Poetry Fail

Here are the two sonnets I have written so far. Dreadful, huh? And for those who are wondering, this is a stoat. It seems that one has to have read Redwall as a youth to know that word...


That Was Odd... (or Beastly Pirates)

I have no brave and valiant squirrel men
Nor have I castles ring’d around by moats
I have not train’ed bands of otters ten
How shall I fight the pirate bands of stoats?

A stoat is long, and lithe, and smooth, with fur
that feels like glass. But deadly are their swords
combined against a common foe – they whirr
like many small and mighty mongol hordes.

They sail away aboard their pirate ships
Forever bound upon the ocean wave
A word, a sound, will never pass their lips
And wind and storm will bring their wat’ry graves.

A lesson won’t be found in this odd tale
But never trust a stoat in salty gale.



The Act of Writing
Some people have the gift of words, and some
can scarcely write a line in meter’d verse.
I’m not one of the lucky ones, who hum
while writing perfect sonnets. No, I curse.

I curse, while writing furiously. I shout
with shouts of dread, I scream until I’m dead.
I really want to get a poem out,
but nothing’s found in dark inside my head.

But then I find a word or two someplace
that’s dark and strange. I put together those
that fit in rhythm schemes and flow with grace
A better sonnet therefore to compose.

I write like fire’s beneath my feet, and still
I writhe in mental chains, designed to kill.