First sonnet.

Sonnet time.The discipline of a sonnet is fascinating and makes the task an intellectual challenge - twelve + two, ten beats to a line and then the required turn of events after line twelve. Shakespeare did them like shelling peas and as it is was the 400th anniversary of his death, I thought it time to experience how difficult the sonnet form is.

Winter’s Lust


Shall I compare her to a winter’s day?

She is less windy, no coldness either.

Lets December’s chilly air feel its way

Beneath the bodice that now wraps her.

It is winter, but her fire is burning.

My pulse should quicken at the scent of spring.

Now she is scorched from hot hormones flowing,

Now her aroma excites my bee sting.

Her sternum rises in expectation,

Cognitive dissonance fuddles my brain.

Her buttocks whip and show her frustration.

I can’t defer, to spend in her, my stain.

My lust, fleeing the cold that can shrivel

Heats her husband’s manners. They stay uncivil.

 

New poetry in 'Getting to Grips'. - now on Amazon

 Kindle Unlimited. Full colour, full irreverence. First published by New London Writers 2016