Here's my latest poem. The assignment was to write a sonnet, either English or Italian. I chose the English. The greatest difficulty I had was in making it rhyme while avoiding a jingly feel. I'll let you decide as to its total worth.
I know it's cheap to write a poem about
a poem and how it's difficult to write.
I'm humbled, though, and I am finding out
that even though I know some things, despite
that knowledge, I'm in need of something else.
What is it? Passion? Love? Or some desire?
That sort of thing is weird for me. It tells
too much about me and reveals some fire
that I'm not ready for the world to feel.
I mean by "fire" artistic passion's aim,
that flame that burns until a work of real
artistic worth is done deserving fame.
That mastery of fire is what I want
and not the easy thrill of some cheap stunt.