Thirty cents, in dimes

2010-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted anything on here in a long time, but it's not because I haven't been writing. I have been. But I've been trying to decide just exactly how vulnerable and messy I'm willing to get on paper and in this blog. And the thing I'm starting to realize is that to be good, I'll have to get messy, and I'm not sure that I'm ready to be good.

New (old) poem

2009-11-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

I wrote this a while ago and recently unearthed it from a journal that I was looking through.

Desert

All the sand has disappeared
except one tiny grain
lodged within me.

And underneath its grit
my skin has unravelled
and my bones, bleached
by the sun, are exposed.

The solitary grain now
sits
unreachable
in my heart,
grinding away.
Looking for a way out
or a way in.

one liner

2009-11-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

This isn't the whole poem -- just one little part.

You smell like paper
before it's been folded.

This ain't a poem, but it's endless funny to me...

2009-09-23T23:05:00.001-07:00

I once made a handout and used the craziest names I could create in order to make it interesting. These are the names I made up, and they've sort of taken on personalities. I've decided to bring them back this year. Since you'll never have to do a Ms. Turner assignment, I'll just tell you the names. You'll have to ask me about the personalities.

Ms. Turner's 7th period class

Vector Marconi

Penelope Smiggle

Juana Wallace

Malik Morganthaller

Shawna “Lil’ Sharkey” Charkums

Mortimer Globula

Moonpie McAndrews

Vlad Impalo

Mina Helsinki

Bluesy Bibbles

Red Rigamortis

Billifina St. Buttons

Mungo Chasm

Mikkle Mighty

Doctor Taco

Skinsy O’Rouff

Titus Acutis

Cleaver Dinsmore

Dirk Skittlebaum

Canonization

2009-08-22T01:41:00.001-07:00

[before you read this poem, i want you to know this: i wrote it because i am thinking about topics related to saints, the departed, death, and the human condition, except not as depressing as that sounds, because of an art gallery happening at my church around oct/nov. ask me more about it some time. but this poem, this poem, is also for my dear grandpa bob, who passed away two years ago this month and who now sits in heaven, i am sure. but keep reading, because it is also for you.]

You are the patron saint of backyard gardens.
Reminding us that each carrot
is a miracle.
Dirt covered hands guiding
tender young fingers
towards ripe beans, tomatoes,
beetles.

You are the patron saint of new decks.
the guardian of homemade swings,
the protector of patios,
Carrying citronella candles
to our rescue
on the bug-treacherous lawn.

In your white khaki vest
You are the patron saint of the casual childhood angler.
The one brave enough to hold
the worm,
and the hook,
and the fish, if ever caught.

You are the patron saint of ancient trucks.
Protect us from bench seats
with afterthought lap belts.
Haul our scrap wood to the dump.

Look after
Our nasturtiums.
Our watering cans.
Our label makers.
Our boxes of washers and bolts.

Sand Run Song

2009-06-24T14:08:00.000-07:00

Foot strike heel dig
Sand-arch molds

Soft-hard damp-cool
grits coat toes

Five push, lift off --
powder spray

Air-dance, arc fall
small dune made.

Weight shift flat foot
sinks down in

Rise heel leave dent
Strike again.

How to Write a Poem

2009-06-18T00:10:00.001-07:00

Sharpen two pencils.

You should also probably
Take off your shoes
At this point.

Especially if you are outside in a forest
Or sitting at a Parisian cafe
Or in a jail cell, today.

Notice the wind.
If you feel no wind,
You have also been successful.

Now would be a good time to begin whistling.
Perhaps hum a jingle from a commercial
Whose product is long forgotten.

Are there people around you? Good.
Listen to their voices.
Try to imagine what they looked like as children.

Look very closely
At all the movements
They are making
With their hands.

Close your eyes for a moment.

Remember the smell of today.
Roll it around like a marble in the hand
Of the boy in a picture book that belonged to your father.

Put it in the back pocket of your brain
Where it will rest undisturbed
Until you need it.

Then, it will win your brother's
Prized cat eye shooter.

Now, it rests between layers of warm denim,
Familiar, and denting your flesh
As you run home for supper.

hope (lessness)

2009-05-01T22:45:00.000-07:00

Both hands balled into
the pockets of faded pants,
she uncurls her fingers,
each one a vine that tangles
around a key,
a tiny shell,
thirty cents, in dimes,
a piece of string, knotted twice.

Her eyes are pitchers,
all poured out.

There is nothing,
nothing upon the horizon.
No sea, no sky,
no grain of sand.
Behind her, the memory
of the sound of waves.

She wore a new hat.

2009-04-10T17:17:00.000-07:00

When we finally stumble
through the wooden door,
push our mud-soaked heels
back into the red dirt,
shed our old selves,
molt like snakes
slithering away from
their paper wrapping,

When we have finally lost ourselves,
left our curtains open on purpose
and emptied the silver
onto the lawn,
not minding the traffic rushing by,
The streets will fall off our maps,
and you will find us.

Marconi

2009-04-10T17:09:00.000-07:00

Crowds of teenagers
dialed you in to their ears,
gossiped to each other
across
your blare.

Lovers at lookout points
across the world
invited you in
to their cars at dusk --
a magic third voice
mingled with
hushed whispers
in bucket seats.

When they hear you
call their name for the
first time,
hometown band members
high five or
nod like pigeons or
honk their horns to
oblivious traffic.

Ever singing to us,
you invite us continually
to be lost in sound,
wave upon wave,
invisible transmissions
tower to tower,
voice to soul.

2/10/09

2009-02-10T22:28:00.000-08:00

Leaning, alone, on
sagging porches, waiting for
a thousand pinpricks
of endless glitter,
we cursed the
inconsiderate, gluttinous moon
for obscuring the stars.

Turning, we walked
towards the door
finding that Love had come
in through the kitchen,
tromped across the carpet
in muddy boots, now
sat on the couch, with a coffee.

Today is my birthday.

2009-02-08T00:53:00.001-08:00

That is all.

For all my students, past and present

2008-12-27T14:41:00.000-08:00

When you are new I tend to think you're dumb.
I mean, in the weeks before I learn your names
When all your faces blend into the same
And responses are full of "uh, what, um?"
Those days find me going home complaining
To everyone I find who'll lend an ear,
"I swear to you, they get worse every year!"
"Ugh," I'll say, "Their stupidity's draining!"

Yet, somehow still, I always come around
Admit you're not so stupid after all,
And recognize that you manage to sound
(especially in the times that you have found
something big about the world you once thought small)
Brilliant and tender and immeasurably profound.

Remix

2008-12-13T12:46:00.000-08:00

This isn't really a new post, but I figured it was a good time to pull together these posts from Sept/Oct into a series that reads in the correct order. Enjoy.

Fall in the Garden

I.

Apples are strewn across the mossy lawn
Their fleshy cores rotting from the inside out
and you hold one, still, in your hand
It was not apple season, but it is now.
Look at the bite you've taken
The apple, jagged tears from the red skin
exposing the torn white flesh,
falls from your hand.
Hits hard the ground,
rolls, trying to right itself.
Leaves trace unseen paths to the dirt below.
Sharp air pricks our naive skin.
We stare into this vast transforming world,
wondering where to go now.

II.

Walking backwards,
our eyes on home,
we have kicked up
dirt clouds
behind and in front
creating a haze
through which we cannot see;
though if we could, we
would see only
a starless night,
clouds looming overhead,
broken branches at our backs,
our own hands
reaching for home.

III.

We are too naked, too tired
Too weary, too estranged now.
This dawn has come so
unlike those before.
Soft warmth and cool walks in the dew
have given way to fearful blares of sun
Flashing in our eyes and leaving us
too near, too hot, too still.
It cracks dry ground.
It parches our tongues.
We are too late
We are too lost
So we convince ourselves
it is the sun that has changed.

IV

When I close my eyes
dampen my ears to the
sound of the birds feasting on carrion;
When I focus on the wind
blowing the soft, fine hairs of my face
I can remember the garden.
Sweet honeysuckle and warm sun
replace the sulfur and ashes
I am upon a soft bed of grass
with you nearby.
Flowers bloom and fade,
only to bloom again overhead.
Sap pops in the fire and I am back
across from you and far away.

V

"Where are you?"
I cry into the orange wild,
Burnt plain, scabs of tree
"Where are you?"
I cry into empty river beds
mud etched into dry rivulets -
a city now forgotten
like the vanished garden of my
hollowing memory.
"Where are you?"
I cry into the canyoned wild
but my words are snatched by the wind.
They swirl in an echo
returning no answer but mocking
"Where are you?"

VI

Once new
we have grown
familiar with pain.
Our feet our hands
covered in blisters.
Our aching backs bare,
pressed against each other
in a suffocating darkness.
The fire has died to ashes.
The babies have
finally stopped crying.
Beyond me in the brush
a snake slides
between tall grass.

VII
We have nothing now
but the sun and
the earth and each other
for bearing the crops
and bearing the children
and bearing this sorrow
on our shoulders.
And hearts to bear
the hope
that the sound
of leaves rustling
on another tree
in a distant garden
will lead us home.

12/3/08

2008-12-03T20:51:00.001-08:00

After two hours
and two months
of writing
"Please edit more"
in pink pen
across your papers
I have decided that what
I want to tell you is this:

Climb inside the
hollow of mistakes
and find that you
will fill your
bag with treasure
as you wind your way out.

11/4/08

2008-11-04T22:06:00.000-08:00

We have been long
working in the mire
of this valley.

And today we have
finally
remembered to
look up.

2008-10-10T23:41:00.000-07:00

VII
We have nothing now
but the sun and
the earth and each other
for bearing the crops
and bearing the children
and bearing this sorrow
on our shoulders.
And hearts to bear
the hope
that the sound
of leaves rustling
on another tree
in a distant garden
will lead us home.

2008-10-10T23:38:00.000-07:00

VI

Once new
we have grown
familiar with pain.
Our feet our hands
covered in blisters.
Our aching backs bare,
pressed against each other
in a suffocating darkness.
The fire has died to ashes.
The babies have
finally stopped crying.
Beyond me in the brush
a snake slides
between tall grass.

2008-10-07T23:09:00.000-07:00

V

"Where are you?"
I cry into the orange wild,
Burnt plain, scabs of tree
"Where are you?"
I cry into empty river beds
mud etched into dry rivulets -
a city now forgotten
like the vanished garden of my
hollowing memory.
"Where are you?"
I cry into the canyoned wild
but my words are snatched by the wind.
They swirl in an echo
returning no answer but mocking
"Where are you?"

2008-09-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

IV

When I close my eyes
dampen my ears to the
sound of the birds feasting on carrion;
When I focus on the wind
blowing the soft, fine hairs of my face
I can remember the garden.
Sweet honeysuckle and warm sun
replace the sulfur and ashes
I am upon a soft bed of grass
with you nearby.
Flowers bloom and fade,
only to bloom again overhead.
Sap pops in the fire and I am back
across from you and far away.

This is a series. Start at Sept 22, poem I

2008-09-23T18:48:00.000-07:00

III.

We are too naked, too tired
Too weary, too estranged now.
This dawn has come so
unlike those before.
Soft warmth and cool walks in the dew
have given way to fearful blares of sun
Flashing in our eyes and leaving us
too near, too hot, too still.
It cracks dry ground.
It parches our tongues.
We are too late
We are too lost
So we convince ourselves
it is the sun that has changed.

Sept 23

2008-09-23T18:40:00.000-07:00

II.

Walking backwards,
our eyes on home,
we have kicked up
dirt clouds
behind and in front
creating a haze
through which we cannot see;
though if we could, we
would see only
a starless night,
clouds looming overhead,
broken branches at our backs,
our own hands
reaching for home.

Sept 22, 2008

2008-09-22T23:19:00.001-07:00

Fall in the Garden

I.

Apples are strewn across the mossy lawn
Their fleshy cores rotting from the inside out
and you hold one, still, in your hand
It was not apple season, but it is now.
Look at the bite you've taken
The apple, jagged tears from the red skin
exposing the torn white flesh,
falls from your hand.
Hits hard the ground,
rolls, trying to right itself.
Leaves trace unseen paths to the dirt below.
Sharp air pricks our naive skin.
We stare into this vast transforming world,
wondering where to go now.

2008-09-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

What's the scoop, LT, where are the sonnets? Well, to be honest, it's been hard to follow form lately, probably because my brain feels scattered and crazy with the start of school. I don't have a sonnet for today, I have a poem from two weeks ago, a poem that I didn't want to post because I didn't want to write it. It is a poem that just happened.

Watching the Convention 8/28/08

When the shots
fired and echoed
in the stadium
I froze.
My heart skipped.
Until,
through the confetti,
I saw
the blue, red, and white
lights in the sky.

Some non-sonnets, to round out the party

2008-08-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

Home lingers
in your laughter.
Collects in the
Creases of your hands,
Slowly
Wanders into the
People that you love.

It is the comforting smells
That you don't smell
Until you don't smell them anymore
and then smell them
again
In a moment that lasts an hour.

It carries the heft of an animal
Curling into your body
Softly breathing its way to sleep.
Slowly extending its warm heaviness
into a shape that conforms
with your own shape
and the angles of the sofa
and the weight of the air.
(8-14-08)

I don't get
people who don't get
Modern Art.

Are they tired of asking questions?

Perhaps their lives are tidy -
fitting neatly into explanations.
They have no enigmas
No loose ends
No phenomena
Nothing left open
Nothing nonsensically...

They speak in short sentences,
are annoyed by wind
have forgotten how to see the sky,
forgotten where to look.

They complain
--Anyone could do that!
-- I could do that!
But they never do.

Because maybe they couldn't.
Or,
more alarmingly,
they could.

Which means that they might.

And possibility and uncertainty
are alarming

even hanging on the wall.
(8-9-08)

i am nostalgic for the future
i have not made yet.
find me sitting
on the front porch
of my heart
bare-soles dangling
from the swing of my memory
sipping tea
and looking back
on all that
that is to come.
(8-10-08)

Crooked
"You shall love your crooked neighbor/
With your crooked heart." W. H. Auden

Stitched back together
like a crazy quilt -
with threads of silky sinew
this way
that way
pieces fit in,
fit together wrong
after being
broken, mangled, given away
misplaced in other lands,
other chests.
I hold this beating puzzle
Askew in my chest
Waiting for yours.
(7-27-08)

School is Starting

One day in summer it surprises me
When I least expect it.

On a day when my cheeks radiate heat
and my pink freckled shoulders sit bare in the breeze.
The sun has painted golden vees on my feet.
And my hair is blowing into my face.

Perhaps I have lost my sunglasses.
Perhaps I have lost my heart.

Somehow, wherever I am,
it finds me again.

It comes in a sound -
a small crackling leaf
a gust of welcome chill
the window display of antique chairs
The sound of a bell.
(8-10-08)

A few poems from vacation

2008-08-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

7-29-08 Heading to Baltimore

Will you recognize me when you see me?
Have I changed too much, become someone else?
I am coming back to you, will you be
A jilted lover, looking with blank eyes?
Or will we pass on the street like strangers
Or lost lovers who feel each others' breath
But cannot seem to find each others face
And vanish back again along the path?
Come and find me, Baltimore, my old love.
Wrap me in your hot, humid embrace
Send thundrous kissed from the clouds above
And smile upon me with your red brick face.
I am coming to haunt your streets again
See what has happened, what I have missed since then.

Oh, I just realized that's the only complete one that I wrote on the trip, although I did write a few "lost quatrains" - four lines that don't have the rest of a poem to cling to. Someday I will type up all of those together.

i'm on the road

2008-08-04T14:17:00.001-07:00

hello readers, i've got 1 minute left on my internet to tell you that i'm on the road, on an east coast tour, and will be bringing you several new sonnets on the 14th.

July 24 (a retroactive submission)

2008-07-29T09:56:00.000-07:00

I feel like becoming someone new today
Turning myself inside out starting with
My chest. Opening my rib cage all the way
And back again, pulling my arms through their length.
Then grabbing my toes from the inside
And pulling them up through my hips
Which flips my trunk entirely reversed
And my head caves in, pulls out through my life.
Now slick and pink and different I would find
That I could keep an eye on all the blood
Coursing through my veins and to my heart.
My heart, which I could now more easily mind
And hold more closely amidst emotion's flood.
And ...

I didn't post this one earlier because it needs a final line and I can't come up with one. I'm having problems because the last word needs to rhyme with heart and, more importantly, because I feel like the meaning of the poem is basically done. This poem, by the way, is an homage to Mary Wroth, niece of Philip Sidney and one of the first female sonnet writers. Renaissance and Early Modern sonnets tended to be visceral, but she took influence from dissection and torture in hers, describing her body as the subject. Happy times, right? In this sonnet, I wanted to describe a way to be yourself, but somehow also completely different. For some reason, turning inside out seemed like a good way to do that. I also feel like Shel Silverstein would have had a nice time drawing the illustration for this.

July 25 - for Amy.

2008-07-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

You will make a basket with your heart
And I will give you all my Hope to hold.
Perhaps it was too heavy from the start,
This Hope that I've set down along the road.
It isn't that I lost Hope, it is there.
It has begun to wear upon my back
Causing me to stumble, cry and swear
Slumping near death in its burlap sack.
But you, my friend, in your green garden heart,
Will carry my sore Hope because I can't.
Will find a way to tend Hope through the hurt
Will take the burden from my achy back.
And all the wider that you heart-sea unfolds
All the more wild Hopes it finds it holds.

July 21

2008-07-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

Oh Screw You, Iambic Pentameter.
For making me alternate syllable stress.
When I write a sonnet, mindful of meter
Too often I want to use anapests!
Like riding a horse with only three legs
Or doing a waltz in a beaded ball gown
Ba dum-dum, Ba dum-dum the meter it begs
Down-up-up Down-up-up Down-up-up down!
Perhaps it is that my heart beats in 3/4
Or maybe it's true that too picky I am
But it's Ba-dum-dum, Ba-dum-dum that I adore
Over the broken record wail of iambs.
The poor iamb dragging it's gimpy foot
Needs a break, so anapests I will put.

July 18

2008-07-18T22:42:00.000-07:00

What if, when I walk into the house
You are wearing a plaid flannel shirt,
Or shuffling a deck of cards
Or in the back, with your hands in dirt.
And I will kiss your sun-scaled head
Sit beside you, look into your eyes
You can look back, gently take my hand,
Look out the windows as cars pass by.
Then I may pick up your hard white hat
Put Ludwig in the CD player
We might twirl or tap or hum or sit
Stealing laughs and cookies as the sun sinks lower.
What if, when I walk through the door
The world is still, and you are here.

July 14

2008-07-14T11:52:00.001-07:00

I am the last person you'd think would write
A poem about being on a sports team
But I in fact play soccer Monday nights
With about as much skill as it might seem.
I am not what you'd call coordinated
Especially when it comes to playing sports.
Oh I can dance and do things craft-related
But I avoid things that require shorts.
And yet, I joined a women's soccer team
And to be honest, it is pretty fun
It's good to run, and kick, and clap and scream
Though we always lose when the game is done.
"Ha! I own shin-guards!" I think with laughs.
Me! who waved almost every PE class.

July 11

2008-07-12T10:20:00.000-07:00

Oh, here I am, alone, at 1 am
My friends are gone and I am at the stop
Waiting for a bus that will not come
While drunken clubbers whistle, yell, and honk.
I have now given up on finding the
White knight in shining armor on a horse
But then, I see, he's come to rescue me!
Driving in a yellow cab, of course.
When leering men sidle up alongside
Your golden car swoops in to save the day
Inebrieted honkers offer rides
But now your glowing beacon lights the way.
So thank you, cabbies of Seattle's streets
for your valor, kindness, and comfy seats.

July 10

2008-07-10T22:13:00.000-07:00

There are only two things to be doing:
Making messes or cleaning messes up.
I am washing off my measuring cups
Rinsing the plates, undoing the doing.
I'm vacuuming the threads up off the floor
Or spreading out new fabric that I chose.
Emptying a hamper of folded clothes
Or pulling try-on cast-offs from a drawer
And when I am cleaning, am I simply
Getting ready to make another mess?
Is life just a continuum of progress
That's proceeded and followed by debris?
And if it is where does the progress lie -
In messes made or cleaning up thereby?

July 9 - pardon the liberal rhyme.

2008-07-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

The beauty of going places alone
exists among the vast lines of couples,
the familiar feeling of loneliness,
and the silence of being on your own.
It creeps upon you after you have gone
Into the ladies room with your wine glass
Because your own two are the only hands
You have available to place it in.
It will seek you out when you are sitting
On a bulk head, amidst a noisy crowd,
The sky is glowing and the air is getting
Cooler, damper. The sun is transmitting
A Morse-coded message off the Sound.
Here it will find you, where you are waiting.

July 8

2008-07-08T13:38:00.000-07:00

Hey there Human Resources Lady,
Who seems to act as though I am not here
Would it kill you to be nicer to me?
Seriously, must you be so austere?
A simple "come this way" is all I need,
A "thanks" or "this one" would really help me.
Your mind I can not actually read.
Nor your pointed stare nor gaze so icy.
Am I just 45792 to you?
Just another "resource" walking through the door?
And when you use me up, what will you do?
Stuff all my papers into an old drawer?
It's times like this that really make you see
That all you are is a commodity.

July 7th

2008-07-07T18:09:00.001-07:00

The cliche-y-est poem in the whole world:
(If cliche-y-est is even a real word)
It would feature a beautiful love bird
Whose glittery wings of love, once unfurled,
Would rain down little raindrops of sweet love
And everywhere those little droplets fell
A rose without sharp thorns would grow up tall
And then the next line would end with "above"
(Because in poems those two words always rhyme.)
And "heart" would rhyme with "start", oh, or "apart"
Like, "You're in my heart when we are apart."
Listen to lyrics, you hear this all the time!*
That kind of poem would be oh-so-tacky
Good thing this isn't that kind of poem.

* I really wanted to use "victimless crime," "organized crime," "beret-wearing mime" or "turns on a dime" instead of "time" here, but I couldn't make it work. Any suggestions?

July 6th

2008-07-06T17:10:00.000-07:00

After praising God from whom all blessings flow,
I walk to the Sunday farmers market.
Ruby organic tomatoes - fresh picked -
Strawberries saved from a mid-April snow.
Lavender jelly and fresh goat cheeses
Bunches of sweet peas cut straight from the vine.
And peaches - Peaches! - so plump and divine
The new trinity: God, Peaches, and Jesus.
I bask in the sepulcher of fruit stands
Fondle sacred spinach, blessed broccoli
Cradle a loaf of rye bread in my hands.
I shop and make my evening's supper plans
Other parishioners mill around me
And our worship compounds and expands.

July 5th

2008-07-05T14:51:00.000-07:00

I love days when the weather is pouty.
When the sun decides to hide in his blue
Bed, moping, rather than venture out. He
pulls the clouds over his head, and hits snooze.
The hazy and indifferent sky sits down
Her looming blinding bottom of cloud weighs
Heavy on the firmament, muffling sounds
dulling colors, painting only with greys.
When sky wears her dress and sun leaves his room
We have to run and bike and play and swim
Outside. You can't stay inside and vacuum
rearrange closets, dust, sweep and straighten.
I appreciate a day to do chores
Punctuated only by my cat's snores.

July 4th

2008-07-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

Written at the 4th of July fireworks in Seattle.

Are we -- this nation -- indivisible
Spread out upon the city's public lawn?
Are we, the tempest-tossed, the scorned-upon
Who saw a Dream as more than fable?
We watch the fireworks blaze, we hear the roar
Of blasts in the sky -- do we know of bombs?
Do we know of famine, pain and pogroms?
Complacent now we're through the golden door.
But we are mottled, many-colored tan
And making phone calls far across the sea
Speaking with accents, in Spanglish, with drawls.
Imperfect dreamers all across this land
With messy love, discordant harmony,
Hope, still, for liberty and justice for all.

Why Sonnets?

2008-07-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

I recently did a teacher training, where after reading several sonnets by Seamus Heaney, a fellow teacher commented that the sonnet is an archaic art form, with no function in today's post-modern world. I disagree to a point, but I often find that as I try to write sonnets, or any kind of poetic structure, it tends to sound archaic. Something about sonnet-writing makes me want to use words like "ere" and "whilst" and "upon which" and such.

The question of the sonnet's relevance to today is what I hope to explore here. My goal is to write an original sonnet every day, using normal everyday language, capturing the normal minutiae of life. Oh, be assured that many of them will be bad, I make no promises of greatness here, only attempt.

And now, for an educational moment.

WHAT IS A SONNET?
A light refresher course in Sonnetry.

A sonnet is 14 lines long, written (more or less) in iambic pentameter ([unstressed syllable + stressed syllable] x 5), using one of the following rhyme sequences:

abab cdcd efef gg (The English or Shakespearean Sonnet)

abba abba cd cd cd (The Italian or Petrarchan Sonnet - 3 var.)
abba abba cdecde
abba abba cdc cdc

Those are the basics. Here we go!