Does anyone at all write sonnets still?
Or is this ancient form well past its prime?
Have modern poets yielded finally
to lim'rick, dogg'rel, lack of scan, poor rhyme,
or worse: bland haiku, drivel, overkill?

If so, then how can tongue-tied youth declare
young love, or weeping beauty tell of loss?
Can emailed Hallmark cards have vibrancy
enough for love to recognise the cost
of being loved, and call it very fair?

Yet still words burst out ever new, still free.
The email in its spontaneity
is loved for what it is: a pot-pourri
of tumbled thoughts sent onward passionately.

02/05/2013

Posted on 02/05/2013
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