The Politely Politic Bard or
How to Respond to the Demand in the Doug Savage Cartoon: “Write me a sonnet or I’ll blow your damn head off.”
I keep this sonnet in my bonnet. Why?
Good question. My reply, “For times like these.
It isn’t much but may be what agrees
with villains who would seize it in crime’s ply.”
To be or not? My life’s too short a plot.
I’m sore afraid that I’d be staid and wheeze,
thus interfering with my desperate pleas
(though I’d much rather tease them on the spot).
In fear, I fear, perchance they’d have me dance;
swoon to a tune that brings me to my knees.
I’m certain that my mind would surely seize—
succumbed by numbing ants within my pants.
But etiquette should be well met, with ease,
and so I’d say, politely, “Please say ‘Please.”
When We’re Amusement for Our Muse
We often read our work with tired eyes;
that’s why it’s good to seek another guy’s
(by this, I don’t mean guise as in a mask,
the kind you wear, so folks who meet you ask,
“Who’s there,” then you respond, “Say knock-knock first!”
So far from best that it’s the very worst
of all the dreadful Dad Jokes ever told—
no wonder young and old kids groan and scold!).
And so, it seems, the best alternative
for clarity, is pass it through a sieve
of other minds who didn’t know what you
intended and don’t know your point of view.
Sometimes, this may help tack a better cruise
when you set sail to teasings of your muse.
A Sonnet by Any Other Form
A sonnet which does not accept its form,
irreverent toward scan and metric scheme,
rejecting rhyme, foregoing any norm
perhaps is not a poem, but a meme.
Its writer, more concerned with what he’ll write
than architecture of a formal sort,
regurgitating words, his appetite
does not digest traditions he will thwart.
And yet, write on (right on!), the words will spew,
although its style and feel aren’t sonnet’s game;
its poetry of motion won’t accrue
to sonnetry by any other name.
Alas, my breadth of knowledge may impute
no confidence this judgement is astute.
The Old Grey Sonnet
I found an old grey sonnet with a fad-
ed ribbon on it from when we first met.
That day old Dobbin pulled the shay, the glade
of clover helped persuade; your heart was set
to meld with mine, a consequence that I
found fine, in fact, divine—your sweet perfume,
a lilac bloom, when rolled in clover, by
and by, enchanted me, and would consume
my every hope. My heart and soul were bade
to make you my fair maid; as yours was set
to make me yours, and as the sun would fade,
in faith, old Dobbin waited for us yet.
Alas, that joyful day of yore long gone,
a sonnet’s all that’s left, for we moved on.
Trickery-Dickery Doc, Sonnet 2
The nurs’ry rhyme verse—what rhyme crime is worse?
Their tick and tock of rhythm seems to mock
each lad and lass who’s fed this childhood curse:
the rhyming, chiming, death-knell of our clock.
Peas in a bowl, an evil troll—how droll.
Their sound has drowned our ears with deaf’ning roar.
Each plays a role to mute our childhood’s soul—
noise all around stops hearts which else might soar.
Three magic beans? Bad trade—you won’t climb far.
These stories don’t tell truth; instead, they fib.
Wish on a star? You lose—there’s no cigar.
Old tongues adlib, well-practiced being glib.
Yet we’ll find hope if we elope with truth
from nurs’ry rhymes which we learned in our youth.
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