Todmorden Sonnets Edition 3

Sonnets On The Theme
"Containing Iambic Pentameter"

Ineptitude?


Ineptitude is like incompetence.
A subtle difference, but much the same.
The latter fails with muddle, negligence.
The first, not capable by hand or brain.

But both are pretty bad and frustrating.
The phrase is ‘leave a lot to be desired’.
The task not done properly. Left waiting.
The person who’s at fault then getting fired.

I acknowledge that ‘out of depth’ myself
at times, but just enough to cover up.
I’d try to extricate myself by stealth.
Aware, though, really was not good enough.

On looking back I’d say it attitude
the problem. Boredom. Kept me unenthused.



Sonnet on Love.


A sonnet having Love as focal point,
as many others, also focus on.
Because it can inspire or disappoint.
When right, important. Hurts when goes all wrong.

It can be at the heart of living well.
Opening up to joy and contentment.
The worst of loneliness it can dispel.
The connection as if it’s heaven-sent.

And has ability to stay around;
to be abiding. Lasting throughout life.
But initially, partner must be found
with similar desires for transformed life.

Then, passionate, even tempestuous,
can work together, being marvellous.



.... A Life Can Turn.


No stars. No moon. The night as black as ink.
And yet I will see light when breaks the day.
And sometimes when the sky is grey, I think,
the Sun is still around, not gone away.

If love is temporarily absent,
always the possibility, return.
It could be back as bright and excellent.
From bleak to brilliance, a life can turn.

And, surely, fear can’t blight one forever.
Although it likely troublesome for sure.
Can reach a better place; secure pleasure,
as happiness is obvious a cure.

If cold is dominant and chills the blood,
can heat with warmth of Sun and Joy and Love.



Life a Star. Death the Universe.


So what is there that takes a life from death.
A birth, of course. A start to such a life.
From commencement, a sharp intake of breath.
A self to learn, and build, and improvise.

The I, and me, and am, are quickly mine.
It makes for me to be the central fount.
’though not of all knowledge and grand design.
Will understand, soon, quite a fair amount.

Through blessed senses. See and hear and taste
and smell and touch. And wary; brave and bold.
Will utilise for gain; dispose of waste.
Encounter problems, conflict. Great resolve.

Am sentient. Aware. Alive. A star.
A yolk; in sea of black, that’s deaths answer.



Home.


A place to stay, I hope, for head and heart.
A house. A home, to live, to love, to stay,
and integrate the being there as part
of how I keep on going day to day.

The bricks and mortar makes a structure sound.
It rises up and spreads across and down.
The length, the width, the height. It means not bound.
With rooms to be in, happiness is found.

A quiet space, or communal instead.
To eat and drink, and rest. Behave as choose.
A sanctuary, mine, where fears can shed.
A spirited revival from the blues.

In residence. The colour bright and warm.
This haven safe from any outer storm.



Sleep.


I had to sleep. I have to sleep again.
Exhaustion far too strong to hold against.
My eyelids droopy cannot take the strain
Aware that am increasingly distanced.

The waking hours have nearly had their day.
The passion meaning such a lot is spent.
The feelings so important gone away.
The happiest of times, then, up and went.

Resistance taken by effort and time.
It seems it’s elemental, life’s decline.
A built-in obsolescence by design.
The end of tether. Therefore must resign.

‘To sleep, perchance to dream’, as Shakespeare said,
with thoughts, if still or none, inside my head.



Near Miracle that Sonnet Saved.


A difficulty have encountered here.
Not bringing out a pad to write upon,
or pen where writing doesn’t disappear.
With one I’ve got, some letters find are gone.

This scratchiness then blamed if later wrong,
the recording of words as thought of first.
An old receipt , in pocket, brought along.
Avoiding figures billed, or fear the worst.

This sonnet worked on laboriously,
then lost as unintelligible then.
It glorious if saved, incredibly.
It could not possibly be done again.

A warning, here, about notebook and pen.
Forget to bring again, my skill offend.



Buzz.


I’m full of mental activity. Buzz.
Can’t sleep as won’t allow a switching off.
Can’t rest as prolific in sorting fuzz.
The words, so many, conjured from aloft.

I’m working with the pattern all the time.
It’s format, format, format. Fit into.
The effort finding suitable line rhyme.
This complicated verse, I’ll do as new.

As soon as completed, a line appears.
I write it down. The light-on switch been pressed.
Awake, in struggle, hoping mind, it clears.
If continue this disturbed, get distressed.

Released, the endorphins, as from a run.
Unleashed, my mind so active. Sleepless Sun.



The Sight of Her.


I saw her face. It was the face I loved.
She seemed to me more lovely than ever.
Reminded me of her. Vibrant, and loved.
That time with her, thought would last forever.

I now reflect on sight of her; her face.
The simple beauty captured. It was her.
As loved by me. She showed such stylish grace.
How crazy telling her I was not sure.

I look at her and see vitality.
Immensity of what was lost by me.
Returns, those feelings. Such intensity.
My heart will want to love her endlessly.

It was a photograph of radiance.
A heavy price I’ve paid, as evidenced.



Revolutionary Re-Start.


A revolution after denial.
A changing attitude, enlightening.
It can’t be promised that won’t cry at all.
The transformation may be frightening.

At best will blow away the old bad ways,
with draughts of freshest air. The foul be gone.
Surpass confines. No longer ‘hope’ dismays.
Our hearts will lift in chorus. Brave, the song.

Always a chance to start anew, if bold.
It can be kept in mind, it’s not too late.
A thought of ‘barren land’, can prospect gold.
What do, what happens next, that try is great.

It does not mean, all was, will, disappear.
A way of looking like it’s new, and here.



The Robber Barons. The State as Sword.


It’s killing. Robbing people. Take their lives.
The State controlled by thugs. A ruthless lot.
Their version ‘law of fittest’ brought alive.
So much already have, but want the lot.

The jungle operated, set by them,
and red in tooth and claw, to grow their stake.
No point, on public welfare, cash expend.
If they don’t profit, deemed a gross mistake.

The Poor, unworthy economic ones.
Are Units can dissolve and asset strip.
The years of life as calculated sums.
Not care they die if little can remit.

If place with rapacious cannot afford,
expendable, on robber barons’ sword.



The Veil.


The veil she wore, which hid her face, was raised.
Her features showed. Her loveliness exposed.
Her look, so brave and beautiful, displayed.
It seemed to me, she kept herself composed.

A work of art superbly drawn. The lines
so straight, so clear, so clean, so well defined.
My point of view, the best that could define.
The sight, I thought, always would stay in mind.

I asked, in mumbling way, if she would pose
for me, if sketch, portrait or drawing do.
“To try to capture you; that you which glows.”
Was bold, suppose, request with derring-do.

Received her stony, statuesque reply.
“Can’t see beyond this veil a reason why.”



The Face.


A face that’s punched by time and life been led.
A double handful. Fists unstoppable.
The marks, the sagging skin and wrinkles, red,
disguising bruises, cuts. The hurt from all.

Remarkable that show as mask on face.
A battered being, but remains as proud.
The neck. The chin. Some sympathetic lace.
or silk, or cotton. Partially a shroud.

Is that a smile to eyes, to cheeks, to lips?
It’s surely not a grimace come and set.
A touch. The slightest touch, with fingertips.
An ignorance, not fully to accept.

A grand old stager, many times in ring.
So much unsaid from face where life did sting.