Sunday Sonnet!

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Farewell, dear friend, the best was not to be
That souls with common cause shall live as one,
The reason, now, is not for us to see
Until the running sands of Time be done;
Sharp pangs of pain grave grieving hearts pervade,
When peaks of expectation come to naught,
Temptation space of emptiness pervade,
And solace in alternatives are sought;
Let moments linger long to cogitate,
Like Nazarene bent writing in the dust,
Allowing dismal mood to dissipate,
Facilitating Hope to nourish Trust;
To part, brings past events into review,
To meet, opens the doors of vistas new!

©Meanderings 2016

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Sunday Sonnet!

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Freedom of thought let no one disallow,
The stuff of progress, true, thereof is made;
No wholesome fruit is borne on broken bough,
Nor truth survive if censure speech forbade;
Thought with impunity precedes the word,
Utterance of which to ownership commits;
Denial, then, must surely be absurd,
Lest to hypocrisy a fool admits;
Inebriated hauteur can seduce,
A shallow-bottomed mind, to verbalise
Unconscious reservoir of vile abuse,
Which, in the end, leads to his own demise.
Uncultivated, barren, rocky field –
Much to be done afore it fruit can yield!

©Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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Speak to me gently when Life’s Light burns low
And hope of new tomorrows starts to fade,
I cannot bear to hear, ‘I told you so’,
Much less to have another me upbraid;
No need past failings, oversights recount,
Nor nourish feelings fountain of regret;
Too easily fine words concern discount,
Impeding gallant efforts to forget;
Much rather proffer understanding care,
By far more wholesome than disabling scorn,
Aware that none escape the tempter’s snare,
And all are left with misconduct to mourn!
That mortals, sans exception may feel free,
Speak gently, always, to yourself and me!

©Meanderings 2017

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Sunday Sonnet!

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I did not choose this domicile to root,
Secreted by rough rocks and sunless trees,
Few passers-by venture this way on foot,
Though being in the leeward of sea-breeze;
My advent here divined by God of Chance,
Who grasped my latent life on Zephyr’s wing,
Where merrily I led a fulsome dance,
Unceremoniously me here to bring;
Within my nature lies the will to be,
No matter where or how I find myself,
Transmuted from potential into me,
According to the Oracle of Delph;
And now you see my pretty yellow head,
Intent on bringing joy, sans tinge of dread!

©Meanderings 2017

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