One More Sonnet

Author: sonneteer155

  • Your Better’s Best.

    They say: “the pen is more mighty than the sword”.

    I say: “let’s put that adage to the test.

    America, for union and accord,

    we need not greatness, just your better’s best.”
    .

    You need not be the greenest land on earth,

    nor the keenest prize in a treasured chest.

    America, I say: “for what it’s worth,

    we need not greatness, just your better’s best.
    .

    When you advance yourself beyond today.

    When you follow the sun from East to West.

    America, I say: “that come what may,

    we need not greatness, just your better’s best.”
    .

    America, in you we all invest;

    we need not greatness, just your better’s best.
    .

    © Tim Grace, 1 November 2024

    To the Reader:
    All of those “nice Americans” have let us down; they have surrendered to the darker side of their national character. A backward search for ‘greatness’ will only serve to lock-down progress towards a better state of the union. Vested interests have taken hold of America’s future. And sadly, they see the constitution, democracy, and the rule of law as mere impediments; obstacles to be avoided – a fool’s game.


    To the Poet:
    Sometimes, as a poet, you have to put aside literary conventions so as to emphasise what you really want to say. In this sonnet, I’ve drawn upon a range of literary devices to construct a rhythmic narrative that’s constrained (ABAB, BBBB, CBCB, BB) – anchored to ‘best’ which is the landing-point of each stanza and the final couplet. In this way, I’ve done my ‘best’ to make my point – I was conceived in America!

  • Lost in a Sea of Wet Words


    Lost in a sea of wet words, I’m drowning

    in a deluge of mass stupidity;

    a tsunami that peaks with the crowning

    of a clown – the king of absurdity.

    Feeling the gravity of a last gasp;

    the downward pulling, the cruel assailing;

    exasperating my next breath. I grasp

    in vane-hope of common sense prevailing.

    Alas, it seems there is no depth too deep,

    nothing to resist a ‘new low’ forming.

    No slope too steep, simply nothing to keep

    at bay this infernal rage that’s storming.

    That sinking feeling saturates me whole.

    It leaves me drenched. It liquidates my soul.

    © Tim Grace, 9 June 2024


    To the Reader: Emptiness is a hollow measure of absence. Emptiness is a gap unfilled. Emptiness is an ache. Emptiness is not nothing. Emptiness is an opportunity. Emptiness is a vacancy. Emptiness is an invitation. Emptiness is the stuff of universal dreams …

    To the Poet: In presenting a short diatribe, keeping the train of thought on track is critical to delivering a succinct and impactful message. Landing the line with a useful rhyme is important (and sometimes clever) but it’s not the primary purpose of a poignant poem. If not ‘rhyme’ then it’s ‘rhythm’ that helps to emphasise the poem’s reason – its gravitas.

    A ChatGPT visual interpretation.

  • So Little To Be Said


    From a banquet of words my daily bread

    is spread with a thin layer of gratitude.

    And so well fed, there’s little to be said

    for a life of privilege. So construed:


    I’m the un-urban dictionary of verse;

    I’m the un-listed house that’s up for sale;

    the under-valued penny in a purse

    of golden coins. How easy they regale:


    their newly minted trophies: their new wealth

    of fresh anecdotes, decorated claims;

    attesting to their contemporary stealth

    and fitness in a world of modern games.


    . All ready to abandon reason’s rhyme;

    . already, I am stale before my prime.


    © Tim Grace, 27 November 2024

    To the Reader: Truth is, in a purse full of coins the shiny-coin will always attract attention. Freshly minted with a contemporary motif, the new coin is given preference over what’s become familiar and mundane. Buffing-up an old coin is one way of attracting attention to its continued worth; but alas, acceptance of receding notoriety is a hallmark of growing old with grace and dignity.

    To the Poet: Working within the outer structures of a rhyming-poem adds an extra layer of internal puzzlement to what I see as a playful word game. This sonnet is bursting with internal connections designed to grip the reader to a sticky-relationship – “said the spider to the fly”.

  • Remember if you will…

    Flinders Lane stands still…
    beneath a crop of clouds
    that muster and cluster
    to the fluster of passing crowds.

    Flinders Lane stands still…
    wet with puddling pools
    that splish and splash
    to the slash of roadside tools.

    Flinders Lane stands still…
    fixed to concrete boots
    that guide the stride,
    the rim and ride, of skates and scoots.

    Flinders Lane stands still…
    Remember if you will.

    © Tim Grace, 16 February, 2020

    To the Reader: As an ‘early bird’ poet, I’m often enamoured by the dawning of a day. On this occasion, my obstructed-view was from within a small dark room; framing a pedestrian glimpse of Flinders Lane. The essence of what I could see was a static street deriving its iconic status from a series of animated scenes – streetscape snippets. In this context, the idea ‘dawned’ that “Flinders Lane stands still…” as all-about the day reveals its character/s.

    To the Poet: Giving emphasis to the context of Flinders Lane (standing still) was my challenge. Why write about another sleepy street struggling to awake from beneath a crop of threatening clouds? The pedestrian point was my mundane purpose; and so, the reminder “if you will” is the repeated beginning to each stanza: “Flinders Lane stands still” to be noticed for its constancy. It’s there today, as it will be tomorrow – and that’s important.

  • Act and watch…

    From ashes spread a plume of smoking guns
    rising, billowing, bringing clouds of grief
    to hills that bore the weight of sinking suns
    … so set a silhouette without relief.

    With night’s consent an intangible veil
    wrapped itself to the sleeping lay of land,
    napped itself in the nooks of dell and dale,
    mapped itself to an open show of hand

    that by dawn revealed itself as spanning
    the breadth of a vast and volatile void
    that emptily succumbed to the fanning
    of an agent recklessly employed,

    destructively deployed, to blackly-blotch
    the vigilant sight of an active watch.

    © Tim Grace, January 16, 2020

    To the Reader: As the story goes, the world spins on its seasonal axis, wildfires track that course with devastating effect around the globe. The heat-map’s collision course with human activities is fuelled by the tinderbox of urban greenery. What so often is a beautiful skirt of forestation becomes an unintended wick of disaster. Both sides of the Pacific Ocean (East Coast of Australia to the West Coast of America) are prone to the same natural occurrence. From the ashes, with stubborn resilience, we bemoan the loss and suffering; and yet rebuild (knowing it will come again).

    To the Poet: This was a poem fed by the strong visual impact of a looming disaster. Driving beneath a smokey-grey sky, the setting sun lit the horizon with a vivid blaze of metaphors. Some poems deserve time to resolve themselves into a satisfying rhythm; others, such as this, need the ‘moment’ to be captured as it is/was – an over thought hesitation is not what’s needed under some circumstances. Far better to be decisive – as now is the time to act.

  • Every Year

    Every Year

    Every year invents its own importance;
    inflates its credentials, and over-toasts
    its claim to ‘best of’ status. In a glance
    it’s gone: hot air and a bag full of boasts!
    Last year, as with others past, had its share
    of miserable moments. Worthy of note
    was pestilence – body bags of despair;
    climate change – skeptics on a sinking boat;
    intolerance – human spirit oppressed;
    calamity – with its death toll rising;
    corruption – known to those who self-invest;
    bloodshed – battles over socialising.
    . Take forward, good hope and resolution.
    . Leave behind, old rope and retribution.

    © Tim Grace, 1 January 2015

    To the reader: The hype of New Year celebrations verges on the vulgar. As one year becomes the next we mark the moment with pyromanic fervour. In this explosive instant we give birth to resolution. With fireworks as pedigree, is there any wonder the life-expectancy of new commitments is but a short burst of enthusiasm; followed by a quick decay of colour – resolved as a cloud of thin smoke. When hype replaces hope take care.

    To the poet: This is the last of my pre-cooked sonnet commentaries. On the first day of January 2015 I resolved to spend a year editing my collection. Without pause, I was running the risk of wasting a good harvest. That pile of “one more” sonnets was stacking-up; consuming any sense of individual character. As of today, I have no more finished sonnets … through sustained resolution, I have beaten the pile!

    Every Year
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/uMVHTAWdo1o)