Today’s prompt thanks to Arwen: Write a sonnet about an object you can see from where you’re sitting.
I call this style of sonnet The Tortured Style ’cause it sure ain’t Italian, Shakespearean or AnyRealPoet-ian.
You grey, sloping beast, you dreary old thing
staring at the dark, cold glass, the artful
logs behind it. Any promises of spring
are long gone now. This freezing day will pull
the bones from under my skin, my eyes will
water like taps when I emerge, better
to keep the fireplace dull and quiet and still
while I rip and curl sentence and letter.
Eeyore, your sad demeanor reminds me
of myself, too many times to count. I
droop and wilt and frown so easily.
It is easier to laugh than to cry.
Writing about watching a thing unreal;
I’m glad this sonnet won’t earn my next meal.
And one in Good Old Free Verse because concentrating on writing rhyming poetry gave me a headache.
Eeyore has a black strip of hair along his head,
a wide bottom – he is pear shaped –
and of course, a detachable tail.
Eeyore is the grey of a slow raincloud.
He is the fat drop about to spatter.
He is November, in a stuffed animal form,
His fuzzed back faces me. If I could see his eyes, oval and downcast,
I would clutch him by his long ears
and throw him across the room.