Here is a list of Sonnet Poems written by members. Read poetry, post your own poems or comments. Poems on these pages are copyrighted © by the authors who entered them. Click here to post a poem.
My Dream
Last night I fell into a restless sleep,
soon after I’d been clearing out my fridge,
sorting what to throw away and what to keep.
I started dreaming I was walking o’er a bridge.
The path I trod soon led me to a street,
whose pavements were all packed and thronged with folk.
I was only wearing slippers on my feet.
The people stared and laughed as if that was a joke.
I saw a row of shops all in a line.
I ran toward them, tripping o’er my slippers.
And there, on a shop window, was a sign
which said, we will buy your date-expired kippers.
And as the grip of sleep began to soften,
I resolved to clear my fridge out much more often.
soon after I’d been clearing out my fridge,
sorting what to throw away and what to keep.
I started dreaming I was walking o’er a bridge.
The path I trod soon led me to a street,
whose pavements were all packed and thronged with folk.
I was only wearing slippers on my feet.
The people stared and laughed as if that was a joke.
I saw a row of shops all in a line.
I ran toward them, tripping o’er my slippers.
And there, on a shop window, was a sign
which said, we will buy your date-expired kippers.
And as the grip of sleep began to soften,
I resolved to clear my fridge out much more often.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2019
About this poem:
We should listen to our dreams.
You gotta love him.
My lover's eyes are crossed, wave to and fro,
His nose, an ogre's ridge, much to the fore,
I send him out each day and hope he'll go
And not come back 'till this lifetime is o'er.
His skin is dire and pitted like a grid,
Wild hair all matted as a rabid dog,
Great forehead huge, yet pea-sized in the id
And voice that would offend a deafened frog.
To his ablutions he won't give a fig.
He reeks of cat's pee and of fouled roe, fried.
His fingernails would be just cause to dig,
Yes, on his stinking clothes fleas catch a ride!
Yet forged in his intent to spare the rod,
A caring heart, that plain, was wrought of God
His nose, an ogre's ridge, much to the fore,
I send him out each day and hope he'll go
And not come back 'till this lifetime is o'er.
His skin is dire and pitted like a grid,
Wild hair all matted as a rabid dog,
Great forehead huge, yet pea-sized in the id
And voice that would offend a deafened frog.
To his ablutions he won't give a fig.
He reeks of cat's pee and of fouled roe, fried.
His fingernails would be just cause to dig,
Yes, on his stinking clothes fleas catch a ride!
Yet forged in his intent to spare the rod,
A caring heart, that plain, was wrought of God
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Nov 2018
About this poem:
It's not about what's on the outside.That thing you want to try
This illustration of that thing you want to try,
are you absolutely sure it can be done?
It looks awfully tricky to my untrained eye,
I can’t imagine why you think it might be fun.
It’s not because I’m getting old and fat,
and confidence in my body that I lack,
but a gymnast would have trouble doing that,
and you know that I have problems with my back.
Just look at the position of this leg,
relative to the placement of the other.
And, my dearest one, your pardon I must beg,
but if you do that with my face I think I’ll smother.
So please remove this idea from your head,
let’s have a cup of tea and watch TV instead.
are you absolutely sure it can be done?
It looks awfully tricky to my untrained eye,
I can’t imagine why you think it might be fun.
It’s not because I’m getting old and fat,
and confidence in my body that I lack,
but a gymnast would have trouble doing that,
and you know that I have problems with my back.
Just look at the position of this leg,
relative to the placement of the other.
And, my dearest one, your pardon I must beg,
but if you do that with my face I think I’ll smother.
So please remove this idea from your head,
let’s have a cup of tea and watch TV instead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2019
About this poem:
Don’t drop me in it
Don’t drop me in it if you see my wife,
don’t tell her where you saw me yesterday.
I know you wouldn’t want to cause me strife,
and if you told her, there’d be hell to pay,
I wasn’t doing anything improper,
but even so, she wouldn’t understand.
Once she starts there is no way to stop her.
When she loses it things soon get out of hand.
I am aware of how it looked and what you’re thinking,
but what you thought it was, well it was not
No doubt you just assumed that I’d been drinking
when you thought you saw me doing you know what.
I’m glad we’ve had this chance to sort this out,
and that my side of the story has been put.
So now you know there’s nothing to make a fuss about,
I’m relying on you to keep your big mouth shut.
So thanks a lot for this, you won’t regret it.
Oh, and that twenty quid you owe me, let’s just forget it.
don’t tell her where you saw me yesterday.
I know you wouldn’t want to cause me strife,
and if you told her, there’d be hell to pay,
I wasn’t doing anything improper,
but even so, she wouldn’t understand.
Once she starts there is no way to stop her.
When she loses it things soon get out of hand.
I am aware of how it looked and what you’re thinking,
but what you thought it was, well it was not
No doubt you just assumed that I’d been drinking
when you thought you saw me doing you know what.
I’m glad we’ve had this chance to sort this out,
and that my side of the story has been put.
So now you know there’s nothing to make a fuss about,
I’m relying on you to keep your big mouth shut.
So thanks a lot for this, you won’t regret it.
Oh, and that twenty quid you owe me, let’s just forget it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2019
About this poem:
Men, what are they like?
Sarah Montague
I’ve fallen in love with Sarah Montague.
I hear her voice and I cannot resist,
I fall deeper with every interview,
yet she doesn’t know I exist.
I know it’s just a fantasy,
and I know we’ll never meet.
And I know she’d walk straight past me
if I saw her on the street.
Then she comes to me through my radio,
and the World is a wonderful place.
And I’m hearing her voice in stereo,
and all that’s missing is her face.
I love Sarah Montague, I love her more and more.
To understand why I love her, tune in to BBC Radio 4.
I hear her voice and I cannot resist,
I fall deeper with every interview,
yet she doesn’t know I exist.
I know it’s just a fantasy,
and I know we’ll never meet.
And I know she’d walk straight past me
if I saw her on the street.
Then she comes to me through my radio,
and the World is a wonderful place.
And I’m hearing her voice in stereo,
and all that’s missing is her face.
I love Sarah Montague, I love her more and more.
To understand why I love her, tune in to BBC Radio 4.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2019
About this poem:
Every week day at one p.m. the object of my heart’s desire hosts a news programme on the radio.
Time Traveler
Cast off these lines have almost broken me
Making my body shudder with each wave
Letting me leave my safe harbor and flee
Myself of bonds never meant to enslave
Such as my spirit goes before me flies
Leaves an anchorage casts mooring aside
Riding silver wings overhead in skies
Soaring so highly and outstretched will glide
Past limits once held and checked in balance
Just for the sake of gravity I fear
Flying in the sunsets golden valance
Traveling in time makes great distance near
So at last we can meet and exchange smiles
Forgetting for now…. all the miles and miles
Making my body shudder with each wave
Letting me leave my safe harbor and flee
Myself of bonds never meant to enslave
Such as my spirit goes before me flies
Leaves an anchorage casts mooring aside
Riding silver wings overhead in skies
Soaring so highly and outstretched will glide
Past limits once held and checked in balance
Just for the sake of gravity I fear
Flying in the sunsets golden valance
Traveling in time makes great distance near
So at last we can meet and exchange smiles
Forgetting for now…. all the miles and miles
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Feb 2019
About this poem:
Such as the name suggests going on an epic journeyMy Celestial Lover
Dreamy goddess of distance and romance
Far beyond my lonely world do you reign
In fields of wild flowers watch floating dance
Your flowing headress made of daisy chain
Long days working in fields of dusty haze
A farmer's life tilling the good brown earth
At first evening star I rest and will gaze
Fruits of my labor bring to you such mirth
Every sunrise I greet with great pleasure
Your graceful perfections smile down on me
Thankful each season's for fullest measure
Smile back into your soft radiant eyes
Great Ceres make multiple my hay bales
Run wild the foxes with flamming tails
Far beyond my lonely world do you reign
In fields of wild flowers watch floating dance
Your flowing headress made of daisy chain
Long days working in fields of dusty haze
A farmer's life tilling the good brown earth
At first evening star I rest and will gaze
Fruits of my labor bring to you such mirth
Every sunrise I greet with great pleasure
Your graceful perfections smile down on me
Thankful each season's for fullest measure
Smile back into your soft radiant eyes
Great Ceres make multiple my hay bales
Run wild the foxes with flamming tails
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jun 2012
About this poem:
A sonnet in tribute to the great Goddess Ceres.....she's so lovely!!!The Value of Pie
That was not a pie you gave me yesterday.
Call it shepherd’s or even cottage if you must.
But it wasn’t a pie, no matter what you say,
when the damned thing didn’t even have a crust.
And though my judgement might sound somewhat hasty,
I do not think I'm asking for a lot,
when I insist the filling be encased in pastry,
and yesterday it certainly was not!
A pie without a crusty pastry case
reminds me of a tortoise without its shell.
Its omission is an absolute disgrace.
I’m sure the tortoise would agree, as well.
So next time please do not dissatisfy,
just put a bloody crust around my pie!
Call it shepherd’s or even cottage if you must.
But it wasn’t a pie, no matter what you say,
when the damned thing didn’t even have a crust.
And though my judgement might sound somewhat hasty,
I do not think I'm asking for a lot,
when I insist the filling be encased in pastry,
and yesterday it certainly was not!
A pie without a crusty pastry case
reminds me of a tortoise without its shell.
Its omission is an absolute disgrace.
I’m sure the tortoise would agree, as well.
So next time please do not dissatisfy,
just put a bloody crust around my pie!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jan 2019
About this poem:
Call me pedantic, but sometimes there can be no compromise.A Farmer's Rule of Thumb
Only drops of sweat beating off my brow
On long simmering days of summer heat
Won't fail a heart in content up to now
Withers away my spirits in defeat
Bucket by bucket from a well running dry
Carefully spilt onto each tender plant
Soaks into the earth must give it a try
Enough to hold on be ever so scant
Hope is forecast looks promising for rain
Back to the fields with a hoe in my hand
Pulling more weeds and fertilize again
Cause now is the time to make a firm stand
Success or failure when rains at last come
Counts how you measure with a rule of thumb
On long simmering days of summer heat
Won't fail a heart in content up to now
Withers away my spirits in defeat
Bucket by bucket from a well running dry
Carefully spilt onto each tender plant
Soaks into the earth must give it a try
Enough to hold on be ever so scant
Hope is forecast looks promising for rain
Back to the fields with a hoe in my hand
Pulling more weeds and fertilize again
Cause now is the time to make a firm stand
Success or failure when rains at last come
Counts how you measure with a rule of thumb
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Jul 2012
About this poem:
Farming is a fickle business. You really must be willing to work with as well as wait for Mother Nature; and have tons of courage, cunning, and faith in order to succeed when so many others fail.One Warm Glow
How warmly a'glow your fire greets me well
Just around the bend and seein' me home
Those lovely curled swirls of smoke rising s'well
Over blankets of snow's coverin' dome
For in that sweet odour born of the woods
Many a'whole days I trudged its timber
Bucksawed and stacked neat in an ol' woodshed
Countless swings of axe make me so limber
Lo' in wind drifts over meadows swagger
With these footsteps my perilous travel
Deep into snow's softin' crust I stagger
That last longest mile I dare not cavil
The fresh smell of stew in a pot simmerin'
Hanging over your soft coals shimmerin'
Just around the bend and seein' me home
Those lovely curled swirls of smoke rising s'well
Over blankets of snow's coverin' dome
For in that sweet odour born of the woods
Many a'whole days I trudged its timber
Bucksawed and stacked neat in an ol' woodshed
Countless swings of axe make me so limber
Lo' in wind drifts over meadows swagger
With these footsteps my perilous travel
Deep into snow's softin' crust I stagger
That last longest mile I dare not cavil
The fresh smell of stew in a pot simmerin'
Hanging over your soft coals shimmerin'
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Nov 2012
About this poem:
Much about rural life is living off the land..and in the forest there connects a winter's chore of cutting trees to a spring chore of splitting wood and stacking over a summer to dry...and then burning logs again the next winter season; as seasons wrap around seasons.Poems entered on these pages are copyrighted by the authors who entered them. They cannot be reproduced without the author's written consent. © Copyright 2001-2024. All rights reserved.
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