A Fool from Indiana (A Tiara of Sonnets)

I
In everything I saw from where I stood,
my vision spanning heaven and the earth,
were subtle kind reminders life was good,
enticing me to seek a sense of worth.
the way I saw no blessing was denied,
the flowing of the sunshine or the rain,
convinced me that where disciplines abide
the dross shall wash away and gold remain.

I set my soul against the crouching dark
endeavoring to master every sin,
then blew to life each dimming, dying spark
of faith, pursuing purity within.

The choice to order better, when I could
was something to exalt my personhood

II
was something to exalt my personhood
a thing to be pursued? I could not say.
Humility bred doubt, but passion stood
heroically to chase all doubt away
and reinforce my sense of holy pride.
in all my hands endeavored to achieve.
My faith and works were seamlessly applied
to manifest the things that I believe.

I turned my eyes to those I saw with needs
and took the time to sooth a wounded soul.
Then gently I’d illuminate misdeeds
applying truth to make the errant whole.

In me were love and justice intertwined.
I saw I was a gift to all mankind,

III
I saw I was a gift to all mankind,
to those around who bear the human flaw.
Compassion, like an endlessstream inclined
my heart so outwardly, the angels saw
the way my footfalls bless this guilty sod.
Though others traveled through and left no trace,
I chose a tear-soaked path; where I had trod
each imprint that I left reflected grace.

I stood upon the pinnacle of me
and looked to see if someone, anyone,
wascapable of rising up to be
this awesome thing I am, but I found none.

“Is anyone like me,so wise and kind?”
Quite logically, the question came to mind,

IV
Quite logically, the question came to mind,
“If there is none like me so greatly blessed
to stride like one with sight among the blind,
with such compassion, unlike all the rest,
“What am I then, if I am not a god?”
Then like a prayer that’s borne on wings of lead,
that still-born thought of misdirected laud
returned its awful weight upon my head.

My words were daggers, plunging to the hilt
in my own belly, gravely wounded I
was bathed inblood insolvent to myguilt,
and would have tasted death. But gods can’t die!

Then lavished with your undeserved esteem,
You woke me from that egocentric dream
,
V
You woke me from that egocentric dream
where fantasy and pride wove dark and light
so seamlessly together, it would seem
I could not disentangle wrong from right
revealing my self-image was a sham.
Your spirit and your word cut like a knife
to separate the idol from the man.
It seems I’d worshipped self most all my life.

And once that deed was done, I would have thought
that I was left bereft of anyworth.
But purchasers envalue what is bought.
You purchased me, and offered me rebirth.

Creation has a unify ing theme:
You showed me your desire to redeem

VI
You showed me your desire to redeem
at any cost, for all, refusing none
had mandated the ultimate extreme.
The body and the blood of your own son
imbues me with your worth, just as I am.
My tarry guilt, in its totality
was lifted off, and placed upon the lamb
to justify my soul and set me free..

As though the stone which secreted his tomb
was lifted from my tongue, now I can raise
my heart and mind to heaven and assume
an attitude of endless, selfless praise.

The guilt was mine, you took it in my stead!
You own this heart, invade this sorry head,

VII
You own this heart, invade this sorry head,
this sometime haunt of fantasy and pride.
So sanctify my mind, and there imbed
you law, so that your spirit may abide
and I shall learn to dream your dream instead:
where kids shall rest with lions at their side.
Your people follow gladly where they’re led,
and by your throne of grace, all tears are dried.
`
Now leaving “worth” behind, I gaze across
your dreamless real vistas, old yet new
and sheltered in the shadow of the cross
I stand beside the pinnacle of you.

Uncovering reminders God is good
In everything I saw from where I stood,

Reprise:
In everything I saw from where I stood,
the way I saw no blessing was denied,
was something to exalt my personhood
and reinforce my sense of holy pride.

I saw I was a gift to all mankind,
the way my footfalls bless this guilty sod.
Quite logically, the question came to mind,
“What am I then, if I am not a god?”

You woke me from that egocentric dream
revealing my self-image was a sham.
You showed me your desire to redeem
imbues me with your worth, just as I am.

You own this heart, invade this sorry head,
and I shall learn to dream your dream instead.

Narcissist in Charge

Narcissist in Charge  (A Tiara of Sonnets)

I
When arguments are simply otiose
because he thinks he truly knows it all
and he’s aware that he’s the one we chose,
some facts, to him, are not real facts at all.
Because his mind’s his mind, mind you, not yours.
his self-importance dims all other lights.
His plans, most often, pause for quick detours
to “tweet”, as disagreements must be fights.

Obnoxious though he’s now days come to be,
we knew he’d flown along a selfish path.
The fear that he’s insane’s what frightens me;
that war will bloom to sooth this one man’s wrath.

A joke’s been played, and now the whole world knows
when strategists can simply not come close.

II
When strategists can simply not come close
to structuring a social plan he’ll own
because that’s not his nature, I suppose,
to countenance a theme not his alone.
it’s up to us to put in place the cures.
to emphasize the common traits we share
to act in ways that lifts and reassures,
and in so doing, demonstrate we care.

For when embracing one who’s not like us
we elevate each other in one act
and make one wonder, “Why’s there such a fuss”
because some folks are white and others black?”

Humanity can’t push the dark away
When prejudice and ownership hold sway

III
When prejudice and ownership hold sway
we’ll learn from him of course, “both sides are nice”;
torch waivers shouting, and the KKK
our leader told us that, not once – but twice.
Division’s easily sparked by self-served men.
“divide and conquer”‘s been a rule of war
and politicians use it now and then.
and clearly for this man, it’s worked before.

His second cadre is the really rich.
He promised he’d not act to steal their swag
so they’re secure within that favored niche
and they’ll support him, though he makes them gag.

It will take time; can’t all be done today.
Supremacy is hard to take away

IV
Supremacy is hard to take away
when it’s a myth embedded in one’s thought.
My hubris is my due, and it’s okay.
I can’t reject the mantra I’ve been taught
when it’s been taught since God himself knows when.
Intra species violence seems nature’s rule
but man’s cerebra’s special to our ken;
that ought to elevate mankind from drool.

I think, therefore I am; and I can hate,
and love, and hoard, and share, and laugh, and cry
and better that I learn before too late
my legacy will be here when I die.

Let’s shut down hate before a darkness starts
While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts

V
While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts
an egotist in power can raise hell.
Our being, (set forth by Rene’ Descartes)
is not enough, unless that self does well
to overpower fulminating hate.
So join me, partner, let us all arise,
and show by actions, we’ll not take the bait
to shed the human love that he’d abscise.

Ask one whose dress, or style, or even race
sets him apart from what defines your norm,
to join you, (when in a convenient place)
then feel your prejudice and fears deform.

A compliment, or kindness, is the start;
It comes from human consciousness, in part.

VI
It comes from human consciousness, in part,
the urge to hug or shake a friendly hand.
The urge to smile, I think, comes from our heart
and goodness urges us to take a stand.
But conscious will’s required to give it weight.
If we’ve an appetite for brotherhood
our reasons and results will resonate
by sharing joy of doing others good.

Sometimes I want to quit this muddled mess,
just stand aside and let the chaos reign,
but that would yield to his nurtured abscess
and bullies’ volume would increase again.

Our humor’s something we need never ration
So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.

VII
So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.
A bonded population’s more effective
at viewing “tweets” with thought and calm dispassion
then smiling at, and mocking his invective.
Diminish him until he’s out of fashion.
We sometimes make electoral mistakes
and cast a vote that’s lacking any passion.
Then riding out the storm is what it takes.

When we, object, to no avail, devices
he’s used to denigrate and target some,
we must reject and obviate his vices.
Til all can see how little he’s become.

The odds we’ll change his mind are not that close,
When arguments are simply otiose

Reprise:
When arguments are simply otiose
because his mind’s his mind, mind you, not yours.
when strategists can simply not come close
it’s up to us to put in place the cures.

When prejudice and ownership hold sway
division’s easily sparked by self-served men.
Supremacy is hard to take away
when it’s been taught since God himself knows when.

While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts
to overpower fulminating hate
It comes from human consciousness, in part,
but conscious will’s required to give it weight.

So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.
Diminish him until he’s out of fashion.

Dreams of Flight

Dreams of Flight  (Sonnet Crown + Reprise)

I
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t,”
with noses windward, knees of black and blue,
the only recourse left is to recant;
admit the laws of gravity are true.
But others soar a stratospheric arc!
How blessed are they to watch the earth recede.
And yet for those earth-bound, the view is stark,
and hope alone will not fulfill the need.

What cruel adjudicator of our fate
should choose who’s born with wings and who with paws?
What discipline permits us to relate
impersonal but universal laws?

The dreams of flight do little to supplant
confinement to this dusty low secant.

II
Confinement to this dusty low secant
itself should not preclude a happy life.
But some are predisposed to whine and rant.
Their choice to foment pain and augur strife
ensures the path just turns a darker dark,
where even those who try to use their gifts
find dampened tinder won’t accept a spark.
Such efforts only serve to widen rifts.

So blinded, then, by raging jealousy,
that even if our skills should raise the dead,
then speaking out of total honesty,
we’d choose the more mundane effect instead.

A heavy, darkened heart will not apprise
the miracles we work, in our own eyes.

III
The miracles we work, in our own eyes
do not appear to be worth much at all.
In retrospect, they’re more akin to lies,
enchantments, and in truth they are banal,
are rubbish, lacking substance, will not last.
And even if they suit another’s need
they’re lifeless vain reminders of the past
which tarnish as vague memories recede.

So arms which could have resurrected hope
and point another toward a rising star
instead are made to vainly flap or grope,
like who we wish to be, not who we are.

Conclusions that we know our past implies,
conceited with the future, we don’t prize.

IV
Conceited with the future, we don’t prize
abilities we know that we possess.
They atrophy, while haughty mocking skies
stare back, and we are wont to dispossess
the pyramids and sphinxes of our past.
The world views them with wonderment, and they
should give a sense of self-esteem to last
but fail, somehow, to keep the dark at bay.

There comes a sense of wonder, does there not?
The eagle, peering down must think us dumb,
but is he satisfied with what he’s got?
Or does he rue the lack of working thumb?

We cannot pick. No matter how we mourn,
we do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born.

V
We do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born
where fantasies and follies might collide
and flutter wingless downward in the morn,
the love-child unexpected come betide
of water and the spirit in our heart.
Then reared within the arms of Meant-to-be
While flitting moths keep watch, and minnows dart.
Then weaned on solid food of Wait-and-see.

The universe falls hushed a moment yet
while destiny unveils the work she’d sewn
like some heroic and eternal bet…
then prince or princess Dream ascends the throne.

There is no fear to feel while blood stays warm,
but if abilities do not conform.

VI
But if abilities do not conform,
despite all hope to nurture aptitude
with certain deviations from the norm,
anticipating future attitude,
then disappointment’s destined from the start.
The prince will surely never gain the throne.
The threaded tapestries all fall apart
the princess shall a-spinster all alone.

But no, no fatal crash nor grand decree
accompanies the dying of a dream
for what once was, just simply ceased to be
at most, perhaps, tears trickle in a stream.

No answers, then, we’re left to wonder why,
when we can’t use the limbs we have to fly.

VII
When we can’t use the limbs we have to fly,
no parting gift, or hope for better days,
no recompense, or “someday” left to buy,
but somehow life proceeds in hoary haze,
there’s naught to do but shake them at the sky.
From whence the cursed edict emanates:
“Fix leaden feet to earth, where dead things lie.”
Don’t ponder motives deep or speculate.

No matter how the chalice overflows
or what Divinity has filled the cup
if it is not the beverage that you chose,
you’re more than justified to turn it up.

The future, then, has nothing left to grant,
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t.”

Reprise:
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t,”
but others soar a stratospheric arc,
confinement to this dusty low secant
ensures the path just turns a darker dark.

The miracles we work in our own eyes
are rubbish, lacking substance, will not last.
Conceited with the future, we don’t prize
the pyramids and sphinxes of our past.

We do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born
of water and the spirit in our heart.
But if abilities do not conform,
then disappointment’s destined from the start.

When we can’t use the limbs we have to fly
there’s naught to do but shake them at the sky.

by Kenn Henry, 2014

Acrostic Tribute Sonnet

Acrostic Tribute Sonnet
Form invented by Ron Morris writing as Nobody Special on All Poetry.

Stanzaic:
Meter: Optional
Rhyme Scheme: Poet’s choice
Structured: The first letters of each line, followed by the title sets forth the message.

This is his first example:

An Angel

Golden smile and silver hair
Remarkable stories she would share
Always a laugh and never despair
Note that everyone would swear
None to this lady could ever compare
You knew this lady was very rare.

Could say she was a millionaire
Love she got from everywhere
And even from her armchair
I would say she’ll always care
Red roses belong to this lady fair
Even George and Cecil would declare.

I’ll know her by her wit and flair
Should I ever see another Granny Claire. . . . .

Here is my first attempt:

Cheer to Friends (Acrostic Tribute Sonnet)

Until you’ve spent some time with Bob, you will
Not know the pain he’s overcome and yet
Clearly his determination still
Lets joy and optimism be his bet
Each day. An outing with him is a thrill
Because he thinks if you’re alive you’re set.

On family matters, he is thrilled to pieces
Because of siblings who always have cared,
Bob’s proud of pretty, cool and loving nieces
Recalling happiness they all have shared.
In nature, Bob sees God’s own masterpieces!
No one from friendly humor will be spared.

Get out with Bob, and be prepared to smile
Since he believes those smiles are well worthwhile.

Lawrence Eberhart, July 2017

Here is a visual template for this iambic pentameter poem

Queen’s Sonnet

Created by Lisa Morris writing on All Poetry as Streambed
Syllabic: 10 syllables per line, meter optional
Stanzaic: 3 Quatrain plus a couplet
Rhyme Scheme: abba ccac deed ff

Her initial poem:

Lady of the House(Queen’s Sonnet)

I went back to the tree he gave to me
along with all the land that  held its roots; 
it was the first of many of love’s fruits.
He bought me next a fine house by the sea,

Yes, filled its every place with roses, rare.
He gilded out the room that we would share,
and gave me its emerald-laden key;
Inside, I found new wardrobes there to wear. 

But  in this bed, while he held me so near
I missed my father’s farmhouse and my sheep
which on clear nights I heard, though sound asleep.
I felt so safe at home; my flocks were dear!

Now I am over many grand estates,
sweet sheep far off, outside great golden gates.

Lisa Morris @ 2017

My attempt:

Pioneer Souls     (Queen’s Sonnet)

Besotted, Quigly quickly lost his heart.
He worked long days a’herding Long-horn steers
but, weekly danced and quaffed a couple beers;
then dreamed all week of Queenie, quite the tart.

She ran the doves, (called  soiled), who worked upstairs
and gave them larger than their normal shares,
for this  for each, was only but a start,
and madam Queenie was a gal who cares.

Each year the town put on a social dance
and there the Queen and Quigly stepped and swayed
and Quigly, quiet, calm and unafraid
proposed and both accepted life’s new chance.

The town turned out to see the couple wed
then watched them grow a pretty country spread.

Lawrence Eberhart, July 2017

 

Visual Template for Iambic Pentameter

Deplorable

This is a sonnet form invented  by Jose Rizal M. Reyes of the Philippines, and not yet named, by him. This temporary name provided by Lawrence Eberhart.

It is stanzaic, consisting of quatrain, quatrain, couplet, quatrain. 
It is metric, written in iambic pentameter.
It is Refrained
rhyming pattern: aaaB cccB dd eeebB

Here are Jose’s initial writes.

XXIV. The Deplorables

We do not bear a dainty name
to shield from slander or from shame.
Quite merrily we play the game.
Because we are Deplorables!

We fear no libtards weeping loud;
nor foul illegals, quite a crowd;
nor terrorists with bomb and shroud.
Because we are Deplorables!

There’s one thing all must understand:
we shall protect our Motherland!

This land is ours, do not forget.
Don’t undermine nor pose a threat.
For otherwise you shall regret.
Because we are Deplorables!

— Jose Rizal M. Reyes
February 14, 2017A

Third-person-plural version:

XXIV. The Deplorables

They do not bear a dainty name
to shield from scoffers and from shame.
Quite merrily they play the game.
Because they are Deplorables!

They fear no libtards weeping loud;
nor foul illegals, quite a crowd;
nor terrorists with bomb and shroud.
Because they are Deplorables!

There’s one thing all must understand:
they will protect their Motherland!

It is their land, don’t yout forget.
Don’t undermine nor pose a threat.
For otherwise you shall regret.
Because they are Deplorables!

— Jose Rizal M. Reyes
February 14, 2017A

My Example

A Rogue in Time

If America should be number one,
then Globalists must somehow be undone
and all elites be forced to share the fun.
We need a rogue to put this country straight.

Now multiculturalism ‘s not the goal –
assimilation serves a better role
when any nation cherishes its’soul.
We need a rogue to put this country straight,

I love the land in which I’ve grown and thrived
but far too little spirit has survived.

The liberals think the right thing is to give ,
and thus attract the “gimmees” here to live
til now we finally need to plug the sieve.
We need a rogue to put this country straight.

© Lawrenece Eberhart – April 9, 2017

Visual Template

Eternally Yours

This blog is maintained by Lawrence Eberhart, and the above note is automated.

This outstanding Heroic Crown of Sonnets was written by Joel M. Frey.

 

In wistful sojourn through a thousand lives,
across the chasmed centuries gone past,
he calls her name; it never quite arrives
to fall upon her ear. Just at the last,
she leaves the hall, or shutters windows closed.
The fading echoes rebound, fall, despair
upon the careless earth, alone who knows
how many times he’s haunted up her stairs
and stood before her door, unwilling hand
hung limply at his side. The heavy years
passed by them both again; he hadn’t planned
that they would not meet. This chance disappears
to speak the truth he knows she knows as well;
two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.

Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell,
a karmic double-helix twists through time.
They spiral ’round, attracted and repelled
by cosmic force, the space between defined
as two arms’ lengths apart. Their fingertips
will brush by chance; the spark that generates
ignites the kindling lust, the heated lips
which speak the wildfire words of love. The fates
dictate the places, times where their paths cross;
circumstances, consequences feed
the choices made. They’ve chosen fire, the loss
of reason, stoking starving naked need,
dance with abandon, passion, without pride;
they trip light-years fantastic side by side.

They trip light-years fantastic side by side.
The pas de deux began in ancient court
of some small city-state. He is a knight
sent by his Queen, a diplomatic sort
of mission. At a dinner hosted by
the local King, the knight, while taking in
who might be helpful or a hindrance spies
a shaken mane of gold, blue eyes within
her stunning face, struck slack with ennui
until she meets his eyes. An eyebrow lifts,
a corner of her mouth curls up, unseen
by all save the old man beside. He shifts,
and stands to pound his staff. The hall is still;
bound by an angered mage’s curs’ed spell

Bound by an angered mage’s curs’ed spell:
“Your burning gaze, Sir Knight…your smile, milass;
returned. You want each other? Very well!
So mote it be; I’ll have it come to pass.
She will be linked to you, eternally
yours, to have, to hold and never love;
to consummate and quench your lust will be
your death. And you shall lust, by Jove above!
I hereby mate your everlasting souls;
condemn you with a love like Hades’ fires,
passion’s heat incinerates you whole.
You’ll take him, child, and kill him with desire.
You’ll die for her; she’ll bring you to her knees
across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas.”

Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas
uncounted years of wandering, he seeks
asylum from the memory of her eyes.
The softest skin, most gently blushing cheeks,
wildest fingers raking skin from back,
ever-changing hips which thrust and thrash;
the tavern wench, the courtesan, all lack
whatever power it would take to smash
his crushing need. An aching pilgrimage,
life spent in shameless chase to slake the lust
imposed by jealous wizard in his rage.
Now weak and old, he walks alone through dust
and sandstorm, seeking solace, final rest
in desert’s scalding carborundum breath

In desert’s scalding carborundum breath
she oversees construction of her tomb.
Her father started it; upon his death,
she left the mage to build the solemn room
of memory. The waves of slaves pour sweat
in rivers onto stones, their muscles scream
and ripple in the undulating heat.
Mirage becomes a staggering man, unseen
by all but she. She mounts and rides to bring
some water, some relief. When their eyes meet,
their souls enmesh, their spirits start to sing,
his failing body falls about her feet.
They’re found again, and still there’s no release;
not even end of life can bring surcease.

Not even end of life can bring surcease;
she lived another twenty years beyond.
His final gaze of longing gave no peace,
but chained her in the everlasting bond
of arcane condemnation. Her damned heart
is pierced by passing seconds, every one
a blunted needle, mildly poisoned dart
not strong enough to stop her pulse’s run.
The mage’s gift to her: the agony
of life remembering her lover’s kiss,
then a death too short to set her free.
It sends her toward another fatal tryst,
spun round again the universe’s width;
their love a measured minuet with death.

Their love a measured minuet with death,
a dance with destiny. They wake again
to unfamiliar bodies, unknown paths
meandering across the haunted plain
of time. A muddy pasture, half a million
blissful stoners join in raucous song:
“…and you make it hard”. Among the hills run
junkie lovers who can do no wrong,
all sharing bodies, needles ’til the smack
runs out. Her shaking arms strapped ‘cross his chest;
he huddles close, awaiting the next stack
of Methadone. He shivers; breathes his last.
She cries and rocks his body, they will spoon
throughout the summer’s thundered afternoon.

Throughout the summer’s thundered afternoon
as heavy clouds erupt on thirsty soil,
cooler air meets skin on fire, a boon
to Magdalene and lover. The sweet oil
washes off, the rain obscures the sound
of marching feet. Centurions approach
and snatch him from her side. “So now you’re found
beside this one, whose last ride gave us such
an evil time. We strung him up, but now
his body’s gone, and you were seen beside
the tomb. You’ll die just as he did, and how.”
She watched another man be crucified.
Supported by her love, in peace he passed
between first breath of spring and winter’s last.

Between first breath of spring and winter’s last,
the royal courtyard at Versailles in bloom
is laid out for the party. Every face
is rouged, each powdered wig precisely groomed.
The hundred soldiers stand down, raise a toast,
Vive le roi! One teasing courtier
seduces a queen’s guard to leave his post.
Behind a hedge, they make love unaware
of peasants, women milling through the gate
in search of bread and royal blood, not cake.
He runs to save the Queen, and seals his fate;
the mob will kill for revolution’s sake.
The oaks a silent witness to his doom
in autumn colors, reds and golds festooned.

In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
the twin moons rise and set, reflecting sun
upon the biodomes. Earth shines down, ruined
by man’s neglect, what could not be undone.
The population by law zero sum;
resource conservation held above
the joy of new life. Parents here must come
to know the anguish of requited love.
She bears his child; they knew too well the chance
they took. The court will force a choice be made:
the father or the child. A tear, a glance
as he’s locked out. She watches as he fades
in cryogenic punishment, life lashed
to winter’s icy shackles holding fast.

To winter’s icy shackles holding fast
her soul, she proffers prayer, slogs through the sleet
toward her cloistered cell. One chilling blast
wraps habit ’round her, knocks her off her feet.
The heavy, sodden cloth, the wind prevents
her gaining purchase on the frozen ground.
From monastery cot, the monk could sense
distress. In thin burnoose he dashed and found
her, cold as stone, yet breathing; swept her up
and rushed her to the hearth. His warm embrace
brings on familiar heat. Their pasts stirred up,
relived, decision made within a trace:
“‘Tis best this time we live, and never start.”
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart.

Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart;
the aching need grows stronger day by day.
He tends her failing health without regard
to duty, vows. Her weak voice strains to say,
“I will be gone before you this time. Hear
me out; this may be what we need to break
our curse. Stay with me as my time grows near;
and love me as the Reaper comes to take
my soul, and finish with me after I
have left. God will forgive sins we’ll commit
for man alone has damned us. We must try
or curse ourselves, continue to submit
to endless pain, remain just as we are:
connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart.”

Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart,
they cling to every moment here and now;
the priceless beating of her failing heart,
his passions roil in an unending flow.
He gazes deep in her eternal eyes
as they glaze over, looking past his face
into the hollow stare of death. She lies
suspended between life and time and space,
to hear an old, familiar voice sound in
her ears. “To dance with death before him
as you rut…how clever! Most astounding
that you’d carry out this futile whim.
He dies; you’ll live, just as the curse defines,
in wistful sojourn through a thousand lives.”

In wistful sojourn through a thousand lives,
Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.
They trip light-years fantastic side by side
Bound by an angered mage’s curs’ed spell.
Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas,
In desert’s scalding carborundum breath
Not even end of life can bring surcease;
Their love a measured minuet with death.
Throughout the summer’s thundered afternoon,
Between first breath of spring and winter’s last,
In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
To winter’s icy shackles holding fast;
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart:
Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart.

(c) 2014 Joel M. Frye

Mirrored Seven Sonnet

This is a sonnet form created by John Thompson, writing on Allpoetry.com as iammisterpoet.

Syllabic: 7 syllable per line
Rhyme scheme: abab cdeedc baba, or alternatively
                             ababcdeedcfgfg.

Volta position not indicated.
The sonnet’s presentation is up to the author.

My Example

Refugees (Mirrored Seven Sonnet)

Required aid’s withheld from some
because of religions’ weight.
Don’t let those extremists come
for that’s just importing hate.

When driven by men of greed
who’ll fly a flag that’s false
intending to demonize
so people will realize
the violence is not our fault,
those greedy men will succeed.

Refuse them, reject the bait
Deny them their beating drum,
Man’s morality cant wait
We win if we don’t succumb.

© Lawrenceaot – January 10, 2016

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Mirrored Seven Sonnet

Vocanic Workshop

This is a sonnet form invented and named by Jose Rizal M. Reyes of the Philippines.

It is stanzaic, consisting of three quatrains and a rhyming couplet
It is written in iambic pentameter.
The rhyme scheme is: abbb ccbb ddbb ee, where the red letters indicate feminine rhyme.

My Example

Poppys Pride

 

Poppy’s Pride (Volcanic Workshop)

The poppy probably does feel it’s blessed
when pondering the universal quest
for beauty by the bards of creatures human.
You don’t deny they think, I’m now assumin’.
“No thorns have I dissuading roaming beasts
yet I’m not favored as a bovine feast.
I’m not as fragrant smelling as is cumin.
I serve to honor killed and missing crewmen,
…and soldiers lost in battles everywhere.
who, fakes upon their lapels proudly wear.
I reject the very thought of doom and
expect that happiness ought be resuming.

For like draws like, and thus most naturally
I often find it peering down at me.”

© Lawrence Eberhart, May 28, 2015

Picture credit: Mary Boren

 

 

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(yes, the first foot of L11 is headless.)

Volcanic Workshop

 

 

Volcanic Fireburst

Volcanic Fireburst

This is a sonnet form invented and named by Jose Rizal M. Reyes of the Philippines.

It is stanzaic, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet
It is written in iambic pentameter.
The rhyme scheme is: abba ccDD eeDD ff, where the capital letters indicate feminine rhyme.

My example

Barefoot Youth (Volcanic Fireburst)

In summertime I never would wear shoes
unless I hiked the rocky mountainside,
and nearly all my time was spent outside,
and shoes I’d choose most happily to lose.

My preference helped mother make ends meet
I felt no anguish playing in bare feet.
My family had its very own depression
and bought me shoes when school began its session.

I felt a pride in having feet so tough,
(it proved that I was made of sterner stuff.)
When roads of tar got hot there was no question,
I’d stand on them to make a deep impression.

My feet today have nothing wrong at all
though other parts succumb to aging’s call.

© Lawrencealot – April 29, 2015

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Volcanic Fireburst