Day 23, Sonnet 23

These gears and cogs, this burnished-copper’s sheen

Too soon forgot with steel’s imposing gray.

Forgotten too are hands, for these machines

Do make the fickle body fade away.

What’s, progress, then? Shall hearts be made of wires

And joints be fashioned from these silver plates?

Shall love be merely a programmed desire

And war become an automated hate?

Gone are the days of soil ‘neath our nails

Or knowledge of where clothes are e’en sewn

As trains by steam alone traverse these rails

And worlds expand beyond our narrow homes.

Industrial, this brave new world appears

But progress’ joy does fashion other fears.

Day 22, Sonnet 22

A child is born! Sweet lungs take their first air

And with a cry their start of life proclaim

With resonance, they shatter this stale air

With strength declare the knowledge of no shame.

A perfect life begins with the belief

That arms shall catch each step that stumbles forth

That love triumphs o’er hatred and o’er grief

And faith shall always guide one’s spirit north.

Dear child, may you always know your heart

May joy take hold inside and ne’er let go

May you know all the beauty of your parts

And may your courage always bloom and grow.

New life! Such magnitude in hands so small,

For your pure heart inspires hope in all.

Day 21, Sonnet 21

Some souls bear hatred marked upon their flesh

As though their skin alone did reason give

For tyrants’ words to painfully enmesh

Their days with doubt that they have lives to live.

‘Tis easy with a blinded eye to turn

And say that lack of force means lack of hate

For words alone, they say, inflict not burns

But only bruise and then soon dissipate.

But words can deeply wound where knives do not,

As flesh can heal and later bear no trace

For deadly arms are from perceptions wrought

Which quickly do humanity efface.

Be wary when they say that peace abounds

For hatred's even here, upon these grounds.

Day 20, Sonnet 20

Each night before I sleep, I wash my feet

As Jesus washed Apostles’ tender soles:

Baptize them in the cleanliness of heat

And whisper holy words from holy scrolls.

To cleanse the sins that angry feet have held

When stormed away in hasty walks of pain

To pardon when one is by pride propelled

To stroll and take one’s powerful stride in vain.

But mercy, too, does tender washing give

When blisters form from work done to survive

When feet alone give means to eat and live

And weight borne on their soles keeps hopes alive.

And so these toes and tendons do I bathe

And in their groundedness restore my faith.

Day 19, Sonnet 19

At stations where large crowds do mill about

‘Tis easy to feel lost along the track

When unknown faces stare or scowl or shout

And spines do shudder with the click and clack.

What bustle, this, from work to play to home,

Impatience reigns in transit’s waiting game

And though en masse, each soul feels quite alone

For no-one knows their story, face, or name.

Then lo! What chance, a friendly face appears

And from the crowd a beacon of good will

The heart does swell as friendship wanders near

And warmth replaces concrete’s hostile chill.

Take joy when roaming through this city’s maze

For chance encounters brighten bitter days.

Day 18, Sonnet 18

By darkness does the body become clear:

Without the glare of buzzing lights o’erhead

The contours of the flesh comfortably near

And blinded eyes dare not to glare with dread.

For in the dark what’s seen is through the heart

And felt through muscles working with delight

As energy works through each blessed part

The body’s glow is vibrant in the night.

A bath becomes a gentle womb’s embrace

A walk becomes a trust of steady feet

The sound of breath is pure, embalming grace

And skin can feel the warm delight of heat.

Close eyes, halt light and senses thrill the soul

‘Tis blind, indeed, that vision becomes whole.

Day 17, Sonnet 17

These words alone much nourishment provide

For leaves of books, like sustenance, fulfill.

The anxious thoughts do waver and subside

When deftly woven tales such joy instill.

Would that I could subsist on words alone,

And press their meanings up against my tongue

To feel each syllable inside my bones

As breathy vowels expand these hungry lungs.

But words alone heal not these gaping wounds

For they were not the weapons that destroyed

‘Twas brutal touch that left this body strewn

In meaninglessness’ ever-aching void.

Let words help heal, but let them not o’ertake

A silence' power to damaged souls remake.

Day 16, Sonnet 16

The bonds of friendship gentle knots do make

That bind the blood and hearts with steadfast strength

When grateful souls in equal measures take

And give with gen’rous width and breadth and length.

For blood alone does not create one’s kin

For children find their homes in many hearts

And love’s not in one’s muscles nor one’s skin

But crafted by a village’s many parts.

Let not the fear of burden silence cause

For pain is always lighter when it’s shared

And let the fear of judgment give no pause

For gentle honesty is gentle care.

Dear friend, you are within my soul enmeshed

For friendship leaves this broken heart refreshed.

Day 15, Sonnet 15

Diagnosis. The word alone strikes fear

With naming’s power of definition.

Malignancy treads rather roughly here:

Belief alone begets not remission.

They say that healers’ hands rely on faith

And so too, should patients’ constitutions.

But hope alone cannot always replace

Corporeal pain with absolution.

But in this hour let faith be not benign

Though muttered prayers cannot a spine rebuild

Nor tumours shrink nor broken bones align

These tools of faith like surgeon’s hands are skilled.

Let prayer offer sutures for the soul

And while the body heals make spirits whole.

Day 14, Sonnet 14

The spoils of war are these: dismembered souls

Who with blank eyes do wander through the world

Their open mouths are mute, like gaping holes

Where trauma’s inky limbs are tightly curled.

But not all wars are waged on battlefields

Nor fought abroad with soldiers bearing arms

Some enemies bear not a nation’s shields

And visible are not their deadly harms.

For wicked is the war that’s waged on self

With unkind words and horrid acts of hate

Like rusty nails in hearts that deeply delve

And every trace of hope obliterate.

The veterans walk amongst you, tread with care;

And for their courage, quietly offer prayer.

Day 13, Sonnet 13

Ribs are a cage, though gilded they may be

And thus, ill hearts do clamour at their bars.

Through burdened flesh the soul longs to be free

And, weightless, float amidst the flick’ring stars.

Too brief, this life, yet lengthy are its hours

When memories invade the fragile mind.

When hopes do shrink like quickly-wilted flowers,

Futility with fear is soon enshrined.

Why hasten what’s to come with thoughts of death?

Why strive for bones to prove the body’s will?

For finite is the lungs’ reserve of breath

And false the call of self-destruction’s thrill.

Dear heart, keep strong and swaddled in content

For soon this life is all-too-quickly spent.

Day 12, Sonnet 12

The marrow of my bones remembers well
The sorrow-song once sung into this skin.
The memory of hurt fragments this shell
‘Til waves of salted tears come rushing in.
Beneath the blue some peaceful hours I seek,
As though the water-womb were an ablution.
The tide of mercy carries hearts too weak
To wash themselves of trauma’s deep pollution.
No further shall I swim, for life’s on shore
Where tails do turn to mortal legs again
Which tremble ‘gainst the wind’s deafening roar
But buckle not beneath enormous strain.
Each day baptizes anew the saddened flesh
With morning rain comes cleansing water’s rest.

Day 11, Sonnet 11

O, tea, thou art a blessing for my tongue

Which too oft speaks and moves with lack of grace.

My mouth, from which cruel words are eas’ly flung

Is tempered by thy fragrant heat’s embrace.

For thou hast taught the art of lack of pride

To withstand boiling water’s bubbling depths

When leaves have steeped and they are cast aside

‘Tis only flavoured traces that are left.

With hands cupped ‘round a mug, perform the rite:

With breath dispel the scalding smoke of steam

Let scents and flavours heartily delight

And offer guidance for the evening’s dream.

Let teas fill souls like chalices of wine;

For acts of everyday become divine.

Day 10, Sonnet 10

Such fear lies in forgetting one’s own name

Or e’en the names of children fully grown

When memories to which hearts once laid claim

Lie barren like a field no longer sown.

What’s thought, then, or the value of belief

When certainty’s so easily mislaid?

What’s measure of pure joy or brutal grief

When threads of recollection are too frayed?

Too often do I trust in mem’ry’s cage

As though a life of mind were life in sum,

As though cold logic were existence’ gauge

When with emotion, minds feel quite undone.

The heart remembers more than intellect;

For lucid is the love that souls collect.

Day 9, Sonnet 9

Be mindful. ‘Tis more eas’ly said than done,

When rushing to and fro and here and there:

For minds can thoughts so seldomly outrun

When future’s hopes and past’s regrets ensnare.

The hands of time like jailer’s fists oppress,

Or so it seems when clocks dictate our days,

When hurry or impatience brings distress:

No middle ground ‘twixt dispatch or delays.

When laid to sleep think not of morning’s woes

But gently bring attention to the breath

Whilst walking give due thanks for noble toes

Who with good pilgrim’s faith each step do bless.

For patience is not virtue, but divine,

When stillness’ calm can heal the troubled mind.

Day 8, Sonnet 8

So tempting are the pitfalls of the flesh.

‘Tis not mere lust that drives me to despair,

Nor wanton love nor passion to undress,

But hatred’s glance into the mirror there.

Too round, these hips, too fleshy are these thighs.

Not tall enough, nor hair the perfect hue.

There’s even lack in not-quite glimmering eyes:

Perfection’s a tough mistress to pursue.

But when the body’s plagued by sheer fatigue

The weight of mere aesthetics disappears

When joints do throb and muscles become weak

The face of vanity’s reduced to tears.

O Body, victim of my sheer neglect,

Forgive this fool’s desire to perfect.

Day 7, Sonnet 7

I, too, have often wished for Death’s embrace.

How foolish it seems now to call it hence

Or tempt it with a lack of simple grace

When wallowing in daily discontents.

Am Atlas, I? For burdens though I bear

They are mere pebbles and no boulder’s weight.

An inconvenience here, a trouble there:

Soon, Gratitude seems hard to cultivate.

Though hardy, it depends on tending hands

To keep it lush through winter’s barren days

And though it grows on unforgiving lands

Without due care it dies, too quickly fades away.

Instead of sheep, count blessings, for you’ll find

Their plentitude within a grateful mind.

Day 6, Sonnet 6

How simple seems the edict to let go.

As though a grasp of heart were that of hand

Where fingers numb and soon release control;

But stubborn souls can many blows withstand.

But should the bonds of memory retain

By force the past and future’s hopes and dreams?

For mourning is just that: desire’s reign,

Feeble attempts to mend these fraying seams.

But let us weep a while, let tears flow free

To wash o’er these parched mouths and trembling lips

To loosen grips of grief’s solemnity

As souls set sail like heaven’ly-guided ships.

Feel not obliged to stay, dear Souls, roam on

Take rest in flight: your letting go is done.

Day 5, Sonnet 5

The Sabbath day perplexes modern hearts

Who often strive for productivity

As though a steady pulse were worlds apart

From one’s industrious activity.

A discontent too quickly comes with rest,

As though to cease one’s work were cease of breath,

But hours logged by lungs inside one’s chest:

That’s vocation, ‘tis work to stave off death.

Take moments, then, to idle or observe,

To walk without intent, without desire.

To see the blue horizon’s gentle curve

Or ponder birds upon a tel’phone wire.

A noble work this is, the task: to be.

The fruit of labour is serenity.

Day 4, Sonnet 4

When suddenly I wake from drowsy sleep

With bedsheets rumpled ‘round my sweaty chest

In childish terror I begin to weep

And bring my knees up tightly to my breast.

To be afraid is to feel powerless;

To wish for salves of stories and warm tea,

The panacea of a light caress

As breathing regains regularity.

Can proud adulthood’s stoic countenance

Extinguish fears of monsters in the night?

Poor logic’s armour offers no defense

When terror’s hand asserts its iron might.

But tender heart, keep safe in this cocoon

Go back to sleep, for comfort follows soon.

Day 3, Sonnet 3

As if these worries paled the night of Death.

As if hearts seared in lovers’ trysts eclipsed

The plunge of sorrow felt when souls have left

This too-brief earth with life upon their lips.

Sweet Autumn slips into cold winter’s grasp

Her leaves arrested e’en in youthful flush.

An ocean’s waves extinguish final gasps

As trembling earth provokes the water’s rush.

The aftershocks of bruisèd hearts remain

Far longer than Death’s stroll across the stage

Life’s players left reciting scripts of pain:

Their hearts bemoan the brevity of age.

Let lungs take air; hold loved ones tight and pray,

Take solace in the life that stirs today.

Day 2, Sonnet 2

Quite quickly do the thoughts of kindness fade

When shoes are trampled on when stood in line

For morning’s transport. Thus starts a cynic’s day:

The din of traffic and the rush of time.

Small things do grate on narrow modern minds

As though it were of grandest magnitude:

The drama of our daily urban grinds,

Impatience for mindlessly eaten food.

Where’s calm in blinking lights and horns that shriek?

Where’s gentleness in the mad rush of crowds?

Too soon the heart o’erwhelms and becomes weak

And friendly hooded heads transform to shrouds.

When concrete jungles cage the morning heart

Let patient strength break shackles wide apart.

Day 1, Sonnet 1

Awake! With furrowed brow receive the ash.

The sacramental smudge adorns a face

Quite bare, but for the tear upon a lash

Where forty days’ solemnity makes grace.

What penitence for one whose broken path

Has too oft trodden through ascetic pain?

For self-denial, too, is holy wrath

When deep starvation takes His name in vain.

If alms be words from faithful poet’s pens

And fasting be a lack of harmful speech

Then take up language for these days of Lent

With psalms and verses close within your reach.

While in the wilderness seek higher grounds

And write in faith ‘til Alleluia sounds.