Wednesday, May 25, 2011


An exercise in synchronicity,
A sonnet is fortuitous in form,
Allowing me to pick judiciously
From sundry thoughts and notions all a-swarm.

The dither in my brain aligns somehow
When disciplined by an iambic beat,
And words, like bricks cemented with a trowel,
Lie in a row of neatly measured feet.

When nothing further comes to mind, a turn
Demanded by the pattern prompts new thought,
Another vantage from which I discern
The destined end I hadn’t known I’d sought.

     There’s magic in the web of such a verse
     That charms the randomness of Chaos’ curse.