Today I was very perturbed when I realized that my sonnet was not a real sonnet because it did not have a couplet at the end!!!!!!
Therefore I have decided to finish it properly, like any good Samaritan would:
Sonnet #8 REVISED
I run into a land that speaks of youth
that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band
and when at last at home I tell the truth
I feel a stranger but on my own land.
The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in
as I recount the days events alone
I find a loss of words as I begin
explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.
The lute is calling forth my destiny
The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep
The tambourine has lulabied my infancy
And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.
It seems as if I have grown up none so
from childish self that never lets me go.
and on that note, here is today’s poem: It is a silly poem made out of four limericks, and is not intended to make any sense!
Dead, Dying, Deceased and gone off- or how I spent My summer in Jamaca
now the quotient of dumb versus blind
Is the same as “no child left behind”
All my teachers are dead
Or they’re gone to be wed
at the fanciest church they could find
And the sum of bengal and a bog
Is as bad as a Londoner’s fog
the pedestrians died
from a bi fractured side
when the driver was being a hog
And so now we have multiple ends
of these teacher-pedestrian’s friends
who have gone to the grave
and who haven’t been saved
or I think-I don’t mean to offend.
One last word just before I shall go
(for those people who don’t really know)
I am writing this thing
at the top of a swing
And I’m thinking of things I can throw!
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 