Thursday, July 20, 2006


Sonnet for the Son I Never Had

A trickle of sweat ran behind my ear
While i hit rocks with an old baseball bat.
I did that in the corn fields every year,
When I was young, but now i'm done with that.

Now baseball is a game, my children play.
Before my eyes, my son hit a home run;
We took the team to celebrate the day;
Root beer and Pizza for all: it was fun.

He doesn't share the Anger that I had
He does his best in front of all his friends.
When the team fails, he knows he wasn't bad.
To win, is a begining, not an end

In his young social life, I see no fear.
No trace of that which haunted me these years


# posted by will : 11:03 PM  0 comments

Tuesday, July 18, 2006


The Writer’s Response

Unwritten rules abound in Poetry.
This thing is only what we make of it.
While every writer struggles to break free
From Rules,  we also try to make thoughts fit
Conventions of language for others sake
So they can understand what we have said
Since we all know that rules were made to break
And some rules, broken leave us dead,
We gently step around the past poets
Forms and fancies to forge our own language.
In our efforts to do this we forget
Our duty: to the readers thoughts engage.
While off rhyme or weak  meter, we can ignore…
Our job is certainly never to bore.


# posted by will : 8:48 PM  0 comments