Not so much a five finger exercise as a 112 foot warm-up, fourteen lines every second day isn’t such a big deal, but it pushes me to make rhymes about things previously in the Prosaic basket, like booking theatre tickets:
Sonnet 11: Festival City
The end of autumn’s here, November,
drizzle one day, next day sun.
Summer’s coming, must remember:
January’s time for fun.
I’ve tickets for the Festival
of Sydney (this one’s estival,
unlike the ones for Film, Rides, Writers,
Vivid, Mardi Gras and Kiters).
Yang and Foley, Glass and Ford
Cheek by Jowl and on the Harbour,
all dressed up in fancy garb or
motley as the first night‘s horde.
My heart is going patter pitter –
can’t wait, as they say on Twitter.
Me fail? I fly! 