The Five-Minute Sonnet

This is exactly what the title suggests. I had five minutes to write a poem. This happened.

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My pen grows weary in my heavy hand

As paper glares at me beneath the light.

The black print smudges into one thick band

As weariness and boredom I do fight.

Oh, what has happened to my afternoon?

When it began I had a load of hours!

But now my deadline cometh far too soon

And I spent time staring at the flowers.

I wish I had begun this yesterday,

Fro now my brain and pen are running dry.

This homework seems triumphant in the fray,

And if I do not finish I will die!

The golden sun is fading in the west,

So now I finish writing, and go rest.

The Secluded Scholar (a sonnet)

The shadows on the wall grow long and dark

as golden afternoon begins to fade

and dwindle to a gray and wat’ry mark

that dampens now the joyous noise of day.

Do you remember, dearest, when you bade

me to fill up those shining afternoons

by making for my yellowed books a trade:

dust for air and twilight dark for bright noon?

Those lovely days have left us far too soon,

as treasured daytime bold creeps into night.

Oh, if your joyous love I could exhume,

the coming dusk would be no fearful sight!

I long for your bright laugh and golden looks,

for I am choked at night by dusty books.