not entirely mindlessness, but close. For whatever reason, I could not sitand my cushion languished without me.But during that whole episode, I knewsomething was wanting, something was amiss.It’s not enough to write a ten-syllable line; no amount ofContinue reading “#478: So I resolved in the new year to try . . .”

#476: Please be advised to like and to subscribe . . .

Two days into National Poetry Writing Month and so far I’ve met my goal of writing two poems every day, one of which must be a sonnet. I don’t know if this is sustainable. Only time will tell. . . Please be advised to like and to subscribe . . . Please be advised toContinue reading “#476: Please be advised to like and to subscribe . . .”

#474: It takes a fool to know a fool, they say . . .

In the spirit of April Fools day, here’s the first sonnet of the month. It’s kind of a political thing, which surprised me. I had the first line and had no idea where I would go with it. My standards for what constitutes a sonnet is simply 14 lines with a rough 10 syllable construction.Continue reading “#474: It takes a fool to know a fool, they say . . .”

NaPoWriMo 2024: More, More, More, He Cried. With A Rebel Yell.

Well, that’s a nutty title–funny only for those familiar with the Billy Idol song, but appropriate for the year in the National Poetry Writing Month Extravaganza because I’m doing it again and I’m hoping to go big. Last year I vowed to write a sonnet every day for 30 days and I was, lo andContinue reading “NaPoWriMo 2024: More, More, More, He Cried. With A Rebel Yell.”

#472: When I taught “The Red Wheelbarrow” . . .

Here we are on the last day of National Poetry Writing Month, or, in my neck of the woods, National Write A Sonnet Every Day Month. It has been a trip, to say the least, this project of committing oneself to a particular form over and over. I think I would recommend it. Outside ofContinue reading “#472: When I taught “The Red Wheelbarrow” . . .”