Half baked but a lovely rambling run-on
The necessary end-rhyming disintegrating after the initial quatrain, and a sorry lack of adherence to the cardinal rule of iambic pentametre, it appears the sonnet having been classified some time back as the "most exquisite form of poetry" has been misunderstood to signify that an exquisite thought rendered in fourteen lines must be the same.
On of my sonnet instructors corralling my tendencies to ramble out an entire octet, I know how easy it is, and fall into it still more often than is acceptable. Thence I sympathize with the author, though unable to justify her.
After that, beautifully rendered with excellent imagery, this handily takes the reader back in time to simpler days when childhood indeed merely wanted to be free of the strictures adulthood necessarily forced on it, sweetly illustrating its essence in a sense.
For the first finalist, it was rather discouraging. Aside from that it is a lovely poem. Since Shelley's Ode to the West Wind has been allowed to be classed as a series of sonnets, perhaps there is yet room for a piece like this, but if I am not too bold in stating it, tis dangerous to uphold it as an example of the form lest the uninformed lose their way.
Thanks for sharing!
ttfn,
Jenny
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