One I wrote quite some time ago, and the sonnet I responded to. It's only a bit of fun. No offence intended.
The Meditation of a Penitent Sinner, by Anne Locke, 1560.
(First extant sonnet published by a woman in England)
My many sinnes in nomber are encreast,
With weight wherof in sea of depe despeire
My sinking soule is now so sore opprest,
I thought I had posted this a couple of days ago, but cannot find it? Anyhow, I'll try again.
When does the blood begin to dry,
no one can say what is the aim,
as pale survivors stand and cry.
When does the blood begin to dry?
I thought of this poignant triolet yesterday, when a commentator remarked that Putin has now realised his decisive quick strike has failed and he's having to plan for the long 'slog'. When does the blood begin to dry?
All comments welcome on this contribution to International Women's Day
Tremendous! A very modern response which I thoroughly enjoyed.