NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 17 — Winter Madness, a cinquain sonnet

(A bit late...more on the cinquain sonnet here)




Winter Madness

Under 
the streetlights, the 
blocks go on forever 
beneath the leaden sky.  In this
city,

streets seem 
somehow longer,
straighter in the winter 
night, lonelier than the steam from 
sewers.

Madness 
belongs to the 
night, to the filling of 
empty lanes with the walls of words.












Winter Madness, a cinquain sonnet






Under 
the streetlights, the 
blocks go on forever 
beneath the leaden sky.  In this
city,

streets seem 
somehow longer,
straighter in the winter 
night, lonelier than the steam from 
sewers.

Madness 
belongs to the 
night, to the filling of 
empty lanes with the walls of words.








...I've done a few haiku sonnets, so I figured...why not...

...puttin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...

Moon Bones




I.

There is a fall in
to dark, felt in the bone, a 
loss of heat, a slow 

tilting away and 
cyclical spin into space,
a shy, unnoticed 

turning of blue and 
green to grey.  They say that the 
light goes out of it 

as if the light leaves 
of its own accord, a wan 
A-chord in the wood.

There is a word in the dark
where no moon is heard...

II.

There I read of the spoon-fed dead, how their 
zen amounted to zed, surmounted by 
spires built to go higher until their fires 

flew in the sky and spied and tried twisting 
their wrists in the bonds they had become so 
fond of, that they loved even though reviled 

and shoved away and held sway over the 
fray and stayed none the less where their sun-born 
lies could not see through the tresses but blessed 

the butcher and the barber none the more let 
them near with their knives and their shears while tears 
came and the rending of garments began

the beating of chests and the mustering 
bluster and pounding of hearts into dust

III.

...and you looked at me 
with your moon-bone eyes and I 
saw to the hearts of 

the stars felt solar 
wind in the spars and lines of 
age on my primal 

face knew the breeze with 
the skein of seven seas knees 
climbing millennia 

to the crow’s nest and
finally resting raced to 
the crest of the day

and rubbed galaxies 
from the corners of my eyes. 







Two haiku sonnets and a...pseudo-sonnet?

Zenaida macroura



Grey morning creeps in

through open-eyed windows, steals

between the sheets—as


dark as the thought of

cold before it can be felt—

slips through shuttered eyes


sewn shut by colors

dreamed into them without will

or consistency,


and now, just there, just

above the window, grey-winged

mourners come.  Perhaps,


like me, they want the world to

wake up without them.






Trying out a new form that David at Derelict Satellite invented I believe, has definitely 
mastered and been kind enough to loan me....the haiku sonnet.  
Incredible and inspirational work on his blog.