So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
they talk they tell your story in the hall
The childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick
a human finger moves us after all
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth
The one that freely gives is seldom bought
All Our Yesterdays
i.
So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
into a lifetime of fragility.
Come quick, small child! Your heart is but a chick's
small squeaks; your wings are barely feathered. See,
the steel-clawed beast in smock and apron gear
won't harm your molded head. This violent day
will fade. Don't turn to crawl back in from fear
of numbered clocks that beep your heart away—
into cold night, in bed with mother moon,
brief as icicle drips at sunrise—strife
will lift as scrapbook pages turn. So soon
you will grow old! The brevity of life
will strike you grey; yet pictures line the wall,
they talk. They tell your story in the hall.
ii.
They talk; they tell your story in the hall.
A wall of photo shoots from nought 'til now
of scratched-knee-summers, or a freezing fall.
Vignettes of crawls and steps; I don't know how
you raised your chubby frame from off the floor
and slowly skewed, at first a step: Then two.
To stop the wobbling arse you grabbed the door
then jiggled like a jelly, what a view.
So many times you fell, you will again
but hopefully you'll rise enough to see,
the value of a stumble or the strain
that bends a body, often lays the key.
Inside a man's foundation one can pick
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick.
iii.
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick
into a cloistered world of selfish greed
so quickly does the ego learn his trick
of choosing want with small regard for need
then anger fuels your unresponsive mood
and tantrums win when met with weak resolve
so ev’rything you ask for, clothes or food
are sentences for crimes you can’t absolve
the lies they tell you just to grow you up
imprinted with their out-of-fashion pains
like too-sweet soda from a paper cup
that doesn't slake your thirst, but leaves faint stains
with all the futile lines writ on a wall;
a human finger moves us after all
iv.
A human finger moves us, after all
the weeks you grew inside your mother's womb,
arriving early with an anxious bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
and triumph on your toes, my abacus,
as monitors and regulators beep
and flash your vital signs. You mildly fuss
then slip back into artificial sleep;
your dreams a mystery of graphing flares.
I trace fine lines on palms, your future: grand
achievements, escapades, sweet love affairs...
your secret strengths read in each tiny hand.
Although our place does not dictate our worth,
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth
v.
We cannot earn the luck, or curse of birth
these designations; labels placed on us
will not control our stride across this earth.
We'll pave the path we walk with work, and cuss;
a shower of expletives, or a finger
raised to show that we don't give a fuck.
When pandjandrums pull us through the wringer.
When obligations ride within our truck.
At times the fear of facing life with verve
can split the very fibre of a fart.
It's then we have to break the painful nerve
and share the shit that's ripping us apart.
Though we owe nought, and from us nought is sought.
The one that freely gives is seldom bought.
__________
The next sonnet is to start with this line:
Quote:The one that freely gives is seldom bought
And the couplet is to rhyme with
birth.
It looks like we are ready for the next sonnet guys. We already have 5 incredibly creative sonnets! That's quiet an accomplishment unto itself. If any of the rest of you out there are hoping to squeak one in you'd better hurry! There are only nine to go!
leave it as you did it :J:
