I know a cave
it’s cold and clear and
right beneath my feet
so frozen there
I make my home all
I am not sad
or happy there ’cause
all the earth is flat
And all the things
which pass my cave don’t
have the tools for that
Ice crystals fell down from the sky that night
But that was when the moon had flown more huge.
[Its face a look of shock (or was it fright)
At all the futile stealth and subterfuge].
After circling in the snow (footprints new),
We climbed the spiral stairway (silent sighs).
Out of breath, our anticipation grew –
How hard it was maintaining the disguise!
The Sonnet is my favourite poetic form. I love the discipline and logical flow. 14 lines. 10 syllables on each line. Rhyming according to which school one follows (or I often make my own rhyming pattern). Here are two examples from my oeuvre:
She said I was a gigolo
I didn’t stand a chance
She told them I’m a gigolo
Now they know how to dance
Then she drove on down the line
With a smile – she’s feeling fine
For on their lips there is the rhyme:
He’s a gigolo
If there’s one thing women hate
It’s a gigolo
If there’s a type they love to slate
It’s the gigolo
Though there’s always prey for him
He’s the joke that’s wearing thin
So to make his prospects grim
Tell them he’s a gigolo
The Pen is always mightier than the sword
© Alan Morrison, 2010
I’ve been reading about the Troubadour movements of the 12th/13th centuries. That’s what we need today. Lots of troubadours. Everywhere. Lovers of language who are not afraid to be outspoken and who know how precious it is to preserve the depth of words in song (or we’ll become like the manipulated “NewSpeak” society of Orwell’s “1984”). The pen – as a world-changing weapon – is infinitely mightier than the sword!