Sonnets

MY SONNET




























My Sonnet

(Blank sonnet)





For years I’ve wondered, struggled in awe,

How to write a sonnet and do it right.

A sonnet isn’t just a fourteen line poem,

And it’s not just verses flown in for a whim.

A sonnet let me tell you, isn’t that simple,

But could be, if we learn to do it right.

If I research and follow all its rules

I’ll do it right, and try to write some more.

‘Cause a sonnet isn’t just another little poem,

That we write on 14 lines and in any style.

No, a sonnet is never done in a whim;

A sonnet is: this above, and then more-

A sonnet is not just a poem, but a song!

I can make it rhymed and also make it blank!







Dorian Petersen Potter

aka ladydp2000

copyright@2007





May,13,2007

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FOLLOW THE DREAM

~Follow The Dream~

(A new sonnet form)





I wait and sometimes I don't understand

Why you are acting the way you do

Many things that take place all around us

Makes us at times go completely mad

But still somewhat I know we have each other

Because we truly care no matter what

And true love is more than one thing or two





But there are those times not really planned

When we try to make so many wishes come true

Even if we are certain we might get less

Of whatever from the past by now we had

Life has a way of making some things rather

More difficult, sometimes for some of us,but,

There's a light somewhere for me and you too...







Dorian Petersen Potter

aka ladydp2000

copyright@2007







March,5,2007

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Nature Abounds

Folder: 
2007 Poetry







Nature Abounds




Water cascading slowly through the falls,

lazy summer days in granite canyons.

Splashing and swishing around nature's calls,

times shared with our favorite companions.



Wildlife drinking their full at waters edge,

watching carefully for no surprises.

Standing in puddles on the smooth wet ledge,

aware of predators in all their guises.



Sun heating rocks in the mid of July,

while cool mountain streams flow down from above.

Birds singing arias while flying high,

or cooing softly like a snow white dove.



Nature abounds within all its splendor,

painted with colors deepen and tender.






© 2007 Philip N. Carcione













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NIGHT DREAMER


ocean.jpg


~THE SIG BOX~









~Night Dreamer~

(Sonnet)





My head and soul dances to this beat tonight

That keeps me dreaming of your love all night

Thinking more and more of you day and night

Then, my soul, shinning like the sun alights !



When the breeze stirs the blown leaves of the trees

The muses again bring me their sombered notes

Then landing upon my brow, again flee,

Leaving me alone, in this world remote



Wanting to write you tonight this sonnet

But not knowing for sure what words to use

Or which are those from under my bonnet

I should write about when its time to choose



I love everyday to be inspired to write

For when I do it my spirit takes flight!





Dorian Petersen Poter

aka ladydp2000

copyright@2007





February,4,2007














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At The View From Bethany

[after Acts 1:9]

 

To certain heights ascending, He can see
the city He wept for, Jerusalem;
the little hill where, on the cross of death,
He conquered sin for all eternity;
then, to one side, the empty borrowed tomb---
proof that none need endure eternal doom;
and, over there, His birthplace, Bethlehem
(still scarred by Herod's bloody perfidy);
and further north, beloved Galilee
(where planted seeds of faith yield a great crop),
and Mother's little home in Nazareth,
and next to it the carpenter's small shop.
Then, passing through resplendant Heavenlies,
He brought, to Father's throne, these memories.
 
Starward
 
[jlc]                                                  

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Battle

There can be no more time to say goodbye

The river's flooding through these iron gates

Without a single tear, I close my eyes

Vengeful of the past I've come to hate



Look now, the armies capturing their kill

Pieces of me stuck underneath their skin

Brooding and barking, seeking such a thrill

As taking my insides out from within



Investigate the heart, it has been failed

Rotted with a tinge of simplicity

It's true colors seeming to be unveiled

As it beats a tune of duplicity



Though bitten in two, I wish you farewell

No longer inside my heart can you dwell


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Backstabber

I can feel some strange sensations within my chest,

Tremendous earthquakes brutally tearing me apart.

Have I found the treasure to my never-ending quest?

Or is it just fate that seems to be playing with my heart?



Tell me how to change my approach to life,

Because I need your strength to get me through.

Teach me how to get rid of this knife,

Because the last thing I want is losing you.



I know there may be a lack of words from my side,

This is why I’m begging you, look into my soul.

Read my mind, please let us try to make this stride,

But please make sure your heart I will not foul.



Rob me of my body, rob me of my mind;

In this body, in this mind; it is love that you will find...

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Sunday in Brighton

And then we went and sat down by the sea

to wallow in debauch induc-ed haze.

Its gentle ebb that showed to what degree

We'd suffer for our sins, and paved the way

for sunday's serenade there by the beach.

But drums were not an ideal sound to hear

when my still settling pint was yet to reach

the agonising throb between my ears.



So off twixt shore and surf we sauntered now

in search of public transport to allow

our trip to Devil's Dyke and then some grub.



We spent an hour inside that dreadful pub

before my fury led me to refuse

to pay, and leave and write this little muse.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

just a little account of my sunday in Brighton. Devil's Dyke is pretty cool, but the pub is terrible.

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The [Cumbrian] Pasty (for L. Winn)

Thou art alluring to mine eye this morn!

Those bronz-ed folds upon thy crescent mound,

Like piles of rusty leaves, adorn.

Thy glist'ning crust with tapered ends surrounds

The tangy meaty mash and swede inside.

Thou art more lovely in thy hot-plate home

Than any other pastries who reside

beside thee as usurpers to thy throne.



Thou hast a secret past the few now know:

Invented down the mines so long ago

By Cumbrians digging coal, and stolen south,

And bastardised with cider in the mouths

Of Cornish farmers. I smile with smug conceit

To think it's something northern that they eat.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A friend and colleague of mine is from Cornwall and vehemently supports anything from his home county. When I mentioned the idea of pasties coming from the Cumbrian mines he was very upset. I have no real evidence on the truth of my claim but it was a good wind-up.

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