Sonnet CCCXXXV

Though dead for centuries and centuries,

you never cease to fascinate and please.

Collective grievances and heartfelt joy

of choirs in their polyphonic play;

Cantatas, mystic in their piousness,

yet human in their rich emotiveness;

Concerti, full of outward brilliance,

and meditative pensiveness within;

The worldliest of dances, slow and fast,

hypnotic rhythms merged with style and class;

A contrapuntal grace and mastery

in heavenly and haunting fugal themes.

Why does your music captivate me so?

I love it all, the little that I know.

Sonnet CCCXXXIV

My envy seethes below the fallen leaves,

defiant hills of discontented green.

I cannot find serenity today:

where are the placid fields of yesterday?

The strident branches reach up to the sky,

almighty in their rage, and ever high.

How void the arms which once held happiness,

which now are shrivelled in their bitterness;

how stark the cloudless sky of gray above,

a limitless expanse devoid of sun.

I have no place at lovely Nature’s feast;

the hosts all mimic me and tease.

I only see the progeny of rage,

which taunts me, multiplied in every way.

Sonnet CCCXXXIII

Its garden dead, its contents cold and bare,
What’s left is just a shell to be repaired.
The sprawling weeds reign king, the grass is long;
the tulips lay forgotten in the throng.

The truck sits, blocking all the driveway space,
forbidding in its grand yet simple grace.
The kids play all around, unbidden, free,
but pause to wave as I pass, wondering.

How love had driven them to tend their home!
The sentiments have fled, one can behold –
the house is peeling, barren, messy, tired.
But final rays of afternoon ignite;
the sparkling windows flash a last farewell.
The truck clangs shut, and leaves with troll-like stealth.

Sonnet CCCXXXII

He’s crafted hair for half a century,

so mine are pinpricks in a hairy sea.

He snips and combs, and strips away the old;

the excess falls like needles to my cloak.

They look like magnets, silver in the light;

at other angles, they are dark as night,

much blacker than the black that shields my clothes.

He starts to talk – on what he loves and loathes;

his loyal friends and customers all laugh.

His plans for after work, his coloured past –

these fill the place with laughter, joy, and mirth,

although there’s three of us (but soon a fourth).

He’s done with me at last. I smile and pay,

then turn back toward my mundane Saturday.

Sonnet CCCXXXI

The summer has departed: autumn’s here.

The lazy, torpid days have fled in tears,
Afraid of chilly days, afraid of cold.
The ruby leaves replace the sunny gold,
Accompanied by silver of the clouds.
The daisy’s petticoats are dry and brown,
Discarded in farewell to lovely youth
In favour of their barren stems and roots.

But no more rain or tears! Enough of that!
The year moves on, forgetful of the past.
We’ll watch the geese fly south; we’ll wait for snow,
While treasuring the warmth that we have known.

Farewell, farewell to dearest summertime –
What joy we’ve felt, what joy we’ll always find!

Sonnet CCCXXX

Today the sky is tearful, dark, and sad.

The walls are greyish-brown and drab;

they’re not the taupe I chose the other day.

Awakening today is bitter, full of pain;

my bed sheets strangle me; they hold me back.

Their jarring, lurid yellow drives me mad;

their cheerfulness is mocking, hateful, dry.

The windows drown me with their torrid light.

My neck and back are sore; I need a drink.

An anger burns my mouth; my teeth are clenched.

My empty cup sits, waiting next to me –

my heart agrees. The world is emptiness.

It takes a massive bound to leap from bed,

to have the guts to face the day ahead.

Sonnet CCCXXIX

I cachinnate at all our three-chord songs,

at all attempts to fit in and belong.

Derision greets the slogans that I loathe,

the mindless humming of our T.V. shows.

But I discover what we all have known;

I dig, display emotions all have known;

subscribed to trends, like all have done before;

subjected life to patterns used before.

For we are humans, similar and all;

restrictions bind us to a common thread.

We tread for freedom, hear its blatant call,

but realize there’s only us ahead.

And we’re so all alike, recycling,

as if there is no news but our dis-ease.

Sonnet CCCXXVIII

White fluffy clouds are fleeing far away,

preparing for their darker, darker day.

Last drips of summer trickle down my face;

the breezes taunt me like a sheerest lace.

I watch the flowers pack away their youth,

to save each memory of fiery hue.

Lest old regrets cloud bliss and happiness;

we celebrate the days we’ll always miss.

The sweetest honeyed murmurs swaddle me,

but words melt into laughs – then slowly cease.

Cicadas hum their final melody,

and autumn winds prepare to shake the trees.

I just have time to bid my mute adieu,

and swallow up the sky, so cobalt blue.

Sonnet CCCXXVII

A lonely pair of lifelong enemies

sit, glaring in their tank, despondently.

Soon snapping claws are closed with rubber bands:

the water sprays; the buyers hide their hands.

From liquid to the dryness of a bag,

the foes grow weak, but ever, ever mad.

Transported to a fridge, they’re stuffed inside.

They sit at zero Celsius with wine.

The morning comes. The fridge light flickers on.

Removed from their abyss, they greet the warmth.

But all too soon they greet a greater one –

and boil in the flames of Hell, to death.

But if they’re lucky, they’ll be au gratin,

and if they’re not, they’re torn apart,

                                                                      to bits.

Sonnet CCCXXVI

Exalted in the happiness of pain,

The world is crowning me with strange disdain!

How proud I’ll be within its reverie:

My wreath’s an honour, undeserved of me.

My rough exterior’s inscribed by hate,

a fitting way to demonstrate my fate.

(Or else, I seem too arrogant, too proud,

rejoicing silently of hateful crowds.)

But like most monarchs I shall take to bed,

a-weary of the honours I’ve received.

And soon, as words begin to crowd my head,

I realize I have many woes to grieve.

And hate accumulates as pride grows dim…

the world is mine, and yet I serve its whims.