Here’s my December poem told in a Curtal sonnet.
Making it for Mom
Back in the 50s they called it junior high.
In 8th grade I took a class called shop.
I knew little about tools but I could draw.
I approached the coming experience with many a sigh,
Totally intimidated by the backdrop
Of machinery pounding, grinding, the shriek of saw.
First we had to imagine, visualize,
And draw what we hoped to make without a flaw.
Too bad I couldn’t draw it and then stop.
My glue-smeared ice bucket was no prize.
But mom said, “Awe.”
(c) David L. Harrison