Monday, November 16, 2015


                    In fourteen lines a sonnet weaves its spell
                    Iambically deployed across the page,
                    A little song where many subjects dwell
                    All governed by a puckish kind of mage,
                    For where it tends is unpredictable
                    As metrical exigencies decree,
                    With subjects serious or fantastical
                    Revealed along the way spontaneously,
                    Which is a reason to indulge in such
                    A baffling but exciting exercise
                    Where what you would pursue eludes your clutch
                    Till suddenly your knavish sprite supplies
                         Just what you need to end what you’ve begun
                         And all of your frustration turns to fun.