I've been writing sonnets lately. Well, these two at least. This one I wrote last night...

dusk-dreaming.

        4.13.99

sitting on back steps, the cordless phone lies
between ear and sunburn-fevered shoulder.

nine pm june, sun setting, and fire flies
prick gauzy dark as breezes grow colder,

and i wrap myself tighter in your voice.

inside, it's bright, and the right temperature,
but it's night-summer,

      my hair shower-moist,
and i feel more alone with you out here.

so talk fruitsandvegetables with me, and
we'll melt religion on our tongues and tell
cat tales...

      i'll be imagining your hands
in my hair,

dusk-dreaming your rainsweet smell...

trying to tell by how you

      say my name
whether your

thought-wanderings are the same.

I'm not sure it's finished, but it's been fun to play around with.

So, here's the sonnet I wrote a couple days ago. It's decidedly less cool and more silly than "dusk-dreaming," but I think it's alright, in a kind of Shel-Silverstein-ish way...

Sonnet.

So. Iambic pentameter fits the
rhythms of my natural speech, you say.
Then maybe everything I say is a
sonnet... God... I must speak hundreds each day.
And okay, if you're strict about those rhymes,
maybe my ramblings aren't quite Shakespeare... yet.
But just let me practice, and in no time,
I'll be the world's most prolific poet.
My ex-lovers will run to the tabloids,
to publish my poetic confessions...
And next to headlines about asteroids,
private poems, breathed during make-out sessions,
will span the front page. Hm. On second thought,
this whole poetry thing... I'd better not.