We think we own our bodies and our minds
Not realising when we have the gift of health
We use them without thought ,.with vision blind
Yet nature creeps up with her sylvan stealth.
When to work or when to take our ease,
The signals sent may never reach our brains.
But later, they will turn to constant pleas
For help to cease from imposing more strain.
Days we work and never take a rest
Except to slump by TV,tablet,screen.
It takes much time to learn what is the best
If not, what is will soon be” what has been”
Let us learn our body’s signals clear
For then on earth our life will long endure
I only began to write sonnets a few months ago.I was afraid to try as I imagined it was very hard,but eventually I wanted to try.I sometimes do find it difficult but I am enjoying it now.I was reading a book by Leslie Farber called,The Ways of the Will.In this he says that anxiety neurosis is caused by, “trying to will what cannot be willed.”I found that idea fascinating.
We can make ourselves lie down,but we cannot sleep by will power.
We can sit at a desk all day but cannot will ourselves to get inspiration.
I am sure you can think of many examples yourselves.So we need will sometimes but also we need to allow things to happen;we are not always in control.. we cannot be but we wish to be.
Think of our brains and bodies… it’s all outside our control…as is most of the Universe,God and all… despite our technology and science.
The daydream is despised by many folk
who feel that willpower is the better way.
Yet daydreams often bring creative thoughts
and teach us what to do and what to say.
I fear it is the modern curse to will,
When will cannot achieve the wanted end.
And trying too hard is effort and may kill,
where reverie and dream can make us mend
The emptiness of mind is too much feared
As if we do not trust in God nor man.
Yes,take the tiller, and with perception steer…
We do the little that we should and can.
For dreams can work in harmony with will,
As long as we can make our minds quite still.
Whatever evil humankind may do,
The sun will rise and shine on one and all.
Mercy ,grace and love are spread anew
As apples ripen and the sweet birds call.
What is the mystery of the world we know;
That God looks with dispassion on us all?
And what his wondrous virtues are to show
When wolves attack and murder does appall.
Will heaven compensate the refugees
Who starve in camps when money is withheld.
From those who gave us prophets and great seers
We see confusion,fear then ethics felled.
So often we are blind to wider views
And get mere entertainment from the News
He eluded to his passed with wit devine.
He traveled on and passed the perish all.
And when reel tired he often wood recline
If not he went out for a bawl.
This spelling tests the most astyoote of mindes
Yet Shakespeare never spelt the same whey twice.
As well it’s often felt to be unkinde.
For being obsessive is, in truth, a vise.
But used we r to different methods now.
Texting changed the whey we all now rite
And even if we learn the rules ,I vow
Writing onto laptops makes me byte.
No more attack the witless for your pleasure
For we have many skills which you must treasure
Butterflies can light upon a rose
And sparrows miss the prickly holly leaf
So thorns deter most larger, useless foes
And safety bring to birds instead of grief.
The butterfly is symbol of the power
That weakness has in entering sacred ground.
A butterfly can fly through hail stormed bowers
His wings send waves across the world by sound.
A cat too has its claws as well as fur
Yet they do have a a modicum of choice.
For those of us for whom they have a care
Claws are held ; mioaws or purrs given voice.
Am I a holly tree or fragrant rose?
Am I the cat who may unsheath her claws?
I’d like to have a sausage for my tea
I’d like a roast potato and some greens
You can share my portion for a fee.
Or bring along some tender runner beans.
I know my home is modest but it’s mine
My headboard broke off during a cold night.
Of what despair may that be a dim sign?
My hope of mending myself is very slight.
Still I’ll make a date with you today
Shall we eat our meal with knives and forks?
Chopsticks are de trop,what do you say?
Your eyes are following me as if on stalks.
Some days I feel I should not rhyme again.
But better that than dwell on long dead men
In sweet darkness, love calls down a soul
To be embodied in its mother’s’ womb.
Our growing pains by her are soon consoled
In this way we make an inner room.
Our sacred space is where our spirit lives
God alone can enter that deep place.
We touch a shining blackness which so gives
Life itself through fruitful dark ,rich space.
For those whom fortune has too soon betrayed
Whose mothers lacked protection and kind care.
Lack of such a space may soon degrade.
And lead the lost to live in blank despair.
If we have fortune ,let us aid the weak.
And in vain quarrels,silence let us keep
The season alters imperceptibly;
No point exact which demonstrates the turn.
Yet soon come changes which our eyes can see
Leaves dry and crack, the acers seem to burn.
And so it is with human beings too.
Each day our loved one looks the same to us
And yet the body alters like leaves do.
Small changes made with neither noise nor fuss.
We change into transparent ghosts of self
Thus totter down the avenue of life
Soon death approaches with its common stealth.
And separates the husband and the wife.
In winter all is black and we despair
Yet deep in earth,worms silently repair
My faults are now the opposite of sin.
For I was taught that women never swore.
Yet is this but a private world I’m in,
Where women love and men, at least ,adore?
No language Anglo-Saxon did we hear
Ensuring we thought not what “fuck” might mean.
Was it related to good luck yet freer?
My mind throws up a lark in moorland scene
The man who was my father greatly loved;
And often sang us into sleep and dreams.
But sadly from this life he was removed.
Leaving me accursed wtrh blocked out screams .
Today I tell my tale in my own tongue
Translated into melody and song
An apple bit by woman caused our grief
So ordinary yet an act of will.
To think if she had merely bit the leaf
Sweet holiness would surround each human still.
When Sylvia bit Ted Hughes upon his cheek
She marked him for her future appetites.
Consciously she looked for kind love sweet
But marked him more for evil in her rite.
Jonah was not bitten by the whale
Which let him hide inside her womb-like form
And so he was allowed in her to sail
Until his calling hearkened him go home.
Biting wit and words can also cause much grief,
As caterpillars feast upon a leaf..
If this be love,then let me have your hate.
If speak you true then I prefer your lies.
For this, my heart, your message comes too late.
As now my need is for the thoughtful wise.
If this be marriage,let me have divorce.
If this be holy, hasten I to hell..
For love comes in its time without such force.
And of its message ẃho am I to tell?
If this be love,then let me dwell alone.
If this be love, I ‘ll be forever chaste.
Your love flew like a brick.that broke my bones
The love that lays your world and mine to waste
Love can shake us to our inner core.
Hence of your love I wish to hear no more
How like a prison is my cubicle
How wary is my body on this chair.
How still my heart and yet how strangely fickle.
How fast it flies to you who are not here.
How elegant your letters and your thoughts
How gentle was your touch upon my throat.
And yet you killed my words and all the sense I brought
You loved me not,but like a wasp did gloat
As in this mental jail I'm tightly trapped,
I'll use my time to write and make my prayer.
Perhaps my mind can extricate a map..
From which I'll plot the route to get away.
The prisons which seem external are inside
Yet in such captive grief so many die.
The summertime evaporates like mist
Revealing golden leaves albeit but few.
No longer by bright flowers are our eyes kissed.
No longer do leaf buds appear anew.
Some changes in our lives are like this too.
We do not see the moment as life turns
We think we still ascend with growth anew
And wisdom ,sense and vision are all spurned.
It is not for our sins that we must die.
For life and death are two sides of a whole.
It was not sin that brought death and its sighs,
This is a myth to keep priests in control.
Changes are invisible at first.
Let’s not act as if we are accursed.
Though full of direct knowledge of his fellows
Whose eyes and faces are a script humane;
Though voices sing to him like Lobos' cellos
In lack and loss and woe this man remains..
In times gone by,the voice and face sufficed.
Poets' music seemed to us almost divine;
But now a subtle torture's been devised
To write with pen and letters intertwined.
This man, though wise like cat,or bear or owl,
Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen.
Nor does he have the words which politicians howl.
Nor can he read more than his list of sin.
For now the map is where the mind must dwell
And of reality,no-one can tell.
A little knowledge cannot cause us harm
So on that base with certainty we build
For learning has a wonder and a charm
As with new words our avid mind is filled
Poetry and songs can give us voice
For others who with us share this strange earth
To dwell in silence is a thoughtful choice
Yet sharing may lead on to creative birth.
The news is filled with death and with wrong deeds
Our hearts lurch as we read cruel sentences
Our minds spin with a ghastly , whirling speed
Unable to accept these pretences
Read with doubt and look for hidden clues;
Then one day you may find out The News.
There is a sense that permeates our souls
That places value on the good of all.
Humankind is viewed then as a whole.
Blame not allocated to a Fall.
Shall we believe that God can sulk for aeons
That he will torment creatures for their sin?
Such theories are dilemmas to our brains
And put us in a race we cannot win.
Should Eve and Adam still be here on earth
If on that plum they had not sucked and bit?
It makes our lives seem to have little worth
To take this as a given in Holy Writ.
For life’s for adults, not for girls and boys.
Do “Christian” theories take the place of toys?
What luxury can make me feel so good
Or lover make me happier than this?
For even though we tramped through lanes of mud
I feel my life has its desserts of bliss.
No sorrow can destroy my happiness
For joy and woe are woven very fine.
And even if you sometimes are remiss
At least there is one spark of the divine.
The garden is a symbol of pure grace
As flowers bare their petals to the sun.
And daises make the lawn look like white lace
As on your brow, my fingers I do trace.
For, though our lives are finite, we can know
Infinity in tiny plants that grow