Member-only story
…audacity’s plight
The sage wrings sonnets from heartfelt bawling
In contempt of windswept summers’ delights
Cool breezes — in hope a suitor’s calling
In the midnight hour, near the tempest’s heights
He might delay love — albeit feigning
Forestall a passage midst a song’s lament
Induce outflow — when all tears are draining
Or construct a levee to circumvent
In pride he strides the stage as an outcast
Chides his emperors, successors, and heirs
Goes unwashed, downwind, this iconoclast
Slovenly slanders — false witness he bears
Truth be known he’s more likely an outlaw
Uncouth in manner — should be coauthored
Will not plead guilty and quick to the draw
Leading pigs to water and to slaughter
Just don’t get him started on summers’ days
Or upon old wives’ tales — I hear you — say!
For better or for worse — or the inverse
Write what you will, but sunshine makes for hay
In winter he packs his sonnets away
Squirrels those nuts for each day he must play
And when spring arrives the sage can’t delay
Peak season; the notes now steal from the drey
Threatening a storm — but are quick to proclaim
*Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day
