Saturday, February 18, 2017


                    It’s morning, so this eager sonneteer
                    Has sat down in his half-cocked easy chair
                    To see what happy notions will appear
                    With contemplation and assiduous care,
                    Two requisites for how a sonnet grows,
                    And here, as you now see, the poem begins
                    As with its movements, inspiration flows,
                    The poet deaf to any outward dins—
                    The barking dogs, descending planes above,
                    The clattering of trucks on his brick road,
                    And even the anticipation of
                    His breakfast with his growling stomach’s goad,
                         But now, at last, this sentence-sonnet may
                         Conclude and, satisfied, he’ll start his day.