The Sonnets

Many years ago, I wrote a few sonnets.

 

For once you had such very little feet

That traipsed and danced and played like all the rest

On playground sands with sweet young boys you’d meet

When trees would show the colours you liked best.

And still the autumn is your favorite time

Despite the knowledge of what is to come;

The long and lonely hours atop the climb

To keep the hands and heart from going numb.

You fight the wind and rain and sleet and frost

While trying – oh so hard – not to recall

Any but the simplest of pleasures lost:

A sip of something warm, though very small.

It hurts to see just what those feet became

Wrapped in layers of socks and scraps and shame.

 

It is the passions in the human blood

Which authority must attempt to drown;

For these rude humours often start a flood,

The like of which brings kings and kingdoms down.

The reins which keep us safely in our place

Are kept by those whom fortune dealt a hand;

But much that we are given due to grace,

Cannot be sold or under their command.

So when we notice what flows through our veins,

The bonds and shackles melt away like ice;

But freedom is not simply lack of chains,

For when she comes, she always asks a price.

In order to remove our souls from prison,

In passion for us once that blood was given.

 

Our cars and trains and taxis will not go

We sigh, kvetch and yell at all we greet.

But such a little sparkle we call snow

Sure brightens little faces in the street.

Our time is short and ears of ours are cold.

We don’t have time to be out of control.

We shield ourselves with pockets full of gold,

But thunderclouds have rarely charged a toll.

The snow lies so gently on the ground.

It covers trash and presents from your dog.

So as you start to slip and slide around,

Remember what is brought us by the fog

And weigh it carefully inside your mind

With what it is we humans leave behind.

 

In this world is nothing that is grey,

For everything is mixed of black and white.

And which is which is not for us to say;

Their properties alone will prove what’s right.

The fact we do not see things like a bee

Will never change the essence of a flower;

And since there is so much we cannot see,

We put ourselves in other people’s power.

For one has hands, and one has ears or heart,

You may note one with naught that you perceive.

It might be he that has the missing part.

The way to see is often to believe.

To understand the greys you will be shown,

The less you lie, the more that will be known.

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