Today's prompt eventually was fun. Once upon a time, I could knock out sonnets easily. Spending a month responding to technical support requests purely in sonnets while reading Byron and Donne provided plenty of practice. I don't have copies of those sonnets, unfortunately. They were inspired by distant memories of St. Silicon's piece, "Typer, Typer Burning Bright." (Or so I think. Finding references to those old Byte Magazines is difficult. I like sonnet forms, and I want to practice them a tad this month. But I also need to push myself like I did a two days ago.
How can I speak to that gregarious,
muscled, and feathery muse when all my day
grinds on exposure, a vicarious
tease dancing beyond all the words I say?
The hidden is sublime behind the fan
that flits so fancifully dropping though mind
the drifting afterfeathers that all stand
themselves into letters softly defined.
These letters strive to become flecks of ink
affixed to some hard form of permanence
but just a cracked open window, I think,
suddenly they fly themselves to nonsense.
This dancer knows to flirt with light's soft edge;
A shaded lure beckoning senses to fledge.
Cheated a tad in a few line's pronunciation. Oh, and I very much liked yesterday's prompt. I just wasn't up to responding.
Of course, I settle myself in to read and write this evening only to find my home network connection disconnected. The estimated time to repair isn't until tomorrow evening. I ran off to an excellent local watering hole to write this piece, but I shouldn't stay long enough to read and comment on all the excellent poems appearing every day.
And it's morel season. I may fail at NaPoWriMo this weekend if everything works out well.