Tuesday, October 29, 2013


    I am by natural bent a sonneteer
    Who trips along my way iambically
    In five-beat lines I subtly engineer
    To seem as casual as their sense is clear.

    That art which hides its artifice is best,
    Seeming spontaneous and unrehearsed
    As if each line the Lyric Muse had blessed,
    While envious rival scribblers feel they’re cursed.

    What they don’t know is that facility
    And fluency develop over time,
    And that by sitting daily, faithfully
    To muse and play with meter and with rhyme

         At last a capability will come
         That feels like inspiration as you strum.