Technically, the sonnet is an important part of literally heritage. And because I love them so much, I took the form and absolutely butchered it to my great chagrin. Don’t get me started on haikus… Anyway, here’s a poem.
I, key: a passage to my homeland, I
Speak a language learned att säga “hur mår du?
Röser är röda” and “your eyes are blue.” –
Säger de i Sverige: tjejer look you in the eye;
My other, from the range, opens freely
Amusement to life’s sublime and absurd:
Small town, get outta town – find an ear, ideally –
Kentucky brews bourbon. And that’s the word.
I keep time precise – on all hours intent,
Keep my roots deep with intense honoring
Of inspiration, they deserve it: Kent.
Black hillbilly history takes wing, sings:
Both merge in literary ejaculate,
And if I’m lucky: in words and wit.