A sonnet that I wrote upon the plane

Unto thy wistful, effervescent flow

I feel expression pulling from my soul,

Equipped with vast emotion which you sow,

My tattered self is finally made whole.

Within my core I feel a certain pull

That swallows all my predelections; crumbs

Whose general reflections lead to null

But which my mind so oft to they succumbs.

A bright array locks close on to my sight,

Unlike the lengthened drudgery I dread:

It’s through this muse that I now see the light

Upon which, short-lived, my soul, it has said:

    That while the swallow chirps & sings her song,

    My heart will leap, & short-lived will live long.

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Evenings pass by with a smoke

Whose breath has all but ceded.

Summer comes without provoke

And with it all that’s needed.

 

Nighttime whirs a precious note

All lost in dreams repeated.

Though the rabbit rests its yoke,
He’s still not quite depleted.

 

But morning comes and with it

Sparks a puff of nascent air

By reveries who stitch-knit

For him what he’ll come to bear.

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The poem said nothing exciting,
Just musings on plain simpletries.
But it’s those which are most indicting
Of life that’s well-living, with ease.

Of all of the things in this circus

That we call our planet and plane,

It’s those which some think lack a purpose,

That beautify life, most mundane.

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Poetry starts with a rhyme:

Needs a friend, we must keep time!

Meter marches mad to parry

Much ado, the two make merry!

 

Poems quick may store some grime

Edits next may halt the slime

Guidelines: some two might just vary

Writers, too, come to be wary

 

Poets know not what they make

Only rules which they must break:

“Ne’er the king or queen be sayin’

which way ought my rhymes be swayin’!”

 

Poems, too, are all just fun

Finding rhymes, two, to be spun:

They lead us down a garden path

But unlike serpents, senza wrath.

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