Demonstrative, Expressionist,
mad winds blow hard, say nothing new,
up-root little, puppet the yew -
across a sky stream rags of mist.
We're high as kites; our strings so twist
to catch a clatter, spiral through
accelerating failure, due
to prang a furrow - we insist.
For all the chunnering din strums,
drowning urbane Sunday sounds -
birds intermitting chirpy spring -
in untuned wind deliriums
no wisdom from tumult resounds,
nor resonance forked sonnets ring.
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This is written in Italian (Petrarchan) sonnet rhyme-scheme - but with eight syllables a line.
