Per Sonnet Non Grata 

this poem is not about love 
or plums 
or counting ways 
or red red roses
(or wheelbarrows). 

it’s too staccato for a sonnet
and refuses to put on a 
fetching bonnet or a corset 
or a fine feathered 
hat. (take that, Miss Austen.) 

it’s got no sense 
nor sensibility, 
no pride nor 
prejudice (except today it 
hates quatrains). but it might 

wax forth adoring of the rain,
if you give it 
an umbrella and 
order ala
-(m)ode. 

this poem is giving the cold 
shoulder to the Bard
and finding it much too hard 
to follow Browning or Eliot, 
Cummings or Keats. 

it’s completely 
free 
of sentiment, steeped 
here in its own un
iambic feet. 

is this love 
or anti
-love? or apathy 
or simply peace? 
at least: 

it almost feels complete 
even if something’s missing.  
and though love be a day, 
it shall not start 
kissing. 

::
::

In November, we poem. This one is for the always inevitable love/anti love prompt.

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1 Response to Per Sonnet Non Grata 

  1. Oh my word! This is absolutely amazingly stunning! Your play on/with words is sensational. I adore this piece!!! Going to read it many times today. Thank you!

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