I felt pretty sure today that I could not go on with my self-imposed commitment to post a draft poem every day of this April, national poetry month. (Yes, I know, I’ve already missed some.)
Finally, I followed an old rule: when lacking in inspiration, try a sonnet! A poetic form is incredibly useful when you are having trouble writing. It creates an automatic thread, which, in turn, leads you to some kind of shape and meaning.
Rose
I’m just too tired to write a poem tonight.
The old synapses lie limp and lumpy,
clotted with the vernacular; no sprite
darts from nerve to page, rather a frumpy
dim drags over observation, blotting
out comparison (much less caparison–
the embellishment of the plodding.)
In defense, I say my garrison,
my true home, is found in prose that cares not
how a rose would smell by other name,
but even my dull brain knows what is what,
and that a rose can never smell the same
once read, once heard, once lit by other’s light.
Oh–oh–oh, how I long for that insight.
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ManicDDaily 
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