Category: sonnet

The heart releases; to its grace we yield

What shall I do , the  widow asked her friend.
I feel this knife inside my heart again.
What  can I do to make my sorrow end
What can I do to stop the bloody  pain?

Do nothing, the  sweet friend  gently advised
Your task is  to  accept   your own despair
The wisdom in your mind will work, she sighed.
Your body hurts and for such  pain we  care.

Sit here and  count the daisies  in the lawn
No need to talk nor even think  nor will.
As in this peaceful sitting for  a day
Your mind will  rest and hope and trust may call.

Receptive to the shivering, daisied  fields,
The heart releases; to  its  grace  we yield

Rhythm, meter, movement are our guides

Actors are the poets of the real.
They mould the air with bodily appeal
The body is the soul  through which we feel
Imprisoned bodies kill the soul ideal.

Dancers fuse with music stretching air.
They push and pull the freedoms that  live there
They play with Newton’s laws as they change gear
The bodies bend and flow with utter zeal.

Singers touch us deeply to the core.
As we listen with  our shrunken hearts  so sore
We  will cry out, oh, more,oh, more , yes, more.
As deep into our inner self ,they gore.

In every aspect of our human lives
Rhythm, meter, movement are our guides

With faith and trust, we show our human face

Though love is welcome when at first it dawns
And even when it ripens in the sun
Soon  may  come sensations  all forlorn
A dread that asks us what love might become.

For yearning as we do for hope and care
Yet don’t we fear to lose our private self?
And so to wonder,fearful, how we’ll fare
Blighting both our spirits and our health.

The risks of loss and gain are  not yet known
A judgement must be made on partial facts
To be at once too  trapped  and  too alone
To treat the other with  both truth and tact

With faith and trust, we show  our human face
And hope we each survive that sweet embrace

Dust balls

 darliCats on the hill
When yet another fluff ball is discovered
Hiding by the bookcase near my bed.
I ponder on the process which produces this
As I sit here gobbling a large boiled egg.
When yet another stain upon the carpet
Cannot be removed by water or by foam.
I wonder if I’m cut out for cleaning.
This is certainly not a man’s Ideal Home.
But let me not waste time on practicalities.
Life is far more precious than is dirt.
I’ll change my dress and put on a new outfit.
Or perhaps just wear a long white linen shirt.
When he comes home I’ll tell him I’m in love again.
With him who is my darling and my man.

Nor how to count infinity by hand.

Uncanny is a space which I avoid
I do not wish to meet with spirits  vile.
Though with some men,it is true that I have toyed.
I  dropped them all and sane was I the while.

Yet when I met your eyes so dark  and strange
A force more strong than my own pulled me in.
A   premonition that my life would surely change,
Before I knew your double,your dark twin.

In dreams and  in my nightmares he will come
To capture me and take me  to his land.
I do not know what choice to make of man
Nor how to count infinity by hand.

The double is an augury of death
Yet in this space, uncanny is a path

A home is not a place for setting tests

A home can  be a comfort or a cage;
A place to leave or rest in comforts dear.
We may feel like the bears that danced on stage
Or   sometimes find a sanctuary  from fear

Uncertain of our love, a  spouse may be.
And so  they test us when there is no need
Is it not so clear to those who see
The test itself may make our love’s heart bleed?

Testing to destruction  is a crime;
To wound to feel a semblance of our power.
To test is  to make invalid  all good times.
Killers of the heart are loathsome cowards.

 

A home is not a place for setting tests
Be no killer if you long for rest

God’s sacred smile

 

 

fernforestnz

http://home.btconnect.com/mike.flemming/

 

We dwelled inside a sphere of holy love
Which we and angels shared for just a while
Where our below is linked to  heaven above
To  cradle us inside God’s sacred smile.

This state of grace  in which I sang for you
Made all the Ward  turn holy for an hour
As to my love I ever would be true
Even now he was become a withered flower.

Earth to earth and ash to ash we go
With dear hearts holding us in case we fall
And being flesh we all must undergo
An end or new beginning of our call.

 

Once he died, the sphere of grace was gone.
Yet in my mind, that smile will linger on

 

I asked the nurse to give to me her food

Oh evil chance,  one day this week I fell

They  sent  me to thehospital , such fun!

I saw the lovely  nurses in the hall

And hoped they would not send me to the bin

 

The x-ray of my  hand  caused horrid pain

The curled up finger straightened with a push

And this impacted me, my body and my brain

And on my face , it caused a  curious flush

 

There is no obvious fracture to be seen

They reckon it’s a tendon that is stuck

It’s rather difficult pulling up my jeans

What goddess  has given me such luck

 

The snow down fell , the  wind was fierce and  cold

The weather matched the Misery of my moods

But when I had some coffee I felt bold.

I asked the nurse  to give to me her food



I  truly enjoyed going out today

And now I’ll sell my memoirs on E -bray

 

When I did this using the microphone it came up with some very rude words.Of course,  the computer does not know that they  are rude,I suppose!

Is it apt to search for Love without

 

Is it apt to search for Love  without

When we need to connect with our own   soul

For surely we will need to study doubt

Before we can become more real,more whole

 

The   conflict  which  disturbs  is filled with pain

  And so we  are  reluctant to  go there

  But if in hope we try again  again

We may find  a way which we can bear

 

    Willingness is potent as our tool

Sullenness will ruin all our hopes

And so it’s plain to all except a fool

There is no advantage in long  mopes

 

With patience  and acceptance we  are real

And in our hearts,  a new  peace  is revealed

As sudden as the ending of a song.

Was this the apple then, your mother’s breast,
Which father thought was his to oft caress?
And when, in deprived rage, you bit to test
In return, he vowed to ever you harass.

At this, you learned that you could hate as well,
For punishment struck blows to your small heart.
Your memory, since wordless, could not  tell;
Though pain and anguish made your soft skin smart.

As unknown as the journey to your birth.
As shocking as the grief of unmeant wrong..
As frightening as the gauging of your worth
As sudden as the ending of a song.

Impossible to foretell or to prepare,
The dangers to our breaking hearts lie there

Art though my own and may I now love thee?

Art though my own and may I now love thee?
Art though my own and shall I  thy wife be?
As waiting long  lays waste to love and joy
Art though mine,  or with me do’st thou toy?

O treat me not like  stuff disposable
O treat me not  as one intolerable.
For if  thou touch then thou hast made a claim.
And from  the heart,to lose is to be maimed.

For  women are not like  to sheep or goats
We have hearts to feel what thou hast wrought
And if  thou come to steal then  thou’rt a  thief.
One of many , causing women grief.

Do not touch with hand or with sweet words
For  if thou  lie, we feel our love  absurd

For if thou lie, we feel our love absurd

 
Art though my own and may I now love thee?
Art though my own and shall I  thy wife be?
As waiting long lays waste to love and joy
Art though mine,or with me do’st thou toy?

O treat me not like  stuff disposable
O treat me not  as one intolerable.
For if  thou touch then thou hast made a claim.
And from  the heart, to lose is to be maimed.

For  women are not like  sheep or goats
We have hearts to feel what thou hast wrought
And if  thou come to steal then  thou’rt a  thief.
One of many,causing women grief.

Do not touch with hand or with sweet words
For  if thou  lie, we feel our love  absurd

Sea

nz_paradiseshelduck

 
Between the wish for  changelessnes and thrill
We seldom will be satisfied for long
Neither is controlled by human will
As into  stormy life, we all are flung
Self-deception  shields us from our doubts
We choose to pre-select what we will see.
Pretend to know what our life’s  all about
As in boats, we ride a stormy sea.
Then  later we choose danger for its spice
And with daring climb the mountain with no ropes
We resist the offer of    advice
Till,  with broken bones, we quaintly mope.
Reality’s too little or too much
So, on our path, our hearts will often lurch.

I cannot live without your heated blast

Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast.
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use.
And, as your lid is hinged, it can’t get lost
An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot, not warm
I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire once  with kettle stand.
Its  metal black from soot and burned by  coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.
Ah, kettle , instrument of  civil life,
We cannot boil our water on a knife.

The sensuous world contains both word and fire.

Spoken words are part of a complex,
Of gesture, touch, expression, and desire.
They are not cut off separate, nor perplexed.
The sensuous world contains both word and fire.

To  concentrate   communion to mere   tongue,
To ignore  all  expression  but our words
Seems  to be a folly and a wrong
For all happens cannot but be heard

Our hands, our eyes, our movement  create shapes
With speech, we learn  to give shape  proper form;
And as a  love in his bed may grope,
His heart seeks for the words which work as charms

There is no split between our worlds and minds
Their conjunction  gifts appropriate signs

Formidable the quest to match one’s soul.

He loved my blue eyes, not my wandering mind.
In fact, he  wished me  always to be  mute
I knitted Mobius strips whilst intertwined.
And listened to his voice as to a flute.
I soon grew tired of hearing his  crazed  views
I found a man who liked to hear me speak.
Until I mentioned I owned ten green shoes.
Bottles yes, but shoes made me a freak
Then I found a man who never spoke.
He listened with a kind, inviting smile.
I would have liked to test him with a joke.
But feared I might then harm his utter guile.
Formidable the quest to  match one’s soul.
I need a body too to make me whole

I shall cook my meals on candle wicks.

No nonstick pan shall grace my hob again
For, since my lover died, I have burned six
And, despairing of the love of  any  man,
I shall cook  imagined meals on candle wicks.

In short, I tell you I shall eat no food.
I’ll live on seeds of grass and flowers sweet.
My friends think my  starvation’s rather crude
They counsel me to eat grass snakes and newts.

I burned these pans because I am bereaved.
My mind was on my husband’s late, lost face
If I had been much faster to retrieve,
I should have saved the  pans  and not replaced

So shall I take my cooker at the dump,
And live on dandelions, which nothing trump?

To a kettle

Oh, lidded kettle boil me water fast
I cannot live without your heated blast
Your spout is small but perfect for its use
And, as your lid is hinged. it can’t get lost

An electric kettle made by Russell Hobbs
A teapot with a spout and lid with knob
Are what the English need in times of storm
If crisis comes, we need tea hot,not warm

I don’t object to diverse kettle brands.
We had a coal fire   once  with  kettle stand.
Its  metal black from soot and burned by  coke
We made our neighbours tea which seemed to smoke.

Ah,kettle ,instrument of  civil life
We cannot boil our water on a knife.

And inside grace, an airy well lit space

On the other side of suffering there is peace
Whether by a death or such relief
I hate the moment when I start to fall.
Wish I lived inside a  stoney wall

Through the foaming river we must go
And embrace the  other we don’t want to  know.
Inside a hermit’s cell there may be grace
And inside grace, an airy well lit space.

For me, it is the river and  its deeps
I have to journey, even as I weep.
But, if for you, it is the tiny cell,
Therein your soul will comfortably dwell.

For  different souls have different ways to take.
God is as generous as a  the  world he makes.

Oh,Alfred,my beloved,do not go

Oh,Alfred,my beloved,do not go
Do not leave, but warmth to me bestow,
Lie beside me in my bed all night
Succour me when stormy dreams affright.

Oh,Alfred,-tis your eyes  that turn me on
The green and golden light  is never gone.
Affection constant,  touch and feeling shared.
I am not embarrassed when you stare.

For you , the  gallant male, have ever  seen
My naked form well lit by  Jove’s sunbeams
And if I wear a gown of wincyette
You love it ,,as it’s made for paws of cat.

Alfred ,we  can’t  marry   yet I fear.
Cats can’t read the Book of Common Prayer.

For we need not answer ill with ill

When true love’s gone and doom hangs overhead
When life runs like a river to the sea
Then shall I take new lovers to my bed?
And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When my love lies,so breaks my tender heart.
When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.
Then, shall I my life of evil start?
And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true love lies and wrecks all loyalty.
When puzzlement makes all my world seem
Then I shall upend causality
And  charge  myself  to do  what makes folk glad.

For we need not answer ill with ill
I turn towards goodness  with a better will

 

 

 

Do not speak of empathy to me

In my warm nest I lie with morning angst
I have no wish to rise  up from my bed
Slowly turn the wheels of mind unthanked
Lady Lazarus no,forI am not yet dead.

I see an image of my husband dear
His face was  black while he sat on the chair
He fell onto my bosom in despair
The suffering of the old is far from rare.

Inside a rehab centre  they placed him
A dying man was sent to  exercise
Pneumonia and his heart made this a sin
They sentenced him to death with their cold eyes

None so blind as those who will not see
Do not speak of empathy to me

To the tapping bird

A bird taps on this window every day,
Frail as flying leaves are in a gale.
But now he perches on the potted bay.
He feels the weather like the blind do braille.

This bird is faithful and I hold him dear.
He’s fearless as he pecks upon the glass.
We hope he has a modicum of fear,
For who knows when a sparrow hawk will pass?

I see him like a human soul forlorn
Struggling to discern his fateful way.
For soon he may be taken by a storm
But blithely he will eat, and after play.

The smallest bird has trust in the Unknown
By his example, our own way is sho

Who am I to question any soul?

Who are you that loved me from afar
Yet did forsake me when the night  was long?
Who are you that loved a distant star
Impossible to ever   touch with hand or song?

Who am I to question any soul
When I have done bad deeds when overwhelmed?
Who am I to seek another whole
When I have  lingered long in sorrow’s realms?

Who is God that he should seek us out
When we’ve ignored his  messengers and saints?
Who is God and why do  we have doubts?
The world’s  his canvas  which our evil taints.

Should we not seek   leaders of more  worth?
Instead  we fall to  savagery  and curse

 

 

Some think love’s a letter we can’t type.

A symbol is a well  where  we must dig
To find the deeper meaning hid below
On our human knees we need to beg
To gain admittance to the daily show.

Life is but an apple we must bite
Our teeth may break and so we suffer pain
But from our  human ills we cannot fly
But suffer learning,digging, once again

Love’s a cherry with a lively stone
Which desires to live itself when time is ripe
Some see love as meat gnawed from a bone
Some think love’s a letter we can’t type.

Love or   hate ,a fruit will have its pips
Which choke  us while its flesh is on our lips

 

Yet tigers spring and care not when we scream

Was this Earth designed for life or death,

When wired up cheetahs surf the desert sands

Seeking prey to stave off hunger’s wrath?

This hunt’s repeated over all our lands.

And in deep seas of green we find the curse

Of being pursuer or of becoming prey.

Blood in water looks to me much worse

Yet God requires that we should kneel and pray

Rare flowers can snatch and eat the striped bee

Programmed by genes to fertilize and feed.

I grieve a violent  God exacts a fee.

Loves to see his creatures as they bleed.

Nature soothes our souls when life’s all green.

Yet tigers spring and care not when we scream

True love is not a feeling but a path

True love is not a feeling but a path
Discovered by  new visions of our life.
This vision is less skewed by pain and wrath.
We see in just proportion and true size.
True love desires just vision of the good.
And asks for nothing but the eyes to see.
The violence in our bones and in our blood
Is less, and with creation we agree.
But risking the abyss of love brings fear.
Mere hope of satisfaction tempts progress.
To God or to a loved one, we draw near.
And as we walk  anxieties grow less .
Yet human life is always full of doubt.
Acceptance is a way to make this naught

This variegated colour

In between the  blackest and the bright,
Graded shades of grey and lilac lie.
These variegated  colours give delight.
And from my soul, I hear a  gentle sigh.

 

As we live, we dwell in mysteries;
Must take decisions based on  various views.
And unknown memories from our history
Bring out  the old , so misperceive the new.

 

For  true perception, we must humble be.
Not for moral reasons but for sight.
The emptiness   lets flood creative seas.
And allows  in  rays of  guiding golden  light.

 

We need to know we do not know at all.
And, trembling, hold  the doors of vision wide.
So gentle  should be judgements when we fail.
Then errors  we’ll appreciate, not hide.

 

We will  deal with life unknown, unclear;
Perception is  a better   guide than  fear

Beneath the surface,force and fierceness thrive.

How softly sweetly,gently flowers pose
Carnation,orchid ,daffodil and rose.
For their intricate petals form a shield
Yet bees with striped force shall make them yield.
Appearances,both natural and contrived,
Mixed with the wiles of human nature, thrive.
As knowing not, we pluck the apple rare
And bite its flesh,with teeth we love to bare.
We too deceive the innocent who pass
Not seeing watchers hid behind the glass.
The windows break,the deep earth quakes;
Seized is the maiden ,he her virtue takes.
Beneath the surface,force and fierceness thrive.
What fearsome, burning God enjoys our live

Reality’s too little or too much

img_0042

 
Between the wish for  changlessness and thrill,
We seldom will be satisfied for long.
Neither is controlled by human will.
As into  stormy life, we all are flung
Self-deception  shields us from our doubts
We choose to pre-select what we will see.
Pretend to know what our life’s  all about
In  our little boats  on stormy seas.
Then  later we choose danger for its spice
And with daring climb the mountain with no ropes
We resist the offer of    advice
Till ,with broken bones, we sadly mope.
Reality’s too little or too much
So ,on our path, our hearts will surely lurch

Across our mother’s universal face

The worst of wars occur within the home
The earth’s  a mother  whom we treat with scorn.
Although on foreign trips we   gormless roam
We care not how  our  holy mother’s torn.

The planes’ emissions do not disappear
Our waste  is thrown  to devastate   all space.
The universe is bounded like  a sphere
The noxious  decorates with  thoughtless trace.

 

The condoms and the women’s  bloody cloths
The petrol fumes,  the plastic bags, the base
Are scattered like a  demon’s  tortured wrath
Across our mother’s  universal  face
Can we avert    the death of earth, this  fate?
Will we dawdle  till it is too late?