Standards will be that of an English Sonnet (sorry to those who adore others, we had to narrow the field somehow).
Deadline: Monday, April 30th.
Have fun and play within the lines– like within the gospel, where there are rules that we hold sacred, but a lot of breadth of scope in our personal lives nonetheless, a sonnet is a lovely walled garden within which to play and plant whatever we please.
If you’ve never tried to write one before, check out the standards for form here. Then type away! Check and Recheck your meter when you’ve finished– strange beats sometimes pop up where you least expect them, so have your thinking caps handy!
Have a blast and Happy Poetry Month!!!!
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ODE TO A MANIAC–ME
When in the realms of sanity I soodle
And wonder what went wrong with my poor noodle,
I wander down the Primrose Psychopath
To find what caused my happy frenzied wrath.
Delirums Tremens is a pleasant state.
In bedlam one reveals no cares and woes.
With schizophrenia both of me feels great.
My oldest, dearest friends are all psychos.
I’d like to go to my house on derange
And chop de trees down with my maniacs,
Where all de other people too is strange
And we in peace enjoy our mental cracks.
If all the folks enjoyed my aberration
We all could have a very happy nation.
Ha!
Master Rick does it again.
“derange…de trees…de other people”
How do you come up with this stuff? Maybe I don’t want to know.
“Master Rick” is the correct title. (I bow low.)
Rick -You just may make it rich off all these 50 cent contests…eventually.
Rick, Rick, Rick…. Sigh….. Funny, though.
Oh, and schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personality disorder. Granted, if your poem doesn’t win, you could always claim true schizophrenia and claim that there is a giant conspiracy against you holding you back and that little gnomes & aliens are conspiring against you to foil your attempts at poetic greatness.
Oh, and by the way…Maniacs… ****SNORT of laughter ***!
Look at that! No one even dares to TRY writing a sonnet after Rick’s post.
I’ll have a go. Hooray for prosidy! A-he-he-hem:
The stillness of the water lends her peace
as wearily she sinks upon the grass.
The clamor of the world is forced to cease
while nought but smooth, round stones disturb the glass.
She’ll toss them one by one into the mere–
as though to cast away the weight of woe–
but though the surface closes smooth and clear
the tremors circle back to nip her toes.
Each stone sinks slowly to the rippled floor
to lie not-quite-forgotten with its peers,
and all above seems peaceful, now, once more,
though one stone deeper with unburdened fears.
So Truth remains: Whatever’s on the face,
Contentment is elusive in this place.
Emily! Love it! Wonderful
Ah, very nice.
I could dredge up an Abominable Love Sonnet written back in freshman college when I was mooning over some guy, but I will spare you all of that. I was so proud of myself for writing a sonnet that I failed to notice how bad it was.