Sunday Sonnet!

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Confronted by steep hills say not, I can’t,
Unless you know what lies within your means,
An insight which, to mortals, most, is scant,
For who can tell what lurks within the genes?
‘Impossible’ can maim the boldest heart,
Reducing what ‘can be’ to ‘cannot be’,
From thence, hopes, instantaneously depart,
Disabling human spirits to be free;
The blackbird renders fulsome morning song,
A gift by Mother Nature well endowed,
The blossom blooms itself among the throng,
Existence raison d’etre is thus avowed;
Engender in all beings self-belief,
Life cannot have a better leitmotif!

©Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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While walking on a lonely sandy beach,
Deserted, but for wavelets at my feet,
A gently rolling object, within reach,
For fleeting moment stopped, as though to greet;
It seemed the wavelets paused a little while,
Attention of my spirit to arrest,
Unconsciously, I stopped and flashed a smile,
Which to an innate pleasure did attest;
From whence came such delight I cannot tell,
Though that it did, I never can deny,
From deep within unconsciousness upwell,
Its authenticity let none decry;
Such mystic moments reverie surprise,
Not often, nor so easy to reprise!

©Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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How can one know what ails the broken heart,
Or fathom what disturbs the downcast soul?
Wherever does faint comprehension start,
Assistance for the sufferer to enrol?
Appearances so often can belie
A hapless disposition, deep inside;
Unlike the plaster on a fractured thigh,
Alas, from all and sundry none can hide;
Compassion readily responds to seen,
While blinded to unnoticeable pain,
Sequential, thus, to rueful ‘might have been’,
Instead of wholesome healing to regain;
Physician malady can never heal,
Unless I, to him, festering wound reveal!

©Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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Do not the thought of vengeance entertain,
A guest intent your person to consume,
Until few dregs of self-respect remain,
And gracious honour finds an empty room;
Pursuit of recompense, a tortuous route,
Is littered with the shards of broken dreams;
Traversing vile terrain can be a brute,
Assailing hapless with nightmarish screams;
Richer, by far, the more enduring trove
Of virtue, that, within the soul resides,
Like luscious fruit within celestial grove,
Requital in domain of God abides.
Reprisals have the custom to return,
Of hand that wields the fire, the fingers burn.

© Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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We search for endless years that niche to find,
From unrelenting meddling thoughts apart,
That ambience to inner growth resigned,
And discontent forever can depart.
Mere mortals grow accustomed to their fate,
Seduced by concrete transients for their roots;
Inclined the wiser counsel to berate,
Deferring to more palatable fruits;
Yet, deep within each selfhood there resides,
Unquenchable desire to attain
Much more, surpassing earthenware, besides,
The stuff of which endures beyond all stain,
May God his gracious gift to all decree,
That peace of ‘letting go’ and ‘letting be’!

©Meanderings 2017

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