The conclusion of a literary experiment
‘Twas born of tumult, toil, troubled times
This dreary den of literary hubris.
Disgruntled poet’s voice was wrought with rhymes
And barbs, an arrow not inclined to miss
Its target. Skewering the bard became
A grand adventure. Clever quips disguised
As metered iambs–sonnets all the same–
Deceived the academics who surmised
My penmanship sincere. So what recourse
Remains? The Weekly Sonnet’s point is through,
Its hapless victims felled without remorse,
And all experiments conducted due.
I needn’t obfuscate my thoughts again;
Sincerity hereafter guides my pen.
Defeating your nemesis too easily has its drawbacks
“Too kind a death was death for whited knight.
The world’s a cruel, heartless place for those
Who shun the yoke of chivalry and light—
That breed of man who seeks a villain’s clothes.
Too swift in judgment, righteousness defames,
And all would claim their hearts have often said:
‘No whiter is the man than black he blames.
A golden crown is worth its weight in lead.’
If words were free and justice truly blind,
No shadow cast could threaten honor’s name
Where white was black and black was undefined.
A hero is a villain all the same.
Though whited knight was no more right than left,
Too swift in vengeance renders me bereft.”
An early-morning observation turned into a sonnet
I watched a spider crawling on the ceiling,
His body carriage black and unappealing.
Although his gait was ambling, rambling, odd,
His spindly legs traversed where few had trod.
Contributing in part to all his swerving,
The popcorn made his journey most unnerving.
For while this monster smaller than my finger
Did naught but lumber lazily and linger,
I did not wish to catch him if he fell,
Nor share my pillow even for a spell.
Above my eyes, the spider lost his holding!
But silver strands of gossamer unfolding
Secured the tiny marvel in his place.
Too late for me—I fled without a trace.
A vague declaration of tepid romantic stirrings
If I should say, “The waves upon the shore,”
You’d think this was a song you’d heard before.
Or if perchance “the sand beneath our feet,”
You might suppose this rhyme was sickly sweet.
Alack! Clichés have ruined poet’s dreams
So much that any fellow’s writing seems
The sentimental sap of willow trees.
Fair reader know: I seek no sympathies.
A woman’s hand gives rise to chivalry
In meeker men who never dreamed to be
Much greater than a hermit cursing love.
But courage is the virtue I speak of!
And now it cuts a swathe, a path, a way:
My fear dissolves as blue fades into grey.