Category Archives: contemplative

Rainbow Tiara – A Tale of Creation

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1. Violet Light

It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
to separate beginnings’ night from day,
almost invisible, a slender arc
across the universe that seems to play.

While stroboscopic pulse expands with force
and tears the veil of nothingness apart,
creation must maintain its tireless course
for Tenebrae and nascent light to part.

No human then to watch that splendid sight,
no trace, no photograph, no movie shot;
we’re left to imagine the blinding might
of worlds appearing suddenly from nought.

One may call it a boson or a quark,
the mauve of sky is born from primal spark.

2. Indigo Sky

The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
from sudden blast of heavenly wind gust,
its vastness boundlessly devoid of mark
but for those specks of stars’ galactic dust.

Though one may doubt about its sacred source,
it’s sure this accidental universe
expands as fast as some wild flying horse
in its fierce race, a beauty to observe!

Each speck of light that travels through the sky,
each planet orbiting that special sun
could be the place where newborn life came by,
but this here Terra was the chosen one.

Here turning through indigo sky, so free,
a planet features that deep blue of sea.

3. Blue Ocean

A planet features that deep blue of sea
where maybe life would sprout, expand on earth,
but it could take millennia to see
the first of humans show their thinking worth.

This place where dormant cells are waiting to
arouse to birth, transform into the mush
that floats about, awaiting ocean blue
to feed its rise, in ebb-and-flow’s swift gush.

Then water parts around a naked mound,
another one, more mountains, hills and vales,
as oceans pushed by volcanoes give ground
some space to carve its prehistoric tales.

And only then can nature, fresh with glee,
awake and prosper to green field and tree.

4. Green Fields

Awake and prosper to green field and tree—
that takes so long, but nature does her best
to offer us ‘a clover and one bee’,
a crisp expanse of grass from East to West.

Preparing slow to bloom in morning dew
one leaf, one twig, one fresh bud at a time,
it sows and grows, and gently makes it through,
intent, from tropical to frozen clime.

As green invades the earth and blooms unfold
and species thrive of wingy buzzing guests
who pollinate the grains of harvest’s gold,
some visitors come crawling, on a quest.

But then they stand; and now it has begun:
mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun.

”To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee” ~ Emily Dickinson

5. Yellow Sun

Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun,
from Africa to places faraway,
while growing, gleaning strength along the run
and building tales of power and dismay,

along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
of fights and victory, and learning how
to pay the price of evolution’s cost,
is one of struggling conscience on the go.

But hope sings stronger than the wailing rain,
than hurricanes or thirsty desert sand;
it walks migrating paths, ignoring pain,
and scatters seedlings round the world, unplanned.

Man celebrates due thanks in orange fun,
as seasons bring delight in things well done.

6. Orange Fun

As seasons bring delight in things well done
and modern comfort makes life more serene
it’s tempting drifting from intent to none,
as daily walk from bed to fridge to screen

feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.
The need to find subsistence every day,
the discipline of ‘work then fun’ long lost,
some humans simply sleep their life away.

From Halloween to Christmas Night and more,
they live for pleasure and sweet holidays—
while kings and business leaders go to war,
the lazy crowds let bullies own the place.

Then all that’s left is silent moral shames,
but men have always loved to play with flames.

7. Red Flames

But men have always loved to play with flames,
with dangers and the rush that comes from fear,
from awe, from admiration and acclaims—
they would do anything when pushed by cheer.

So red like hell might be their final games,
as rockets boldly fly from East to West,
while leaders call each other naughty names
and tweet barbaric words in fierce contest.

Perhaps some brilliant scientist will build
a vessel to escape before the storm,
where humans would be safe, that will be filled
with all who hope for peace and future warm.

They will observe rebirth from that new ark—
It starts with light that slowly parts the dark.

8. Rainbow (Reprise)

It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
while stroboscopic pulse expands with force.
The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
though one may doubt about its sacred source.

A planet features that deep blue of sea,
this place where dormant cells are waiting to
awake and prosper to green field and tree,
preparing slow to bloom in morning dew.

Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun
along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
as seasons bring delight in things well done,
feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.

But men have always loved to play with flames
so red like hell might be their final games.

Created by Jo Elle writing as FrenchGirl on Allpoetry
November, 2017

 

Read more of her work, and get to her web-site at:

https://allpoetry.com/FrenchGirl

Dénouement (a sonnet tiara)

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I

They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise
each giant movement racked with so much pain
those great ships plowing through the polar ice
sound damp as squibs caught in October rain.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
and if we thought it was a fallacy
that soil is wealth, yet there’s an end to worth,
that vitriol, degradability,
lies still as asphalt on a country road
deceptive, almost, in disquietude;
our SUVs skidmark their spoiled abode
but now must reckon with their plenitude.
Reality so bright, it hurts our eyes
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.

II

With jagged lightning bolts of compromise
tectonic fates and bedrock come unsealed
gargantuan though it may seem in size
our billions dwarf the planet’s battlefield.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth;
the forced ballet she dances gaunt and thin
as metronomes can scarcely hide their mirth
they beat their triumph, and time closes in.
A breathless rasp is how to best describe
her scrap of voice, a denigrated blur;
for human rights, we mount a diatribe
and yet who spends one liberty for her?
Earth’s dénouement trails off in grand absurds.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words.

 

III

And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
malign and somber any sky of blue
delight in punished letters afterwards
twist every sunlight to a fading hue.
Inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses.
As if we’re filming and in two small frames
what once was priceless, craft in every tress,
lies shattered, edges on a heap in flames.
Without a second glance, the things we do —
behold Earth brazenly, pick up a knife
then murder air and water, only two
of all her children, as we autumn life.
Sweet embered light, forced to misshapen curds,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.

 

IV

New moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds;
we have the gall to wonder shamelessly
how we inherited a life of thirds.
Apocalypse arrives in tribes of three.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness
how often does the globe just turn your way
if ev’rything you do will wrap distress
in sabotage, rolled up in disarray?
If you placed spike strips on the highway lanes,
forgot yourself, raced back and tires blew
your foolish act would aneuryse your veins,
your mind made ready for the death of you.
Bewilderment still dares to question why
as oceans spill into unearthly sky.

 

V

As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
dark endlessness lodged deep in outer space,
the body planet will transmogrify,
the laws of physics twisted out of place.
Lost forest splinters through the atmosphere
with China sticking to America
then swaths of mountain start to disappear
while Bundes Deutschland hugs South Africa.
Our world, now flattened, hurtles round the sun
still magnetizing Earthlings, ev’ry creed;
as sleek as coin, our home’s a graphic pun —
her mercenaries stamp her into greed.
As devastations slowly vilify,
a solar planet and her moon will cry.

 

VI

A solar planet and her moon will cry,
for lovely Earth was really born a twin.
Though almost no one knows or wonders why
her birthplace is the land where days begin.
The summer stolen and the winter near,
from birth kept locked apart without a key
transported by the sun, she strides in fear
this orphanage, Pluto to Mercury.
Yet somewhere far away her sister waits,
awash with joy while Earth must bide her time.
May she be rescued past the solar gates
for all this galaxy inflicts is crime.
Will planets liberate themselves one day?
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?

 

VII

If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
That grand conceits can never speak for her.
We’re accidents with upright vertebrae,
all worthless fakes, yet never wealthier.
Time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.
Illusion tethers your perimeter;
to gain your freedom, spin the other way!
Let courage shame your executioner.
Apotheosis of this woeful tale
sees Earthling locusts swarm into defeat
while reunited sister hearts prevail
to taste true justice, new and heaping sweet.
As Earth departs, the cosmic door slams twice.
They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.

Reprise

They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness.
As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
lost forest splinters through the atmosphere.
A solar planet and her moon will cry,
the summer stolen and the winter near.
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.

Deb Blondell-Pitt, November 2017
Writing on allpoetry as dblon

Read more of her work:

https://allpoetry.com/dblon

 

A Fool from Indiana (A Tiara of Sonnets)

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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.

Dreams of Flight

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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

Turkey’s Delight

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Turkey’s delight

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 efef gg

My Example

Predication (Turkey’s Delight Sonnet)

The ice descends across our planet’s face,
and then retracts, as it has done before;
We know this from the facts we can explore.
This cycle dates beyond the human race.

Then man, while racing from his own despair,
created cults and science everywhere.
They both were formed to ease our mortal mind,
answering each unknowable we find.

The first I know, some people really hate,
despising high regard for fables, yet
they credit scientists who validate
some notions, and find others just all wet.

But, I ask, begrudgingly, with sorrow,
how do they miscall the rain tomorrow?

© Lawrencealot – April 2, 2015

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Turkeys Delight Sonnet

 

Relaxed Sonnet

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This is a gadget sonnet form invented by Mary Lou Hearly,
aka Mlou on Allpoetry.com.

The Relaxed Sonnet is:
A quatorzain made up of alternating iambic trimeter and iambic dimeter lines
with the final couplet being iambic pentameter
Rhymed: abababcdcdcdee, where the a-rhymes are feminine.

My example

Hold the Iamb Chops (Relaxed Sonnet)

He seldom feels contented
I’d have to say,
when iambs are presented
the normal way.
the sing-song seems demented
-a sound’s cliché!
He’s published. He’s acclaimed,
he understands
that meter must be tamed
and so he plans
to truncate unashamed
per his demands.

That doesn’t mean that you and I must fear
the lovely lilt the common man might hear.

© Lawrencealot – October 26, 2014

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Relaxed Sonnet

Schwim’s Sonnet

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This shall be classed as a 13 line Gadget Sonnet.

Schwin’s Sonnet, a para-sonnet form created by W.W.Schwim is:
Stanzaic, consisting of 4 quatrains and stand-alone line
Metric, in that the quatrains are iambic pentameter, and the closing line is tertious paeonic catalectic.
Rhymed, where the rhyme pattern is abcd ebfd gbhd d, and every odd numbered quatrain line has internal rhyme between the last foot and the second foot, which in extended notation looks like this:
(a/a)b(c/c)d (e/e)b(f/f)d (g/g)b(h/h)d d
The volta should normally be at L13.

A Calendary Rose

Such flawless hue, enhanced for public view,
all perfect petals posed on misty field.
In red lace fern her antiseptic urn
discourages affection or embrace.

Like daggers drawn, each manicured thorn
a predatory hint left unconcealed.
I don’t suppose this Calendary rose
has felt the hiss of raindrops on her face.

Disguised intent, no tantalizing scent,
yet highlights all provokingly revealed.
Do you think she knows that next month’s perfect rose
awaits with re-touched innocence and grace
in her glossy paper prison at mid place.

© WW Schwim – August 15, 2014

Rejoice the Thorns (Schwim’s Sonnet)

If it is borne upon a rose, a thorn
I shall not mind. The cost is very slight.
If I should pick a lovely rose that pricks
my thumb, then I have likely cause to grin.

For if blood drips, my darling’s sweetest lips
will press there first to make it feel all right.
That act alone shall by itself atone
for any stab of pain there might have been.

Though I remove the thorns to merely smooth
the stems my love shall briefly hold tonight,
it’s not required, and they will be admired
with thorns or not (and thinking once again),
if one’s giving living roses that’s a win.

© Lawrencealot – October 26, 2014

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Lazy Day Sonnet

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This sonnet form was created by Rebecca Kerr, aka Rebecca-K on Allpoetry.com.
It’s defining characteristic is the
Rhyme pattern:  aabbccdddeeeff
It should be written in iambic pentameter with volta at line 7 or later.
 Example Poem
Listen Up     (Lazy Day Sonnet)
The bishop postulates his weekly view.
If I attend I listen weakly too.
“Begetting best begins when one is wed,
so wait ’til then to take him to your bed.”
The teachers when they must presume to speak,
and parents too, set forth the same critique.
I hear the words yet see our public men
succumb to power’s perks now and again,
to bed a beau- yes, even priests. Amen!
Thus seems they set for us a stale canard
the powerful assume they can discard,
Rebutting or ignoring is not hard.
Their dogma need not now define my role.
It seems that pregnant chicks go on the dole!
© Lawrencealot – April 22, 2014
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Sonnet Reversii

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This sonnet form was invented by  Visalakshi , aka  Vive la V on Allpoetry
Here are her own requirements:
(1) Stanzaic : quatorzain, or octave and sestet.
(2) 10 syllables, except in the final couplet, which could vary: 10 or 11, but both L13 and L14 should be the same syllable length
(3) It is lexical where the last word of the first stanza becomes the first/ or beginning of the first word of the second stanza. This pattern continues to the end.
(4) The sonnet ends with the same word with which it begins, yes it is a requirement.
(5) Must rhyme. Rhyme pattern abab cdcd efef g’g (or gg) (near rhymes or exact rhymes)
(6) Volta in L9 or L 13
(7) For this form there is no metric requirement. It is optional.
Here is my example
 
We have What’s Needed     (Sonnet Reversii)
 
Within us all is something from without. 
Without a doubt there’s much I can adduce, 
adduce some things for you to think about. 
About our doubts we have a real excuse. 
Excuse me when I claim man’s not correct, 
correct in thinking gods must be required. 
Requiring dogma leaves a disconnect- 
a substitute for answers much desired. 
 
Desiring knowledge is, and must remain –
remain a trait to which we must attend. 
Attend to learning; try not to complain. 
Complaining sigh won’t help us to contend- 
contend with knowing, “How’d it all begin”. 
Begin assured, we’ve all we need within. 
 
© Lawrencealot – April 1, 2014
 
 
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Bardic Sonnet

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Form introduced by William Kenneth Keller, aka Shades of Bill on Allpoetry
Uses the Shakespearean sonnet form.  (iambic pentameter: abab cdcd efef gg rhyme scheme)
However the form is constrained and enhanced with the following requirements:
1.)The rhyme is to be INTERNAL CROSS RHYME,  not end rhyme. 
This is formally know as INTERLACED RHYME.
The interlaced rhymes should occur within the first 3 feet of the line.
2.)Rather than end rhyme, I would like you to employ a type of alliteration used by Irish poets – 
Which is strict CONSONANT RHYME.
Keep EACH consonant sound the same. (you can ignore the letter, ‘N’.) 
For example: carnage and carpet would NOT alliterate, but carnage and carriage would: 
the ‘K’ sound and ‘R’ sound and ‘G’ sound in ‘carnage’ is reproduced in order with the ‘K’ sound and ‘R’ sound and ‘G’ sound in ‘carriage’ (the letter ‘N’ in ‘carnage’ is ignored.)
3.)The Rhyme scheme is for both cross rhyme and alliteration.

Restated Specifications:
Uses Shakespearian Sonnet format with end-rhyme being replaced by strict consonant rhyme.
Requires Iambic Pentameter.
Requires Interlaced rhyme.

End-Rhyme scheme:     abab cdcd efef gg
Cross-rhyme scheme: abab cdcd efef gg

My failed example:

You Ask Too Much

A poet asked the wizard for some rhyme
and for a metronomic type of mind.
“Just why am I now tasked to let rimes roam
where they’d not roamed before, to just what end?”
“For sake of sex as Miller* postulates,”
the poet answered back.  And rhyme was there. 
A metric text removes the irritants.
“I know it,” the Wizard said, “You’ll find it’s here. 
“Can you make me more consonant aware?”
I cried,  “So Welsh and Irish I might write?”
Then he did grumble, “You keep wanting more.
If you decide that skill is worth your vote
I think you’ll earn it. Go away, be gone.”
I’ll try to learn it. Here I go again.

© Lawrencealot – July 6, 2013

*Evolutionary psychologist Geoffrey Miller hypothesizes that rhyme is a form of sexually selected handicap imposed on communication making poetry harder and more reliable as a signal of verbal intelligence and overall fitness.[2]
From Wikipedia
This was supposed to be a Bardic Sonnet, but failed to use all of the consonant sounds in the end-rhyme.  I post it merely to show how you can go astray on this complex if your attention waivers as mine so frequently does.



Visual Template

This was the contest winner.   Not only does it have perfect compliance with all of the requirements, but those who pay attention will notice that is is also an acrostic.