Metals at rest as tend to rust,
Love that latches on looks like lust,
As diamonds get made from grey dust,
Ye, Destiny, get deemed unjust.
Yet, whatso lies idle would rust,
Love lost of freedom looks like lust,
Not just diamonds, world’s made from dust,
We tend to forget fiery test!
It might seem so, where’s unjust fate?
Seeds sprout, aloud to say it all,
Man reaps no more than sweat may let,
Fruits, not before they ripen, fall.
He starved of will and manful means,
In grey envy tends to see greens.
_________________________________________
Sonnets | 04.02.2007, revised May 2023|
Categories:
manful, destiny, fate,
Form: Sonnet
I went walking the footpath between life and death.
It was there I first discerned the strum of a harp.
I hastened my step, tracing wooded trail with stealth`
as the resonant resplendent tones grew clear and sharp.
I quickly came upon a figure the size of a mountain.
He carried a manful bearing even as he played.
Smiling at me like he knew me, I felt he was my champion.
“I am the Dagda, god of life and death,” he conveyed.
“I rule agriculture, fertility, seasons and magic.”
Next to him was a cauldron of plenty along with his club
of life or death, and his eyes stored memories both joyous and tragic.
Humbled by this good, great god of Ireland, I felt like a flub.
“Do not trouble yourself,” he paused and said with wisdom.
“You are always most welcome, here in my kingdom.”
Categories:
manful, god, ireland, magic, myth,
Form: Sonnet
Suddenly,wild flames thud out
Of our little kerosene lamp
Mocking flames danced on me
With expertise. their hungry mouths
Ate my perfumed flesh in glee
My manful cries went heaven high
That aunt Priscilla came running wild
That Wednesday night of 10 November
Began my song of painful plea
Goat burnt skin as soft plum peeled
Sneering scissors thrust stubborn gauze and
Red rain rush quickly out, then
When on it iodine oil is released
Tormenting pains my body feel it's when
I begin, my songs of painful plea
My mouth tore in anguished laughter
Myself been prisoner of frustrating pains
When my eyes beheld my white hands
And my skin embellished with ugly scars
My soul could not but raise that song
My song of painful plea
My song of painful plea
Echoes loud across the sky
For my heart made fragments
Of peaceful past, and a
Library of scars in each tiny half
My heart will take no more
For I've done no wrong
Let happiness be a distant dream
To them who adulterated our kerosene.
My song of painful plea.
Categories:
manful, depressionheart, song, heart, song,
Form: Narrative
Men of affairs, scientists, gentlemen collectors,
researchers, technicians, plankton detectors.
Ladies, when permitted, provided manful help
Wading shorelines intrepidly for variegated kelp.
Be-whiskered men off charted shores
their Science to be applied.
From blindest depths defy stern jaws
to reveal a great divide.
Thus predate all faith - shift their cores –
expecting the spring tide.
Knowing their names, seeking their protection.
Categorised, specified, a literal dissection.
Must now each specimen elders plucked, and carefully
selected,
be hidden forever, politically corrected?
Dead-eyed and soaked, deep in their jars.
Pickled in formaldehyde.
Gentleman, killer? The choice is yours,
Think well before you decide.
Is the Creator of countless stores
Dr. Jekyll or Mister Hyde?
Categories:
manful, allegory, animals, faith, history,
Form: I do not know?