I "made" the writer's group write sonnets the other night and talked about how form can unlock creativity, rather than stifle it. Bob would have hated it... oh, that he would have been there!
Here are the two I worked on:
forecastingHer voice, like sunshine, flits among the clouds--
bright patches in his otherworldly day.
Dark weariness his spirit fully shrouds
until a word of kindness drives away.
For when she shines, she shines with brightness fair,
and all within his world is good and right.
He casts aside the shadows of despair
and basks within her glowing rays of light.
But when her spirit's fire loses flame
and coldness creeps across her face like ice,
he, too, retreats in silent fear and shame,
and anxiously begins to scan the skies.
She does not mean at all to cause him pain,
when, in her own, she sometimes sends the rain.
bon soirSandy heads of curls reflect the sunlight,
as golden, glowing halos frame each face.
Playing hard, 'til late into the twilight,
pretending at a frantic, break-neck pace.
Fireflies begin to tease the darkness;
the crickets softly play their lullabye.
Nighttime settles silent on the back fence;
There's nothing harder than to say goodbye.
With cries and tears they protest loud and long,
still clinging to the last remains of day.
But droopy eyes belie their protests strong,
and finally their drowsiness gives way.
As tired and spent they tumble into bed,
a blessing prayed upon each sweaty head.
