The winter wind was moaning pessimistically,
its foghorn worn and overused, a tad bit flat.
It sang some weary minuet; it dancers sat,
for having heard the ditty, wouldn’t move their feet.
Still rasping to the point of boredom’s crude retreat,
the winter wind turned more aggressive, almost mad.
It shrieked but none complied. They picked about their plaid
as if their petty qualms could help them spurn the breeze.
A train then rumbled, wary of the wind at hand.
A semitone apart, their sighs proved dissonant.
The train then parted, sharply on its rigid cue.
The wind remained, unflapped, eternal, overcast –
and stays when even winter parts and trains move past,
its dancers long since dead, the sky turned brightly blue.
You tell some great stories with a lot of mood in your poetry. With each poem, you've taken fourteen blank lines and placed something great in them.
ReplyDeleteMichael.
I love using the sonnet as a form that illustrates a brief but strong anecdote in a small miniature. Thanks for your kind words!
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