On mornings when husbands sleep with their wives
while the hard rains are gusting the windows,
who has a new thing to say of such lives:
old beds that squeak of soon to be widows.
On afternoons when the children stay home,
no mom sees more than they’re willing to show.
Kids would much rather leave town and just roam
on such days; they can’t leave and they can’t go.
On evenings when wives put food on the table,
the family sits in silence to eat,
and no one can move, as no one is able.
Days will go on so, disgusted in heat.
On nights when all wait for sleep before death
they feel the air of the devils own breath.
When I am dead, please think of me once more,
not as the wife that faded into grey,
with eyes too tired, lips too thin to say
the farewell words I should have said before.
Once think of me the way I would have been
had I lived on, with you, and you stayed mine.
Once see me as our bodies intertwine.
When I am dead, picture me in this scene.
We had a choice and took the one we did,
it was the wrong one, I can now admit.
We didn’t know that. We just had enough.
But worry not about what we have done
or said, once I am dead. When I am gone.
It was so worth it to have known your love.
Of course the frost is beautiful as such:
a virgin white that’s covering all land,
enough to make me have warm feelings and
appreciate the warmth of home so much.
It’s really nice to see the Winter’s touch
and watch the snowflakes falling, as they strand
on windowpanes or melting in my hand,
the colour that emerges when they smutch.
But now, for weeks it has been cold and bad
on roads with people falling everywhere,
so I don’t see the beauty it should add.
To go outside! And see some green right there!
I’m done with Winter’s reign. I shall be glad
to know that white stuff’s really getting rare!
It was a mood I had a while ago,
when nights were warm, sheets moving in a breeze
that brought in scents of flowers so exquise,
I just let my imagination flow.
A violin played somewhere in the street,
a slow and tender tune that filled my mind
with dreams of happiness and love, the kind
that all our weary minds in darkness need.
They mingled with the laughter of the night,
I was in greener fields I’d ever seen,
or climbing mountains where I’d never been,
while all around me everything was bright.
The morning greeted me with rain and cold,
and lesser joy than in my dreams was told.
not sure this is a sonnet…
I feel you and your thoughts float into mine.
a woven cloth are we together then,
you know exactly of my what and when,
our threads of thoughts may always intertwine.
I hold back nothing, when we are alone,
you open up, there are no guessing games,
we watch the birds without knowing their names,
to us the only meaning is their tone.
We try to keep togetherness and such,
when often you and I are far apart,
too far to feel the beating of your heart
too far to say you matter to me much.
We cherish every moment that we got
together, when we are, and when we’re not.
That magic time when real is mixed with fake
as dreams have overtaken truth once more,
and every fictive bend is in the make,
yet we believe that we were here before,
some cities dangerous and strange appear
with streets to wander in while getting lost,
there is no telling if the end of it is near:
the purpose of these nights is to exhaust.
But once a while the dreams will take us there
to places full of paradise delight
with waterfalls and flowers everywhere
and this is time when we enjoy the night.
Some hours we may spend between the sheets
away from trouble and from other’s needs.
This light is such that I don’t want to go,
and leave these trees whose whispers make me hear
the ancient stories that they seem to know
as over land a mist is spread from sea.
This mist is such that I don’t want to leave,
I wait to hear the soft drops fall on soil,
like tears they do, in unseen fading grief
that can’t be spoken of in other ways.
But comes the night, I need to find my road,
go back to where I never knew this rest,
to shelter there, what must be my abode
until the day emerges from its sleep.
I shall return and dwell to be at ease
where light and mist make home for thought and peace.
When hurt takes over, I can run away
find shelter somewhere else until it’s gone.
I have no need to fight the pain and stay,
a coward in your eyes, but then I’m done.
If only words can damage so much good
then should we talk at all about our grief?
The good seems gone from our lives, so would
it not be better seeing one of us just leave?
I need the quiet, walking through the dunes
where thoughts get shape and new perspectives live,
my words find music, blackbirds sing the tunes
and when I’m home again, we do forgive.
We so are human and both had our share,
so no, I won’t be going anywhere.
I am not sure this would qualify as a sonnet, but it was more or less the natural flow I wrote this in this morning. I am gone for a few days, tomorrow I shall be going to the mainland with my husband. There is internet in the hotel though…
From far away somewhere that day came sound
across the water of a quiet sea,
there was no breeze, no people were around,
there only seemed to be this sound and me.
What kind of sound it was, I can not say,
the voice it used I never heard before,
it stayed a while, then slowly went away
and never it came back to our shore.
But now and then, when I walk through a storm
and watch the waves that come and go in pace,
I wonder what it was, what kind, what form?
Was it a creature from a distant place?
As time goes by, the more it’s out of reach
that sound I heard, while standing on the beach.
The moment we are born, we start to die.
As butterflies should we be in our place,
they give to flowers when they know to fly
and make it art to do it with such grace.
From when we feel the earth under our feet
we know that there is more for exploration
enjoying every new day that we meet
and growing up we feed our expectation.
But for the butterflies we meet on our way
there soon’s an end to everything they know
when pretty flowers fade in their decay,
reminders of the day they too will go.
Between the moment they are born and death
they cherish each and every taken breath.