Sonnet for Readers of Poetry

In these latter days, prosaic life,
Hard-bitten sight, hearts’ calluses from pain,
A word or three just bounces off the mind
Another’s touch attempts contact in vain.
When poetry becomes an ornament,
Its truth medicinal but scarcely read,
Life’s dullness creeps to cover everything,
Soul’s melody made tuneless, rhythm dead.
Those still exist who hear the music sound
Through language, life and love still and convey
Their music to the ones who choose to hear
And hearing, become poets in their way.
Thus poetry becomes our private dance,
And words that mirror souls our minds’ romance.


About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
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