My God, you’re dancing – hands like startled doves
And gently curving ankles keep my time
Just so. Syncopated hearts intermesh
With lips, rhythmic eyes and then the coda…
Twin systems colliding. It’s terminal.
Let’s mix. Leave me stumbling like a drunkard
And praising seven velvet witnesses
With words made of breath and eyes cast from starlight.
Gasp once. Trap air before it can betray
How close you are to melting like butter
And I to puddling at your collarbone.
It’s faster now, mixed like milk in coffee
Or intermingled breath flowing slowly
Down the valley forged between our bodies.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
My God, you’re dancing – hands like startled doves
And gently curving ankles keep my time
Just so. Syncopated hearts intermesh
With lips, rhythmic eyes and then the coda…
Twin systems colliding. It’s terminal.
Let’s mix. Leave me stumbling like a drunkard
And praising seven velvet witnesses
With words made of breath and eyes cast from starlight.
Gasp once. Trap air before it can betray
How close you are to melting like butter
And I to puddling at your collarbone.
It’s faster now, mixed like milk in coffee
Or intermingled breath flowing slowly
Down the valley forged between our bodies.
I know form poetry is passe these days -- it's strange to think free verse has actually been ascendant for nearly 100 years! It seems form poetry has been thoroughly licked, although free verse never quite seems to get over needing to prove itself.
However, sonnets are lovely especially when written in 'strict' form (three quatrains and a couplet, ten iambic syllables each - no cheating!) - the restriction is like a painter's frame, it is easy enough to paint freeform but the frame provides a lovely bracket, and what's not shown is as important as what is.
