Not Quite a Sonnet

     For Studies in Poetry. Dr. Mackie gave us the endwords to a sonnet, which were (purposely?) impossible to create a proper Shakespearan iambic pentameter with. So we all got really creative and progressed slightly in our floundering toward understanding how poetic meter works. (There's three guys who understand it out of fifteen people.)
     I focused on trying to tell a story, because that's what I do. The last line is sort of a copout, but I was stuck for how else to finish. The title got a laugh.

These walls are far too quiet,

speaking of memories of a kiss

while the icebox holds only leftover rice

within its closed-door dark abyss.

Out in the fields the trees

were growing nicely for it being June;

and next week was for harvesting peas,

seeing which oak branches he could prune;

it kept him from thinking. Crystal

left their vineyards and the bar

packing her low-recoil pistol;

and left behind was a well-used guitar –.

For too long his ire has brooded,

and now this poem has concluded.