‘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
Editor’s note: This sonnet-in-progress began life as a text message.
No greater fighting gentleman I knew than Carter of Virginia. Uncle Jack or “John” told stories wonderful but true! His cryptic death foretold he would come back.
Though human lips do not deliver them, Nor paper envelopes conceal their faces, Words of strangers crowd my inbox daily: Unsolicited advice for debt
“America, you ethnocentric cur! Your fathers raped and whored these virgin lands And slew the native peoples with disease. The slaves you freed remain a slave to her:
The Doctor rode a mule of white and brown, Which towed the gypsy wagon into town. His hat was tall and clad with ostrich plume, The sight of which made timid women bloom.
The works of Shakespeare bore me half to tears. Those tales as old as time itself remain Obtuse and difficult to understand. His plays consist of witches, princes, seers
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.
An emerald star in heaven’s dappled sea: The planet Krypton—doomed before its day By Jor-El’s words that no one had believed. He sought to save his wife, his son, then flee,
“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.