Friday, January 30, 2015


          A sonnet keeps a train of thought on track,
          And once it builds a hardy head of steam
          And images come billowing from its stack,
          Then lines emerge in a continuous stream.

          Each quatrain’s freighted with a novel thought
          Driving the poem farther down the line
          Toward a terminus still vaguely sought
          That on arrival manifests design.

          The route is fixed, as if by destiny,
          And it’s the duty of the sonneteer
          To stay on track toward discovery
          Until that fated destination’s clear.

               A sonnet’s less invented than revealed
               Along a track, not in an open field.