Seasons and Sweet Things

Continuing on from last week's post about my month-long sonnet-writing challenge, here are the next eight!

Too Tired to Think of a Topic

Oft are there times in life when effort fails,

When the siren song of sleep is too great

And still falls the wind from the mind's white sails.

Whether the hour be early or too late,

Hard is the journey when the currents freeze,

And thought's great ship is trapped on oceans grey

As all on board await the wakeful breeze--

Yet drowsily long for the end of day.

But some may resist the lure of pillows

From time to time when oceans rise and fall,

And in fresh gusts of wind the sail billows,

And thoughts fly free amidst the seabird's call.

When sails fall and this vessel longs to sleep,

The answer is to concentrate, breathe deep.

(Because I was too tired to think of a topic)

Spring

Gentle her footsteps that herald warm light,

And quiet the sighs that rustle fresh leaves,

And tho' in her wake bloom flowers so bright,

That breath can turn cold and howl 'round the eaves.

For sometimes through meadows sweet she will rage,

And force newborn lives to shudder and hide,

Heavy her tears soak the travelling sage,

And spoils fragile blooms at winter's graveside.

Though often is her temperament harsh,

With her kind light are warmer days proclaimed,

For new life grows upon the cruellest marsh,

Under the care of that nature untamed.

So when the wind howls and rain blots the sky,

Know it is she who makes blooms multiply.

Summer

He arrives late morning with certain stride,

The air thick and humid upon his lips

As to his light blooms lift their heads with pride,

And of sweet nectar the honeybee sips.

Warm is his breath and blistering his heat,

Makes tired youths pause in the cool forest glade,

And the travelling sage to rest his feet,

And sit a while in a shelter of shade.

Yet amidst this heat to which he gave birth,

Sometimes gentle tears do ease heat-burned flesh,

And heavy they fall to soothe the cracked earth,

And so shines his light upon gardens fresh.

Though his temper is hot and his breath warm

He bringeth also the refreshing storm.

Autumn

As the heat fades she comes all a bluster,

Arms stretched out wide to embrace all she'll meet,

She sets all the leaves into a fluster,

As gold and amber they fall at her feet.

Rich tho' her light is her breath is but cool,

As adults begin to stock up their stores,

And the travelling sage feels like a fool,

As 'neath her fat tears he heads for the shores.

But her pale presence means the earth no harm,

Her morning veil obscures but brighter things,

And oft she'll sigh her days through glades of calm,

As little birds take flight on tiny wings.

A herald she may be of colder days,

The brightest of jewels shine beneath her rays.

Winter

He comes beneath the bleakest of cold skies,

Crystal the carpet that spreads in his wake,

As skeletal trees reach to claim their prize,

Of his chill touch that on them rhinestones make.

Haunting, his whistle sets all a-quiver,

All things that sleep through this shuddering damp,

And icy his breath doth make to shiver,

The travelling sage in his nightly camp.

Be not disheartened by his arctic sigh

For though his company brings colder times

His is the velvet of the earth and sky

So do enjoy the beauty of these climes

For his frosty breath brings a lovely sight:

The blissful silence of a snowy night.

An Ode to Organised Chaos

Dark was the room and stacked high with clutter,

They said he was brave to reach for the light,

But reach he did and started to stutter,

For there he found the most tremendous sight.

High rose grand pillars of papers and books,

From floor to roof stretched each messy tower,

And marvellous wonders filled all the nooks:

A world's worth of trinkets did shelves embower.

Yet this grim room had a fine merit

For each great pillar was labelled so clear

And from African drum to Stuffed Ferret

Each stood in order from there to here.

Tho' at first sight it may seem chaotic,

Sneer not lest you appear idiotic.

The Dust Bunny

He is the most curious of fellows,

Who oftentimes will catch you unaware,

You'll find him beneath the old fire bellows,

Lurking in shadows to give you a scare.

He's there in the closet under old shoes,

Behind the dresser and beneath the drawers,

Awaiting each little hair you may lose,

Like a hungry fat spider come indoors.

But this unsightly critter can be beat,

If you sweep the floor and vacuum the rug,

And clean off the mantle and wipe your feet,

As he is no more than a dirty bug.

For his fluffy grey coat is born of dust,

And dirt--therefore cleanliness is a must!

On Jelly Babies

How sweet their faces each and every one,

So endearing each smile, and eternal,

Diverse in their colour and always fun,

Even for those with habits nocturnal.

Tiny their bodies each man a Tom Thumb,

The ladies all Thumbelinas so fair,

When they are gone there remains not a crumb,

Of their little forms so rotund and bare.

For sweet is their flesh and so succulent,

No fruitier have I e'er come upon,

I fear like them I will grow corpulent,

Since with ev'ry bag I open they're gone.

Gone! Each one of those babies of jelly,
Eaten all up and safe in my belly.

(I just really freaking enjoy jelly babies okay?)

So thankfully I'm already halfway through the month for this goal. I say thankfully because sonnets aren't as fun as I seem to remember! It's a challenge at least...

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bag of Jelly Babies to eat.