The Gooseberry Garden's Thursday Poetry Forms suggests that we try a Bouts-Rimé (poem with rhymed endings) this week. Not natural form for me, but I'm always willing to have a go at five finger exercises. I've tried a version (mine, I think!) of the sonnet.
It's rare these days to meet someone sincere,
someone completely free of all pretense,
whose whole demeanour gives you confidence
that you have seen the heart, not a veneer.
But that's a thought at which some folk might sneer -
it's even known for some to take offense;
I had one ask if I had evidence
that truth would help, not damage, a career.
We all, to some degree, are counterfeit,
we all have subterfuges to commit.
If everyone was totally transparent
my song would be of gladness, not lament,
one sung to my beloved with guitar -
perhaps with champagne and with caviar.
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