Baby show me your inner light
The road to your heart
You're so captivating
Very elegant
Let's tie the knot
I'm ready to pay the tithes
Just to stay in your life
I'm so delighted, trust me
We'll never fight, if you're on my side
I'll give you all of me
We'll always walk side by side
Steady on a flight to greater heights
Into different dimensions of love
Intimacy, passion and commitment, forever is the goal.
In the bitter museum the past is on parade
in postures of reproach. Vast corridors
display a thousand ways of being ashamed
and illustrate the progress of despair.
Behind their glass, the mannequins of once
exhibit all the wealth of worlds now gone,
and frozen in their accusatory dance
the avatars of loss are labelled Done.
In the bitter museum extinguished dynasties
of hope set forth their monuments, inscribed
in that dead language, laughter. Vanished breeds
of joy are shown, regretfully alive.
The relics seem so real they almost leer.
In the bitter museum the dust is streaked with tears.
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Ice doesn't concern itself with the thoughts
of men, it is speaking Mother Nature's
language, loved by men when weather is fair;
despised by men when weather is then fraught
with wind and snow and stormy invaders,
deadly to men going out if they dare.
Better to shelter when Nature is riled,
better to rest ‘til Nature is tapered
into gentle breezes and sunshine's flair,
better to wait until ice is exiled
by Natures warm share.
I’m more inclined to write of shoveling snow
As I like to write about the things I know
Yet will reflect upon the dazzling flakes
Depending on how long the shoveling takes
For children wait with snowmen on their minds
And mother peeks from behind venetian blinds
While I the roller of “snowmanic” orbs
Must protect my snowball fight reserves
Snow angels hover o’er the battlefield
To see if age or youth is first to “yield”
Surrend’ring to the call to outside lunch
Hot chocolate and the sound of snowy crunch
Thus does the chill of winter thrill us all
Whether we be snowmen short or tall
As if in thoughts the quiet road seemed lost
As evening shadows looked longer and dark,
Young winter’s chill felt like December frost,
On tall treetops Sun still looked somewhat stark
But smaller ones were all wrapped in darkness,
Grief-like I felt the sombre shades of grey,
Birds hurried home to their nightlong address
To rest and recoup, fresh for the next day.
In no undue hurry to reach back home,
And trudging slow I saw a sunflower
On a farm’s thorny fence muddied with loam
Bringing to mind’s view a bright face turned dour
Along sad memories of my sister,
Of sunflower looking more sinister.
________________________________________
Sonnet | 11.12.2025 | allusion, sad, sister, sunflower
Note: The reference is to my youngest sister who lost her husband some time back. He was a busy oncologist with directorship of a cancer institute. She too with her own work in the field of education, and only now the two had the time enough to cherish a ripe, mature company of each other to continue with their hobby of literary work. All memories he mind from time to time. Alas, sad memories leave a deep-set scar.
Discontent with enablements bestowed,
the earth bound entity sought boons from God
but attainments became a heavy load,
ego always by greener pastures awed.
Before emission, arises intent,
so that is where oh hermit, where we dwell,
doing nothing, granting bliss beats consent,
in the sanctum of heart, where all is well.
Employing power of bilocation,
both in the void and in the universe,
we savour sensation in cessation,
dancing without any need to rehearse.
Silence our mantra, which we hold on to,
at peace within, feeling bliss beats renew.
(Spanish poet Rafael Alberti was not happy
when his daughter became a Catholic nun:
here is his poem [translated] on the theme)
For you, I left my woodlands, secret groves,
my sleepless dogs, my exiled cityscapes.
For you, passed over all life’s sweetest grapes,
abandoned steepling cliffs and cool, dark coves.
I left behind a shiver, for your sake. And I left
the savage splendour of wild, untameable fire,
and left behind my shadow on the pyre,
and the hollow, bleeding eyes of the bereft.
I walked away from doves, sad by the water,
abandoned horses stamping on hot sand,
the welcome stinging breeze from off the brine.
For you, I gave up all was ever mine.
So give me, Rome, something at least as grand
as what I lost when I became your daughter.
Mum thought part of her has ran far away,
But it flee to take refuge in my soul.
It appears to be gone- what single weigh,
Yet succumb its weight to make razz tease whole.
Mum, I find joy in your loyal duties;
Pleasure in her sacrifices cum care-
She did walk my legs at ease in booties,
How I hope to pay back in folds so fair.
Happy big five anniversary dates birth,
Journeying mum from noise to stress with cheers...
As much as my troubling joy brings her mirth,
She doesn't want me stop that; running years...
I duly appreciate your value dad;
For these five years, your blood runs... how so glad!
This is what created us. This light,
dappling the columned forests with petaled gold,
these nourishing and nourished streams, these bright
sun-laughing lakes, ruffling under an old
and infant wind, this intercourse of pine,
air, beam, mulch, bough, loam, moisture, say we fit
into the mothering niche of this design.
This does not belong to us: we belong to it.
If there can be a god, that god must be
what we are made to live for and within;
so in this pure cathedral we may see
our earth-determined being, and begin
to learn that we are water, light, and air:
our breath is homage, and our heartbeat prayer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They have all of us by the throat,
there is no way that we can stop it.
That’s what they want us to think,
our history seems all but forgotten.
Where is the flow of a revolution?
Lost inside a deficit of clear minds.
An exploitation of meager bones
will leave humanity unrecognizable.
Our identity’s never been solvent,
remember it was engraved in gold.
Floating promises like contraband,
we’ll bring them down to their knees.
A contemporary Boston Tea Party,
we’re the disruption of their monopoly.
A sonnet for her birthday
It is Mette Gro's birthday today
all day long and evening to
On her Facebook, all her friends
have sent wishes for her to enjoy
a great day and happy years
Mette Gro is twenty-two
She has been to the hairdresser's
and looks stunning, for tonight
She is going out with her beau
It doesn't matter the color of
In her eyes, they shine like bright
stars in the Nordic winter night
I loved on Saturdays in March, at dawn
(back then, each day was Saturday) to root
in pond and hedgerow. Light was pale, dilute,
and buds clung tight and hard around the thorn.
This season, with the world so freshly born,
enchanted me. Each flicking, wedge-faced newt,
sedge on his face, unconscionably cute,
each ink-black eye from thousands in the spawn,
each clear cold pool, each acid-green young shoot,
each minnow which acknowledged my pursuit
and twitched my hand-held line (no hope of rod!),
each copse, so self-contained and absolute,
with nascent blossom dusted, bluebell-shod,
appeared to me a pledge of life from God.
You stand aside harvesting fields wide-eyed.
To collect the sheaves of leftover grains
Tatters in your old robes you try to hide.
As though they're gold sticks, you pick the remains.
You work, you even beg for your mother.
She is old, sick, and might be dying soon.
I hear you also have a small brother.
I know you love him as though he's God's boon.
It's for them you've foregone all your joys.
As a victor, you've withstood despairs.
In words and deeds, you've a unique poise.
Your smile-filled service has surpassed your tears.
Your love pulls me, dear unheralded saint.
I love you as you defeat each constraint.
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." - Eleanor Roosevelt
Success is a deep urge of every fellow man
Do people really strive and properly plan?
Not essential to seek answers for this question
How best you trigger is left to your discretion
Move on crossing one after another threshold
Don't try to evade from obstacles but behold
Charismatic distractions may misguide and tempt
Shackle all looming hurdles and make an attempt
It's better try and fail, than not to try at all."
None has become a stalwart without a downfall
Realize your potential and set perfect goals
Convert your beautiful dreams into real roles
Setting goal isn't enough to catch the glowing stars
Instead of building air castles, strive with no bars.
Place: 1st
Let future days unfold their golden grace,
Where hand in hand, dear Getruth, life feels new;
Two little hearts will fill our shining place,
And wealth will only mirror love we grew.
For you have stood beside me, firm and kind,
Your faith a flame that never fades nor tires;
Through every storm, you held my trembling mind,
And turned my quiet hopes to blazing fires.
So when our vows are sealed as one for life,
And blessings gather ’round our joyful door,
I’ll know that every triumph, every strife,
Was gentler walked because you loved me more.
And in that future bright our hearts will see,
That all I am—Getruth—comes back to thee.
Specific Types of Sonnet Poems
Read wonderful sonnet poetry on the following sub-topics:
art, animals, christmas, death, dog, family, flowers, food, friendship, funny, halloween, kids, life, love, music, nature, nursery, parents, school, spring, sports, war, winter
and more.
Definition | What is Sonnet in Poetry?