One More Sonnet

Tag: Poetry

  • 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”.

  • 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)
  • Thoughts Condensed

    Thoughts Condensed

    … used to write observational ditties.
    Sunrise anecdotes, as they rose to view.
    High-rise moments that could tickle and tease.
    Bric-a-brac messages from me to you.
    Kept them in a folder, tattered and torn:
    My Complete Book of Unfinished Works.
    A mixed anthology of statements, sworn
    to the master of truth; where danger lurks.
    It’s a people watcher’s compendium,
    an unbound collection of clever quips:
    “slivers of silver – soft as cerium.”
    “the tighter one grips – the faster one slips.”
    . Life is just a series of thoughts condensed,
    . cryptic adages, over days dispensed.

    © Tim Grace, 21 December 2014

    To the reader: Snapshots of life in passing are soon lost to memory. Short-term moments that catch your interest but quickly fade from view. These are the ingredients of doodles and ditties. My notebooks are full of sketchy lines and idle jots; half capturing a fleeting thought. And there’s the problem; at some point, do these bits and pieces make collective sense? Unlike entries in a diary or journal these snippets have a weak relationship with a string of time.

    To the poet: Side-by-side two poems will often reflect a shared relationship with the poet’s current experience. As often as not they might also reflect the poet’s quick shift of focus. Some poems make reference to past or recurring interests and therefore resemble poems written in a distant period. In poetry chronology and sequence are quite separate issues… two threads; one rope.

    Thoughts Condensed
    Thoughts Condensed

  • Rooms To Let

    Rooms To Let

    Their grip on life was tenuous at best;
    they faced disease, disaster, distortions
    of human spirit. They’re laid to rest
    in shallow graves – in short-cut proportions.
    They were denied the surety of time,
    that through age would deliver them their dreams
    and wishes. They are the unfinished rhyme,
    left to hang – dangling threads and broken seams.
    Their length of stay and early departure
    leaves a host of unscheduled vacancies
    with ‘rooms to let’ but no room to barter
    any further bids or contingencies.
    . Their absence leaves an emptiness – a void;
    . despondency of destiny deployed.

    © Tim Grace, 21 December 2014

    To the reader: In 1976, the first case of Ebola (a viral-hemorrhagic disease of five known types) occurred in Yambuku, a small village of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo). To date the largest outbreak of Ebola occurred in 2014; affecting multiple countries throughout West Africa; infecting over 27,000 people and killing more than 11,000. Ebola is a primates’ disease spread by contact with infected carriers; a very effective and efficient killer that consumes the body with rapacious zeal.

    To the poet: The size of the 2014 Ebola outbreak took the world by surprise. Consequently, the death toll rose to epidemic proportions. Through the safe lens of a documentary I watched the healthy take care of the sick; and all too often attend to the dead with body bags and shallow graves. The ‘safe lens’ should not provide comfort, it should stir emotions, raise consciousness and press the poet’s pen to paper.

    Rooms To Let Rooms To Let
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/rlHLmsKEh8s)