The First One

I’m sure all poets get extremely sick

of other poets’ struggles with their rhymes,

but let me learn. I’d like mine to be slick;

at present, they get punished for my crimes.

I‘ve looked at Spenser’s poems. He wrote well,

but mine? A joke! Where did he learn his craft?

I contemplated curtals - couldn’t spell

its name. And as for Petrarch! No! I laughed.

My writing’s jinxed. No thoughts, I’m in a fix.

Hmmm, do I write this poem, do I not?

Can’t stand it when my mind starts playing tricks

and ends up asking, “Is this all you’ve got?”

Today, my Muse is flaming mad at me.

This sonnet’s off, she hissed - and so is she.