So to Easter, where I celebrated by trying to channel my inner Shakespeare. Yes, I’ll confess to managing yet another tongue-in-cheek piece here; it was not an easy challenge this. I wrestle with set structure and rhyme in poetry, even as I realise how it serves as a container.
To write in sonnet form is still a task With which I struggle as I gaze upon Acres of whitened paper; whereupon I’m tempted now to give up as I ask: “Where is my inner Shakespeare, would he pass? Throw in his quill? No, never!” For this Swan Of Avon has a gift, pure love he’s won, Whereas poetic muse, it rates me last. Yet panic not, for I can surely see My talents lie elsewhere, though where I’m not So sure, yet time will tell; I’ll play my part. Maybe I’ll write a book or plant a tree: [really scraping the bottom of the barrel here!] A Poet (tree), with its own special plot; A Sonnet (trie), leaves flourishing at heart.