Lost Afternoon

Recently, I was sat one afternoon at my computer.  My head was spinning with things to do but for some unfathomable reason I just couldn't seem to get my brain in gear.
Every time I would begin something my brain would go blank. I got up and made myself a cup of coffee hoping the break would jolt my brain back into working mode; but to no avail.
I gave up and left the work and decided to do something else instead.

However, that evening I sat down and decided to write a few lines about my absent brain but nothing, nada not even a word.

To clear my thoughts and mind I lit a candle and asked my angels to help me.

Here is the result.

Lost Afternoon

Today my brain has gone away.

Where did it go?

How could it stray?

I sit and think to no avail.

I hope this state does not prevail!

Not a memory, not a spark.

You must think it's such a lark.

To sit and let the day go by.

I wish I knew the reason why?

Not a word or phase to write.

Now my head is feeling light.

No splendiferous quotes today.

It's oh so dull, I must say!

Inner wisdom sets to flight.

Lexical, verbal words of blight.

Slowly on the minutes pass.

How long is this going to last?

Empty void of afternoon.

Full of dreary doom and gloom.

But not a word of any size,

Can I find behind my eyes.

How could my brain leave me so;

Now i'm feeling full of woe.

But I must try and find a way,

Hoping all is not astray.

There is a word of magic lore.

For my brain to restore.

But first the spell I need to cast

As the day moves forward fast.

A potion drank of caffeine true.

A strong and strange mighty brew

As the potion begins to play

All is not so dark and gray.

Bright and light are all around.

Hidden words are now unfound.

First a vowel takes to flight.

Then a noun, it's sheer delight.

Onward to a sentence break.

Eloquent letters begin to shake.

Now my brain has come home.

I hope it doesn't e'vr roam.

And leave me in a void so bare.

Sitting on my kitchen chair.

To See a World in a Grain of Sand,

I've had this phrase repeating in my brain all morning, 
'To see a world in grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower'.
It's been driving me mad, so I sat at my computer and thank God for Google - I figured it out!

It's a beautiful poem from William Blake called Auguries of Innocence. Now I can't say with 100% accuracy that I did or did not do this poem at school many, many, many years ago but for some reason it's been jumping about in my head this morning.  I sat and read through this magnificent poem and found tender powerful words that touched and embraced my heart and soul.
I hope you find it as mesmerising as I have.
It is quite a long poem but i'm sure you will find a stanza that resonates with you.
Enjoy,
Cora x

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage,

Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons,

Shudders hell throu' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his master's gate,

Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road

Calls to heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare

A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,

A cherubim does cease to sing.

The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight

Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl

Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,

Keeps the human soul from care.

The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,

And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve

Has left the brain that won't believe.

The owl that calls upon the night

Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren

Shall never be belov'd by men.

He wo the ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly

Shall feel the spider's enmity.

He wo torments the chafer's sprite

Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf

Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly,

For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war

Shall never pass the polar bar.

the beggar's dog and widow's cat,

Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The Gnat that sings his summer's song

Poison gets from slander's tongue.

The poison of the snake and newt

Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee

Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags

Are toadstools on the miser's bags.

A truth that's told with bad intent

Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;

Man was made for joy and woe;

And when this we rightly know,

Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,

A clothing for the soul divine.

Under every grief and pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath

Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heaven's tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Paisied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith

Shall be mock'd in age and death.

He who shall teach the child to doubt

The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
but no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some ar born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.