Sonnets, Sonnets Everywhere,
Not a song to sing,
The words – they pierce, and shout and hound –
Why don’t they music bring?
So stop this foolish, idyllic scream,
Of crying about that and this
For each poem kills the heart that singth –
Some with a bang, some with a miss.
Spider, Spider churning white
His web is more deadly than his sting
In summers and winters he found an easy prey
Will he live up to the challenge of the spring?
For sonnets are made sweetest
By those who can never sing
And to comprehend as a poet
Requires a little suffering.
So UP, Up my strands and quit your hooks
Or surely you’ll go a bubble
And loose yourself in the intricate design
What need to coil and double?
So where the art is without tear
And the sonnet doesn’t lie
Into that stream of consciousness, my lord,
Let my creativity die.
If you ask I’ll pen a few more lines,
And for love there’ll always be room,
You ask for some more sonnets,
Sure; but sonnets for whom?