Poetry

I practice forms and rhymes by mimicing the classics.  

This one is patterned on a Wordsworth sonnet 

The World Is Too Much With Me

The world is too much with me; night and day,
Buzzing and ringing, devices sapping my powers
of concentration, they preclude any glimpse of beauty;
This child’s soul belongs to the Man, blessed curse!
Blackberries beeping instead of dripping sweet juice.
Codes and ciphers confounding daily tasks instead
of thrilling a secret lover across the miles.
Because of this, because of the pressing on me
with a flatiron in the morning, conforming me,
smoothing my kinks, assuring no wild hair
sticks out, stabbing someone in the eye.
For this? For what have I succumbed
to the brain sucking idiocy?  Jesus! I am not moved.
I’d rather be a Luddite, deprived and shorn
Of all accoutrements, walking the playa larga
with vistas that would make me so much less forlorn.
I’d see my siren beckoning from her sea
and awaken to the cock calling the morn.