For then ,on earth, our life will long endure

110906_5662We think we own our bodies and our minds

Not knowing  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 stop  imposing  far 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

For dreams can work in harmony with will

Autumn 2013 008

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.

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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.

From the News

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 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?

As if on stalks

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

Our sacred space

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 Seasons

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

Translated into melody and song

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


77be5-photo0383An 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

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

To you who are not here

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.

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