sonnet

Suffocating, pale, Hearing clocks wale As chimes keep The hours, I'm cast To years long past And I weep; The Wolf And The
In these Xenophobic times, we should recognize that Razing Babel was a blessing not a curse. The punishment of imprisonment within a single, narrow tongue proves much, much worse than the inconvenience of dealing with others who don't speak our native language. Here's why:
As we watch the damage that Pat McCrory is inflicting on North Carolina, we can remember better men. We can remember a better political archetype and raise our sights. There is the Cincinnatus figure who serves out of duty when he'd rather be doing something else.
"No two are the same -- or even similar," Nicholas Rougeux explains.
April may have staked its claim, but for many of us, autumn is the real poetry season. The glib optimism of summer has run its course. The fall movie and television lineups are as appealing as iceberg lettuce without the ranch. Fall was made for reading.
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim Hath put a spirit of youth in every
One fixed poetic form clearly stands the test of time: the sonnet. Even if you don't read poetry regularly, you probably know the basics: the average sonnet contains only 14 lines, and each line should be written in the same meter.
A 57 percent majority also preferred to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them, while 12 percent chose
"Quiet friend who has come so far, / feel how your breathing makes more space around you. / Let this darkness be a bell tower / and you the bell."
A lot of would-be writers are always asking me what the secret is to writing good, compelling articles. Well, I normally keep the answer as a sort of proprietary secret, but because you seem like a good egg, I'll tell you. Make sure that every third sentence you write is f***ing awesome!
Rapid Googling: radiated in the womb (Did someone make this up?), adopted from a Ukrainian orphanage by a single mother in Buffalo at age seven (Did I?), rowing partner with a Marine who lost his legs to an IED in Afghanistan (Did Jerry Bruckheimer?).
Give me some food! It reads like a 16th century cookie monster. Weirdly steamy, huh? And as ties to sonnet conventions loosened