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.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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