365 Sonnets

An Epitaph

2011-08-20T19:03:00.000-04:00

Deep in the earth, beneath unknowing skies,
I rest at last, far past the centuries.
The visitors have long bid their good-byes;
no maidens come to lay their laurel wreaths.

Though on a summer stroll across the hills
a courting couple oft pay their respects:
and wishing well with stolen daffodils
invite a blessing as they introspect.

"For love, for truth, for art," engraves the stone:
beyond the fateful words no history;
and all the joys and sorrows that I'd known
are silent to the traveller, wondering.

But from immortal eulogy begins
a second life, reborn to brilliance.

Sonnet CCCLXV

2011-07-31T14:44:00.001-04:00

I am - too happy on this modest day.
The oxygen owns no unearthly charm;
but as the sun embalms the lucid way,
my wonder greets the breeze upon my arm.

Bouquets of unrequited smiles prance;
their pirouettes spin aimless on the grass.
Eternities resound their empty dance
as pliant leaves sift through the hourglass.

I cannot forecast all the grievances
that each covert Tomorrow seems to know.
I cannot cause the Heavens to descend
or pause Fortuna's wheel forever, though:

As I recall the morsels of this hour,
no mournful day shall ever wield its power.

Sonnet CCCLXIV

2011-07-22T19:18:00.000-04:00

Alone, amongst the waves, beneath the sun -
I fear I'll drown; I've waded out too far.
The seabirds cackle in a frenzied bunch,
detecting noontime spoils from afar.
So far from land, so far from everyone,
I cannot say why I feel merrier:
my cheeks exude a strange vermillion,
my eyes ablaze with some unearthly star.

Perhaps I do not need an audience:
if I should whisper some aquatic rhyme,
the simple joy of it is bountiful -
if one should pause to note its loveliness,
then it is Art; if one should call it crime,
then I am mad as any starving gull.

Sonnet CCCLXIII

2011-07-08T20:49:00.001-04:00

Unwary laughter stirs the languid air:
The weary robins interlace their yawns
Unbidden breezes charm our tickled arms,
meandering toward the heaven's stair.

The shadows of the trees are barely there;
the limpid flowers rest their lurid shawls -
In viscous resignation, stilled and calm,
Warm oxygen absorbs our every care.

As Artemis is dying all the clouds,
Apollo closes up his pearly gate.
The final sun-kissed photons scintillate
as conversation takes its final bow:
these summer hours sedately dissapate,
and Mother Nature packs away her day.

Sonnet CCCLXII

2011-06-01T15:48:00.001-04:00

A picnic we could have on ruby Mars,
upon a single orb of crimsonness –
surrounded by the solvent swaddling us,
delighted by the swarms of smiling stars?

If universes sang in students’ jars –
perhaps, perhaps! If dreams and fables lived
in every Erlenmeyer flask and dish,
how many poets would be turned to Bards?

Some silver snow bewitches ether skies
in Lotus Lands designed for gleaming eyes!
A foreign galaxy must beckon tales,
beyond the formulae and recipes –
it must transcend the ordinary Jail!

But is it only hapless chemistry?

Sonnet CCCLXI

2011-05-06T17:37:00.000-04:00

Interrogate the robins – ask them why –
some sudden sunshine peeks between the leaves.
Familiar laughter claims the startled ear
and torpid languor confiscates the eyes –

We spent such carefree days beneath the skies
and when the rain had interspersed between,
we hid like naughty children, impishly
and laughed and laughed and laughed away the sky –

Relinquish you –
beyond my feeble grasp,
released beyond my grandiose love at last,
such scenes we’ll see again our separate ways?
Rekindled in my solitary view
at all familiar turns I think of you –
do you remember me at all today?

Sonnet CCCLX

2011-04-02T12:27:00.000-04:00

But in my sad seclusion, saw the sky;
some strange, Immortal sunlight beckoned me:
a fragile wonder touched my everything –
I felt a pensive calm, not knowing why.

And in that humble instant, dropped my pride;
without my strength and inner harmony,
searched – desperate for a Higher sympathy.

But wondered at my strange internal lies –
uncertain of the warmth and bliss I felt.
For did I, in my lonesome emptiness,
contrive to forge imagined happiness –

or did my cold self-adequacy melt –
thus drawing me toward the kind Above,
which waited for the day I needed
– Love?

Sonnet CCCLIX

2011-03-18T15:51:00.000-04:00

Disintegrating into rippling shards:
the crystal earth, at once, is liquefied.
A subtle smile of sunshine at my side,
an unexpected twinkling from afar –
and thus, my heart, as well, is eased apart.

And all the tantrums and those icy eyes
seem silly…all these heartless thoughts, a lie?
Dissolved, at once, beneath the burning stars.

Some unknown bliss, some unrequited plant
shoots, surging, unpredicted, from the core –
and could I wish it stay here evermore?

The scent of joy unfolds beyond its hand –
and would these seconds last for centuries,
such simple days could paint eternities.

Sonnet CCCLVIII

2011-02-23T14:16:00.001-05:00

A pair of crows stood, foolish, chatting!
Resplendent in the winter sun.
Was gossip ever idler, waiting?
Impending doom a distant drum!

And now my car comes crashing, wildly!
The earthworms tremble under, blindly…
The semi-frozen earth grows pale!
Vibrations thunder in the air!

But – ah! They flee too quickly – ninjas!
Oh, stealthy as the flashing winds…
Their flight igniting oxygen,
their wings opposing sluggish minutes!

But what a tale to tell at lunch!
"We only nearly dodged that one!"

Sonnet CCCLVII

2011-02-08T21:11:00.000-05:00

The autumn’s infantry – how mighty!
Virile the plumes of gold arise –
exulted by each twig and berry.
The jealous, torpid summer dies!
No greater adversary vanquished,
no stronger rival fought and finished!

But how could pale and waxy sands,
and softest sunlights, light and wan –
compare! Our wispy, pallid present –
with haughty triumph? How we’ve aged,
ah, sea of frozen crystal days…
preserved, canopic fossil – aimless –

though in those sure and martial times
we stood incomparable, sublime!

Sonnet CCCLVI

2011-01-28T21:32:00.000-05:00

At last I breathe again, at last I live:
perhaps my loneliness was only relative.
I once desired love – your company –
but I shall fill these hours easily.
From time-worn, weathered eyes erasing you,
replacing such projected joys with truth,
I live once more in grounded, present time
unbound of empty fantasy and rhyme.

I roam the changing earth, but pondering
as drifting, migrant snow joins, flight by flight –
and neither wind nor I know anything
of where we go from here and when or why –

but all we know is that we still exist,
if still unseen – at least by loyal sunshine kissed.

Sonnet CCCLV

2011-01-21T10:54:00.000-05:00

What strange machines! I stand in dumbstruck awe.
They dig so monstrously, with scrawny claws;
petite – but mighty, steely, debonair.
Grey, prickly feathers splice the pungent air
and scores of them bob stably in the sea,
a half-assembled army, oddly free.

In syncopated rhythms, side by side,
now trading spots for newer soil to try,
then scurrying, returning now, for more –
acknowledging a neighbour’s small domain
then stealing it – and there erupts a war!

Unmoved, the others plod along their way,
but hesitant, I stay awhile myself,
escaping my routine for theirs, for them.

Sonnet CCCLIV

2011-01-13T18:24:00.000-05:00

My geese – my ever-faithful geese – have left!
I watched the emptied autumn sky, bereft,
and watched them steal away to tropic lands…
oh how’ll they’ll love those toasty, sun-baked sands!

I cursed their infidelity that day
and bent upon my lonesome, grumpy way –
I’d find some other loyal friend to love!

But everyday I’d check the skies above
and find them vacant as my mournful heart.

Then suddenly – in shy, reluctant March
they squawked once more upon the melting moors!

And I – my injured self! – ignored their lure
(with great contempt) – and sauntered, haughty, off –
remarking how we’ve changed – and how they’ve not!

Sonnet CCCLIII

2011-01-10T18:15:00.002-05:00

Epiphany? My love is shorn to shreds!
A guileless love beguiled by devious ends…
Dark, bitter grief ignites my inner core –
I cannot love this monster anymore!

And yet – I tremble at each docile smile!
I loved the clever traitor all the while.
I now regret that fatal day, when first –
a charming word deceived my artless thirst.

And yes, I still feel dearly for the fiend;
a foolish heart does not know want from need.

Ignore the ingrate! Flee the treachery!
But how we still dream fondly, stubbornly;
demanding vengeance for our suffering,
yet far too weak to do the injuring.

Sonnet CCCLII

2011-01-05T19:13:00.000-05:00

But how those crystal eyes stared back at me!
Grand ecstasies sparked through my soul and mind;
disarming and distracting harmonies
obscured my scrutiny and made me blind.

I waited, waited - how I darkly pined!
Some desperate, thrilling, growing hopefulness
turned ravenous at every sound and sight –
then soon fell, plummeting to hopelessness.

And I remember - stubbornly - with bliss -
at how each word and stolen brush and glance
drew joyously, exultant like a kiss,
upon my steely thoughts…as if to dance.

But not today – there still remains a space -
where cruel, blue plastic mocks your worthy place.

Sonnet CCCLI

2010-12-31T20:10:00.001-05:00

The dying afternoon, diaphanous –
how young October smiled upon my cheek!
Then through a stretch of sun-filled oxygen
your voice and eyes called blithely out to me!

We walked, our eyes upon the skyward seas,
our eyes delirious with shifting skies
as clouds subsided to obscurity
in grandiose swashes, gold and pastel dyed.

I could have stayed forever at your side,
evaporated honey everywhere;
but as our paths diverged in weary light
I drowned into intoxicating air.

I paused – in step – exultant, yet forlorn
and as the leaves spun round, I stood
- transformed!

Sonnet CCCL

2010-12-05T17:23:00.000-05:00

I stand, exhilarated, on the hills –
I burn with new and sprightly inner fire!
The winds of autumn cannot bind my will:
my yearning glance ignites with strange desire!
With fierce furore, these eyes will never tire –
I search the turbid skies for signs of warmth.
Beloved summer! Ever-tuneful lyre!
To leap into those warm and loving arms!

I’ll wait, unloved, forlorn, as lovers are,
but only when your promise sings again
will you return, melodious and warm –
and only then will carefree folly reign,
my foolish heart revived once more to mirth.
And only then will blossoms fill the earth!

Sonnet CCCXLIX

2010-11-02T17:26:00.002-04:00

The world, disfigured through the window pane,
appears to me a foreign, foreign beast.
I almost couldn’t say it was the same;
it once knew sharp and clear geometry.

Instead, some other logic speaks to me,
where lines melt wholly into endless flight
and light splits, starlit, into ecstasy;
untimely rains play freely with the eyes
and transient images dance swiftly by.

Emerging from the depths of rainy mess
she enters into view one final time,
delineated clearly from the rest.

But soon, she joins the liquid world out there,
obscured, forgotten – blurred beyond repair.

Sonnet CCCXLVIII

2010-09-20T19:25:00.001-04:00

The trembling leaves fly quicker as I pass -
If I could snatch one for myself, I would!
But could that transient oak leaf ever last?

If I could slice a piece of sun, I would!
One sliver, glowing like a seraph could,
As ardent as a lover’s keen farewell!

If I could steal the blazing sky, I would!
I’d need the ocean’s blue, expensive well,
But where the clouds should go, I cannot tell!

Alas, the summer cannot flee the fate
six ancient pomegranate seeds have dealt:
her stay is brief, but dazzles everyday
before her burnished sun-crown, songbird calls;
her grass perfumes – her sunsets – yield to fall!

Sonnet CCCXLVII

2010-09-12T15:12:00.001-04:00

A squirrel, dark as night but bright as day,
sits waiting on the sidewalk patiently.
He starts upon the short but daunting way -
the cars do not relent, but nor does he...
he races by before they even see!

The grass awaits - and soon enough, it's his.
He searches all he wants for nut and seed
and nibbles on the spot, the scamp he is!
No passer-by could steal away his bliss -
warm sun paints spots upon the vagabond
and leaves descend upon him for a kiss!
I fear I'll scare him, but I carry on -
he knows no fear! He looks me in the eye -
and boldly, boldly dares me pass him by!

Sonnet CCCXLVI

2010-09-04T08:47:00.000-04:00

The leaves, already gilt untimely gold,
declare that cherished summer fleets too soon!

The winds, already prematurely cold;
the sun, already mild at half past noon -
Ah, summer seemed as young as sprightly June!
Too quick the torrid dream flits sadly by!

Too quick I fear the changes steal my youth,
as if my sylvan tresses too, ignite
and litter moor and dale and precipice –
as if they had no other life to lead!

As if a heart were steadfast like the skies
and thoughts were constant as the worthy trees;
as if a futile wish for summer lives –
as if autumnal minds could answer it!

Sonnet CCCXLV

2010-08-31T16:52:00.001-04:00

Demonic monsters of the turbid sky,
guffawing with your gaping mouths like beasts -
away, away! Take wing and swiftly fly!

Regarding jealously at all who feast
and clammoring for every greasy piece -
away, away! We steadfastfully ignore!

The children, fearful, hurry to their seats,
or else combat the grey-specked, greedy hoard.
For such disturbance, there is no reward!
Mind quickly to yourselves, o scavengers...

There's scraps upon the ground - don't ask for more.
Your gluttony grows only angrier;
the laden tables are your battlegrounds -
away, away! Show mercy this time round!

Sonnet CCCXLIV

2010-08-28T09:02:00.005-04:00

Upon the hills that roll up to the sky
there lies a lone and steadfast aspen tree.
Come fall, the leaves glint gold and mutely fly
alighting on the rippling grassy sea.
With envy have I wished to be that free,
to voyage recklessly upon the air;
But never could I steer my destiny –
that endless flight would quickly bring despair.

Oh, what an empty life to live and share,
a one of many empty clones.
Then what a joy to be that tree up there;
But what unhappiness to be alone,
so mighty, yet forlorn upon the hill –

How better yet to be a human still!

Sonnet CCCXLIII

2010-08-18T10:41:00.001-04:00

And afternoon glints faintly on the leaves,
As if that gold were all too rich to lend.
The seagulls cackle, joyous, from the eaves –
some avian joke I cannot comprehend.

One eyes me beadily – did I offend?

I nibble on a snack I saved from noon
and watch his greed evolve to merriment.
He squawks and screams, the mad bird like a loon,
expecting some reward for such a tune.
I turn away, but crumbs fall to the ground.
I watch, dismayed, to see him claim the boon.

Devouring quickly, flapping all around,
I watch him with amusement as he eats –
As if the thief deserved such stolen treats!

Sonnet CCCXLII

2010-08-05T16:44:00.001-04:00

The moths flit through the sea, ephemeral;

each emerald wave progresses quicker past.

The sky is blushing like a love-struck girl

and dreams, her troubled forehead overcast.

The youth of day, her liveliness fade fast;

great mountains frame the twilight of her face.

Her blazing iris tumbles shut at last:

the birds come flying for one last embrace,

imparting to that cheek an everlasting grace.

When laid to rest, surrounded by the earth,

unseeing eyes shall still observe this place.

The clouds forever sail this planet’s girth -

No death could steal them from my feeble grasp;

and evermore the grass shall faintly rasp!

Sonnet CCCXLI

2010-07-20T18:24:00.001-04:00

He slithers through the mute suburban maze,

A serpent buried in the silent night.

No mortal could escape that fiery gaze,

The vacant eyes aglow with ghostly light!

Some say they’ve seen the phantom taking flight,

His eerie glow an iridescent blue.

He mutely treads the roads til out of sight

and rests in wait until recalled anew.

When new day dawns he enters town to brood,

emerging, innocent as anything.

Then opening that gaping mouth for food,

the door snaps shut, his appetite appeased.

His eyes, those giant windows, gleam like stars

and noisily, the beast squeaks past the cars.

Sonnet CCCXL

2010-07-10T11:37:00.000-04:00

Attired richly – handsome ship, where to?

The grandest feasts where held for all the crew,

the Kingdom’s King and Queen have visited.

A garland circled every maiden’s head –

the skies were never bluer on that day!

We once knew love, we once had known the way,

but now we sail, forgotten, and alone.

By fog obscured, by raging rainstorms blown,

we have no end to seek and no return.

The ocean looms at every futile turn

yet hopelessly we search for sight of land.

We curse the weather’s fiercely bitter hand

and suffer in our salty carousel,

remembering a time we knew ourselves.

Sonnet CCCXXXIX

2010-05-24T22:30:00.003-04:00

A thousand voices carolling,

Each shaded by the canopies of spring:

So often have I heard their charming song,

Not knowing where their tiny hearts belong!

I’ve sought the secret of the stony skies,

But never have I found that hidden prize.

Though dare I say they blush a brighter blue

Whenever their beloved trills a tune!

The grass has glowed with jealous emerald;

The sun has shone with gentler, warmer gold.

As if the world would bend toward their whims

At just one ringing note of songbird hymns!

There’s magic pouring from these feathered throats –

Have brighter seraphs ever sung such notes?

Sonnet CCCXXXVIII

2010-03-22T05:32:00.002-04:00

Precariously dangling from a tree,

He mutely eyes the android enemy.

He eyes his goal with puma-like furore,

Then dives through air towards the earthen floor.

Lest others steal his hard-earned, sylvan prize,

His ready senses swiftly scrutinize.

Suspecting something is indeed amiss,

He darts from sight into the shade’s abyss.

Emerging once his humble meal is done,

He breaks into a fleeting little run.

He scampers up the half-dressed, wooden bones

And rests upon the grey limb of his home.

And leafy tears obscure the world below:

The oaks lament their stolen embryos.

Sonnet CCCXXXVII

2010-01-30T20:46:00.002-05:00

They say Verona’s roses paled nearby

and summer winds retired out of spite

the day the master poised the brush to paint.

Madonna smiles, resplendent in her grace,

the Child swaddled in her azure robes:

The critics rave about the lucid strokes

that shine like flames upon a canvas sea.

The hues shine through the many centuries,

the souvenir of brightest brilliance,

undying to the transient populace.

Instead –

thrown out with trash and cans of beer,

half-painted as a shoddy, forged Vermeer,

by whom, but rats shall it be seen?

Oh Fame, you are a fickle, fickle fiend!

Sonnet CCCXXXVI

2010-01-10T13:49:00.001-05:00

The glance is yours: do with it what you will.
To injure or inspire, love or kill –
the eyes speak volumes more than little lies.

I ponder this while looking at your eyes,
those pools of mercury, so cruel and cold.
Why leave such enmity untold?
Because the very animosity
would strike me dead with sorrow, instantly.

If loathing did not permeate your soul,
perhaps my eyes would not reflect your own.
Perhaps my eyes would not be lethal knives,
which pierce the heart with bitterness and spite
and read like Hate’s encyclopedia,
containing endless words, but not enough.

Sonnet CCCXXXV

2009-12-06T17:08:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-24T19:36:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-05T19:38:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-21T07:21:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-13T21:10:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-12T13:11:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-08T20:09:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-07T18:34:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-28T09:51:00.007-04:00

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

2009-08-27T12:04:00.004-04:00

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.

Sonnet CCCXXV

2009-08-26T16:37:00.009-04:00

we long to drink we long for drugs and sex
were wicked teens strung high by natures hex
adrenaline and folly are our chant
our words are slurred our movements are a dance
were on computers every waking hour
ignoring chores and acting simply sour
were rude
               were boorish
                                    always such a mess
at every moment mad or quite depressed

and Yet –
               We still take buses to our school;
               Our mothers still remind us of the cold;
               We’re still subject to all our father’s rules;
               And frankly, we’re still kids – we’re not that old.

But rebels we shall stay, extreme or mild,
each one of us an adult-werewolf-child.

Sonnet CCCXXIV

2009-08-20T13:36:00.002-04:00

This caterpillar never learns to crawl,

but quivers from a tree branch, scorned by all.

It hangs to ripen with the rain and sun,

until its skin is soft and hue is dun.

This brooch of precious pearls and ruby gems

is now the butterfly upon each stem.

It’s only till we taste them that we know

that they yet to darken and to grow.

The darkest ones, as black as charcoal ink

are unmistakable as night itself.

Their violet innards stain our fingertips,

collapsing at our touch into themselves.

Around the berry tree we dance around –

to pluck the jewels to pop into our mouths!

Sonnet CCCXXIII

2009-08-19T16:55:00.004-04:00

O newborn baby, quiet as a sheep,

your eyes are tightly closed in tender sleep!

How soft your rosy skin, how small your lips;

What tiny nails upon your fingertips!

Your eyes are opening, first one, alone

(the other one is much too tired to show)!

Your ears, two conches, listen all around –

The world’s a brand new place, so full of sound!

But happiness dissolves to angry cries,

Much stronger than expected of this child!

Poor Dad and Mommy try and search and try…

But calming Baby takes awhile!

Then soon she’s off again, asleep for hours,

A precious little angel, sweetly sour.

Sonnet CCCXXII

2009-08-05T18:13:00.002-04:00

The human heart is full of treachery:
for some know wicked arts of flattery,
which – fused with coldness – prove unstoppable,
transforming wise men into simple fools.

The moths are hiding on the bark of trees;
the katydids blend in with all the leaves –
such sly deception’s even learned by them!
Beware – the world is full of wicked men!

But time and time again we’re aptly fooled:
an eyespot here, a clever colour there!
How hated is that smile, so amused,
concealing such betrayals of our care!

We’ll one day read the patterns of the moths,
or else we’ll still be fraught with rage and loss!

Sonnet CCCXXI

2008-11-16T12:00:00.000-05:00

The ketchup on these plates I wash is dry,
a spray of crimson spared from Monday’s fries.
I recognize those peanut butter marks
that decorate our cups with muddy tracks.

These fossils of the meals we once have shared
are found upon this dirty tableware,
but such remains will soon be washed away
and are replaced with newer, fresher stains.

We’ve shared so many meals upon these plates;
we shared so many secrets as we ate!
I grew from youth as cracks grew from their sides –
what memories these little bruises hide!

It’s sad to think I’ll one day leave these bowls,
to buy new sets to fill a newer home.

Sonnet CCCXX

2008-11-15T12:00:00.000-05:00

Upon a glassy sea of sapphire,
two equal winds suspend our men.
What good is mutinous desire
when forces such as these attend?

The southern wind propels us northward;
the northern wind impels us southward.
Their equal strengths thus cancel out,
and hence we move not north nor south.

Our hopeless map is weak and futile –
our whims are simply whims, at most.
We have no say in where we go –
we’re at the mercy of such reptiles.

How cruelly vacant Titans play,
whose empty sighs control our fates!

Sonnet CCCXIX

2008-11-14T12:00:00.000-05:00

A day begins anew as dawn arrives –
the Sun’s in love with all the Earth!
The bees are giggling in their beehives;
the gossip tickles all the birds.

You see that cautious glance, so distant?
He keeps afar, lest fiery passion
ignite his dearest, earthly love.
Devotion! Tender as a dove.

He warms her world and keeps it living
and return, she’s cruel and blind,
exalting in her selfish mind,
oblivious as planets can be.

If lovers loved like timid stars,
then love is pain and life is hard!

Sonnet CCCXVIII

2008-11-13T12:00:00.000-05:00

You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.

Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.

There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –

And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.

Sonnet CCCXVII

2008-11-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

By day, by night, she is a mother,
regardless of her viciousness.
At times, by day she’s also…vampire…
as wicked as a mini-witch.

Her wings are silver as a spirit,
her eyes, vermillion as carrot.
Her stealth is ninja-like – beware! –
her flight is silent through the air.

The prick she takes is practised, wary,
unfelt and quick, as if a word.
Oh villain, stealing precious blood!
Upon your vicious crime I’ll tarry:

you feed your monstrous little babes
at my expense! You’ll pay someday!

Sonnet CCCXVI

2008-11-11T12:00:00.000-05:00

The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.

Sonnet CCCXV

2008-11-10T12:00:00.000-05:00

She plucks the ground with claws of ochre,
and pecks it – daintily – for worms.
She thus maintains her girlish figure,
so careful how she keeps her form.

She’s watchful of her patch of sidewalk,
the passing shoes exalt her peril.
She flutters, only to return,
her brief escape so quickly spurned.

She hops right into golden sunshine,
her feathers cast in different light.
Her task continues, to the right,
resolve unshaken, almost feline.

She looks around – so watchfully! –
while shining with an umber sheen.

Sonnet CCCXIV

2008-11-09T12:00:00.000-05:00

The trees, encased in pallid ices,
are groping at me dolefully.
I touch their limpid, frozen branches –
although my heart, as well, is bleak.

The snow has little hope for better,
and lights upon me, cold and tattered.
I melt each ashen, snowflake face,
and wish, at least, I had their grace.

But spring will come, I tell the frozen,
and thusly thinking, search for hope.
The rain will soon replace the snow;
returning warmth will soon embolden -

And cold despair shall dissipate,
as joy and bliss rejuvenate.

Sonnet CCCXIII

2008-11-08T12:00:00.003-05:00

To Robin,
lying on the asphalt.
Another time would find us – live –
upon a grassy hill of beryl,
conversing as the time flies by.

We’d daily meet beyond the meadow,
a pair concealed beneath a willow,
the shadows overhearing us –
our gossip of the latest fuss.

But who has time these days to chatter?
My strict routines keep feet a-patter;
and you’re just trying to survive,
amidst my world – besides -

You’re roadkill, dead upon the road,
your breast a purest ruby-gold.

Sonnet CCCXII

2008-11-07T12:00:00.000-05:00

The pinkish, french-fry earthworms wiggle,
their gossamer a sheerest shine.
I carefully avoid their squiggles
and quickly leap minutely by.
The ravens perch like jet-black devils,
their eyes like opal, heads all level.
From trees above, they wait with glee,
their stomachs churning, fed with greed.
The rain is sloshing by my shoulders
and all about my feet as well.
Do I tread worms? I cannot tell!
Alas, I look beyond my sneakers -
I’ve helped a bird digest his meal–
at the expense of worms at heel!

Sonnet CCCXI

2008-11-06T12:00:00.000-05:00

The frozen earth is creaking slightly
as cautious footsteps tread its face.
My eyes, like guarded shells of brandy,
are scanning quickly ‘round the place.
I’m searching for the Dog I’m scared of.
He’s nowhere to be seen – but careful!
As walking past his home, he barks –
I see his muzzle, then his snarl.
But then I’m past and he is chained there,
and is he – puzzled? Curious?
We glance covertly, silent, lest
the other think the other weaker.
He barks, I bow; he stalks away –
but maybe we shall meet another day.

Sonnet CCCX

2008-11-05T12:00:00.000-05:00

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Sonnet CCCIX

2008-11-04T12:00:00.001-05:00

The hand that lives upon my left is virtuously good,
an advocate of chastity and humble purity.
My right hand dwells in boastful hubris – symbol of his greed!
My left hand sheds humility, of which my right hand should.

A pearl’s obtuse ambition stems from beauty in his plum.
Imaginings of greatness cloud his sphere – and like the sea,
ambition turns to laziness, and then to servantry –
accentuating other beauties, complimenting them.

The right hand wishes excellence; his talents justify.
In awe, we read his sentences, all crafted by his pen;
we hear his soaring melodies, and wear the clothes he mends –
And yet, his over-zealous flair is nothing but a joke.
In truth the virtue of the left is heightened by his friend –
the right’s distraught flamboyance causes need for humbleness.

Sonnet CCCVIII

2008-11-03T12:00:00.001-05:00

The human race is ugliest of all and strange and odd:
our skins are limited to solid hues of neutral tones,
the shades of dark or light. Our ugly features cause us woe –
those eyes as small as sand, enlarged by crude mascara rods.

Oh look upon the birds with splendid wings, who fly to see their God –
how multicoloured are their feathers – gold and red as loam,
ignited by the sun. Oh look upon the fish below,
with scales of iridescent green and blue on every cod -

We long for spotted fur and shiny skin and lovely tails,
and everyday we looks at mirrors – not with vanity –
but with desire, wanting more than looking plain and ugly.

And yet we stare at magazines as if we’re something else –
but glossy pages can’t conceal – they only show our folly.
What good does fashion do but captivate our stupid need?

Sonnet CCCVII

2008-11-02T12:00:00.000-05:00

The great economy of Spring is paralleled by none:
she’ll lease a birdsong lest we’re bored – but only to the trees;
she’s miserly with sunny warmth and sheds it grudgingly;
she only spares a tiny slip of ordinary sun.

Each gesture’s full of luxury, but counted in her sum,
and in the end we’re left with scraps, all small and crude and cheap:
a sliver of a heated ray, a menacing zephyr –
and even time is spent with care; it slowly sticks as gum.

It’s not until a month or two she spends some more and more;
her time is thrown away – like that! – and soon she starts to give –
her gold, the sun; the grass, an emerald – now shared as gifts.

As if she’s realized she’ll die; decides to spend it all –
and yet we know that’s not the case, in fact, the opposite –
that Spring – warmed by a guilty coal – has just begun to live.

Sonnet CCCVI

2008-11-01T12:00:00.000-04:00

A shadow’s awfully useless – doesn’t do much else than wait.
Of course it’s nice to have a patient friend – but not some stain
that doesn’t help at all. I need a friend that has a brain –
that moves at least – decisively, not copying my fate.

Because my shadow tags along all day, he proves to be a pain.
If he were helpful, life would be much easier – and great!
He’d follow me attentively, ensuring I’m not late –
and never would his disposition be of cruel disdain.

But shadows are too careful, treading much too cautiously.
They only move when I do – making sure it’s safe –
and even clouds seem deadly, driving them to hide away.

Oh, even in the natural world there’s infidelity.
You don’t get service if you never tip the servitor –
it’s sad how life is made by money – never made by more!

Sonnet CCCV

2008-10-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

I tumbled in a world of poetry, unknowing then
it planted many unborn seeds within my growing head.
When life became more cruel and difficult and more bereft,
I wrote. Those early seeds exploded, eating up the sad.
It turned to times I lost what little that I used to have –
and namely things like dignity and peace and happiness.
and even cherished poetry was causing buoyant debt;
the rhymes turned darker, weaker, pushing me toward the mad.

And how has poetry transfigured me? I’ve learnt to live,
and to express, of course. I steal the world a second time
to take in all its details differently and make them mine.

Now everything’s a poem and everything has sharpened since.
I can’t say phrases properly – they always tend to rhyme!
How much my life has changed – now poetry’s my way of life!

Sonnet CCCIV

2008-10-30T12:00:00.001-04:00

There’s something I forgot – I dropped it on the way to school.
It’s lost now, covered by the snow, and never to be found.
The very thing I lost is buried in these whitish mounds
and stubbornly stays buried in its snowy tomb.

I look up at the blazing sky and feel like quite the fool.
I’ve known this thing before perhaps – perhaps it’s still around,
or left back at the house – perhaps it’s lost back at the town?
The thing confounds me with its game. Its riddle’s strange and cruel.

Perhaps you’ve lost a twin to mine – a spool of thought escaping.
When reckless, threads pop through your head and drift off to the snow.
And though you search and search, it’s somewhere else– that much you know.

But where, exactly? Was it critical, this thing?
Or something trivial? I walk away and hope my brain’s
intact, or other things will spill and make me more inane.

Sonnet CCCIII

2008-10-29T12:00:00.000-04:00

Two singers – sisters maybe – frozen on a tapestry –
gaze back at me, emotions still unchanged, though years have flown.
Who knows how long ago their faces first were stitched and sewn –
my guess the Renaissance – their clothes exude its majesty.

One gown is crimson-red; her sister’s, blue-green like the sea.
Who knows who was the prettier – they looks as twins – or foes.
Or maybe neither lived – they’re dreams that no one living knows -
but either way, they’re shrouded in their girlish mystery.

Eternalized forever, in this lovely piece of art,
they set us pondering, with wooden instruments in hand;
their mouths sing unheard notes, which twist their graceful dance.

Dismembering from their tongues, complex harmonies depart,
unravelling in our minds, and waking creativity.
Their voices die, yet live again with grand imagining.

Sonnet CCCII

2008-10-28T12:00:00.000-04:00

I gaze upon my precious fingertips as if they’re gold.
You’ve never looked upon your own? They swirl and dance like birds,
their curlicues like hieroglyphs – some foreign future’s words?
I marvel at their shapely curves, a wonder to behold.

Each cell was crafted wonderfully – each doing as it’s told.
I gasp when moving all of them – cohesively – they work,
all lumped together on my thumb, the link up like a herd,
reacting similarly, swift. What suppleness unfolds!

I’m never bored on looking at our digits’ old refrain.
The handiwork is more than fine – it’s masterful and grand.
The shape is pleasing – so’s the grain! A finger’s never bland.

I marvel at our wondrous hands, and digits on their plane,
supreme in craftsmanship and form, unmatched in eminence –
our bodies still defy the change of tastes with excellence!

Sonnet CCCI

2008-10-27T12:00:00.000-04:00

I think – at times – I cannot live without my poetry.
I’d die without a haunting verse - some mirror of the world;
some puzzle clarifying life where other methods err –
and yet, I’ve lived a week with naught a poem by my seat.

But have lived? And have I truly breathed? And have I seen?
There’s never breath without a poem’s chilling murmur under,
and never sight without a poem’s complex face to ponder.
Is life a life without my strange, beloved poetry?

It’s better never understanding odd, poetic hints;
to never know a poem’s cunning power more than ink;
to never read a line until the mind begins to shrink –

than knowing how elliptical it is, and radiant:
how scarce and well-placed crystals shear the heart like swords of steel,
disrupting dull routine with contemplation’s seal.

Sonnet CCC

2008-10-26T12:00:00.000-04:00

She wrapped her woollen shawl against her tender bones,
as frail and white as freshly fallen snow outside.
The snowflakes mutely sprinkled gingerly like rice,
then melted, leaving tarnished grasses to the cold.
She mutely waited by her simple, ashen phone
and thought of all her children’s bulging, frog-like eyes,
with wonder, watching early snows and all the ice -
but that was long ago, and thoughts like that are old.

She missed her role as mother, though. The time seemed brief,
yet full, like festive winters passing on the breeze.

She waited for her older husband’s waking words
and wondered at the emptiness within. She saw
as sparrows took to morning flight while mother birds
would wait with worry, loneliness beginning, raw.

Sonnet CCXCIX

2008-10-25T12:00:00.000-04:00

Her crimson nails were blazing on the windowpane,
competing with the burning bushes down below.
The autumn wind was blowing children to their homes,
the afternoon already finished up again.
She put her duster down and watched them pass and play,
like dandelion puffs now drifting past her toes.
Their hair was jet against their shirts like granite crows,
their shirts now wrinkled like the leaves – some mother’s pain.

A horrid wistfulness welled up inside of her
as laughs rang through the window’s crack to pester her.

She closed the window, shutting out the bitter chill.
She has her money, home, a husband – all so nice –
but not a boy or girl. And then, before her eyes,
the school-kids passed beyond her placid windowsill.

Sonnet CCXCVIII

2008-10-24T12:00:00.000-04:00

The humid summer pressed against her torpid brow
and painted perspiration on its surface there.
A drop plopped on her pale-white rose and cooled its face,
then holding it, she saw it darken like a frown.
The day crept by, morose and full of lazy sounds
and as she waited, felt the warm zephyr of air.
She didn’t think her birthday was a boring day,
but cherished solitude like nature’s precious crown.

Her mom was sweet and gave the lovely rose to her
before she quickly left with Dad to go to work.

And though they’d all go celebrate the day at night,
the rose was special, almost like a quiet thought
that wished to make itself more known and seen, so wrought
its loving self within the loveliest of sights.

Sonnet CCXCVII

2008-10-23T12:00:00.000-04:00

Outside, the cherry blossoms litter grass with pink
like joy, now visible. Contentment fills her heart
and pruning pretty plants, she starts toward her art.
Beside, her baby’s sleeping, gurgling like a sink,
her stomach undulating like the rosy spring.
The dried-up leaves upon her plant she stores apart
each time she snips their crumbling softness, crushed to stars.
The task completed now, she sketches, casually.

Her pencil’s rapid scratches send her wondering:
to children, actions should be done more carefully.

She cannot snip her careless faults like dying leaves,
and rash mistakes could never be erased or fixed.
Unlike a sketch, unlike a leaf, her deeds transfix,
like spring’s unfolding captivates the mind’s reprieve.

Sonnet CCXCVI

2008-10-22T12:00:00.001-04:00

There’s daily proof the sun adores the glowing moon:
he clears the stars come morning, spreading out his arms,
and dusts the sky until he sweeps away the dark.
What sweet devotion, lasting past the heated noon!

But like a housewife, cooking, setting out the spoons –
his work’s in vain, and ruined by a single star.
Her children ruin beds, then tear the house apart;
his lover smears the spotless sky with starry shoes.

And yet, it’s loving effort keeping “house at hame”,
and sheer compassion keeping wicked anger tame.

So, still he waits, his ardour flaming like his light.
He waits eternally until the ceiling cools;
his hot anticipation’s mighty as a fool’s –
and steadily he loves, that husband of the night!

Sonnet CCXCV

2008-10-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

No King deserves such precious gems of finest quartz!
Look how they shine – like diamonds on the frozen earth,
so crafted carefully in perfect, rounded pearls,
a lacework crystal painted on our earthly floor.

No Queen deserves these diadems, just past my door!
Observe these clear tiaras, lacing trees in mirth,
their arborescent vanity a tool of hurt,
disdaining icy sceptres, shining from the porch.

No royal house can purchase such bijouterie,
which serves to decorate that Mother Nature’s greed.

Her winter vesture’s free for us to violate:
her gown of finest snow is dotted with our prints;
her polished nails upon the windows, ruined by our heated fist;
her valuables, with hungry eyes, we steal and desecrate.

Sonnet CCXCIV

2008-10-20T12:00:00.000-04:00

I sit here, thinking now, of love and life – and you.
I think that love must be a boat of gentle size,
with us its former passengers. Within we’d daily ride,
contained within our pair, unseeing of the blue.
If overturned, we’d find ourselves in seas anew,
like those still plashing in experience’s tide.
We sailed each day to find where satisfaction lies,
but never reached it still intact – we’ve split in two.

I swear there’s always fish within that sea,
and one will be the one for me – or close. We’ll see.

But our first maritime adventure into love
shall be remembered – or at least by sea bound me.

I think I see you now – you’re drifting calm and free
- away – unto the brighter sky, as if a dove -

Sonnet CCXCIII

2008-10-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

It stood there mutely, acting like some hellish hound.
The breeze bashed both of us, and crackled in between,
electric, cackling like a hag; as crudely mean.
Its eyes ablaze, they flamed like fire with no sound,
as hiding mine, I searched the barren ground.
I flinched – he snapped – uprooting like canine fiend.
But hindered by his metal chain, he couldn’t reach me,
as carefully, I crossed the road, with fearful leaps and bounds.

He barked and snarled, and looked quite helpless as it seemed,
and in my glad escape, I raced away and beamed.

When morning came again, I set about my trek,
prepared to face its flaring muzzle if it neared.
Around the bend, I cautious walked – now more prepared –
but saw no dog. I almost missed his flaming breath.

Sonnet CCXCII

2008-10-18T12:00:00.000-04:00

I closed the door, then opened it for just a peek.
The light invaded, charging from the corridor.
I gasped, and gladly shut the ashen door once more.
And heading to my silent bed, I feel antique,
my limbs as wooden as a dresser, calmly meek.
The night is welcome, taking me toward its core,
as lying down, I close my eyes and hope to snore,
so weary of the world and all the things I seek.

How easily we fly into that final sleep,
at last prepared for nightly graveyard where we’ll keep.

The weary day, come dusk, succumbs to restful night
and yet, there shall be times the night proves permanent.
Although it’s hard to die unto our cerement,
into that final sleep – how easily we fly!

Sonnet CCXCI

2008-10-17T12:00:00.000-04:00

We go to death as easy as a sum to solve,
but struggle through our lives, obsessing over much.
We struggle, even growing close to death and push
to keep ourselves the younger selves we’ve come to love.
Old age and death – these things we fight until they come.
An yet – we go to them quite easily and hush
as quickly as a baby to his nap. We gush –
we gush like mad to stop it – yet it comes, quite dull,
at last; we wish it wasn’t easy leaving happy life –
the treasure cherished heavily and loved like strife,
and yet we struggle through, at last to end the trip,
but still regretful. Coming swift and suddenly,
there’s little hesitation. Meet death like a dream –
and blindly grope the livelong way until you see.

Sonnet CCXC

2008-10-16T12:00:00.000-04:00

A worthy novel grips me for a week or two.
Upon its end I find myself dissatisfied.
The themes are dull, the scenes are plain, the prose is dry.
Sparse millions of phrases drift unto the new.

A poem’s brief. Just forty words suffice for you.
And yet, those cautious forty words stick more in mind
than fifty thousand, spread within a novel’s bind.
Poetic words are crafted so they make us brood -
until – they’re solved – those riddles needing different keys,
depending on the eye unlocking what they keep.

Unlike a novel – poems stay with us, for life.
No tree nor sky nor robin looks the same again.
We wonder how our poets craft such skilful rhymes
that so succinctly captive the lives we tend.

Sonnet CCLXXXIX

2008-10-15T12:00:00.000-04:00

Do you remember me? I’m droplets in the rain
now perching on your eaves. I’m dreams you never cry
and tiny snowflakes, mingling in the azure skies.
I’m every happiness, each beaming face, each step to pain.
I’m jealousy, and worry; anger and disdain.
I’m carried in the breeze – at least my thoughts would fly –
I’m burning in the crimson leaves, and cooled by ice,
which drips so dangerous, above your window pane.

And though you’ve faded well, I still remember you –
some memory of fall now buried in the new!

No sun shall be a greater happiness – no moon
a sadder memory of lengthy hours since;
No snow a colder wickedness – no bitter wind
a frigid, madder leap toward the passing noon.

Sonnet CLXXXVIII

2008-10-14T12:00:00.000-04:00

L’amour fleurit comme tout les noires et sombres nuits:
une fleur si belle et si mystérieuse comme toi.
Mais tout les temps tu fuis le jour et moi,
tes émotions, ombreuses; ses mots, le cœur de bruit.
Tu sais la joie? Je pense que non. La crise te suit;
les grandes tristesses sont tous tes grands nuages, si froid.
Mais toutes tes gouttes de pluie sont des larmes de moi –
et tu est insouciante et comme la lune, conduis.

Tu es la chose le jour fait comme un mal mémoire,
qui reste, puis, quitte ciel chaque souvenir de moi.

Mais maintenant, j’habite après la nuit de moi.
Le jour m’embrase, et chaque étreinte me donne la perte,
la perte de la mémoire, la perte de perte en perte –
et maintenant, j’oublie la sombre nuit, je crois.

Sonnet CLXXXVII

2008-10-13T12:00:00.000-04:00

The sun invades me, blocked by bars the blinds devise.
Reflecting on my window’s vile betrayal Now,
the snippets of our time together Then abound.
My shock is great – these memories inflame the vice.
Remember, Window, by my side, so calm and nice,
the hours sipped like tea beneath your squarish brow,
exalting nature? Gently, patiently, I crouched
with you - companion, confidante, and chum – now snide!

Beside, and by my side, while all the time a snake,
sadistic fiend, employing me for pleasure’s sake!

Where is your loyalty? You let the daylight sear -
and look how happiness in entering in clouds!
So deafening, frenetic, strange and rude and loud -
No joy may find me here; let melancholy near.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

2008-10-12T12:00:00.000-04:00

My life is Palette, Brush is pen, and thoughts are Paint;
my Canvas, you, unpainted by my vibrant hues.
Each strange occurrence makes a colour, if I choose,
and finds its stumbling way to tarnish your terrain.
Your whitish square’s confining, sometimes such a pain;
the guidelines of your edges trap as if a glue.
Alighting from your surface angers you -
I scrap the masterpiece and paint your mind again.

I paint again, again, although the paint is scarce,
and Palette dries my Brush’s bristly little hairs.

The hues you’ve seen before; you’ve sniffed their toxic fumes.
And yet I paint, my similes this cautious red,
my metaphors a runny green. But find the room,
and see my art, display the Paint, expose my head.

Sonnet CLXXXV

2008-10-11T12:00:00.000-04:00

A sailor never misses land until he leaves,
the sea a barren desert stretching out to sky.
A seagull never misses sea until he flies,
the sky a cold expanse descending to the seas.

Yet on horizons, sunrise brings no joy.
Their plights become the frigid sea, the icy sky.
The only colour seen is blue, expanding deep and high
and land’s elusive; more so is the fickle sea.

We journey, soaring, happy, through our pretty lives,
though aimlessly, upon our glassy seas or sky.

The world drifts past as imperceptible as joy.
We wait for glimpse of land for crude and rare relief
or like the gull, must view our hope beyond our reach,
so mocking, playing cruel existence as its ploy.

Sonnet CLXXXIV

2008-10-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

His fingers clammy, wet with fearful nervousness;
his crime, his art; his weapon, digits of his hand;
a criminal of highest calibre and brand,
successful more than always – powerful – no less.

His method, less than clear; his target, everyone.
His mind, complex and dark; his pleas, his twisted fun.

He meets the floor, still greeted by the silent night.
The keys are his; the audience applauds and waits.
His humble bow is perfect, elegance his bait.
And then, in shock, we see his violent, bloody fight,
his sheer expressive force invading sound and sight.
Now no one sees his coldness, hidden from his face,
which lets whatever ambience he wants to make
exist and dazzle, seizing victims by the mind.

Sonnet CLXXXIII

2008-10-09T12:00:00.000-04:00

I love the wondrous, strange invisibility
that follows me to so gingerly, just like a bear.
My loud “hello’s” are greeted with a vacant stare,
my movement cast aside as breeze upon the sea.
I rule my small domain – the world surrounding me.
I stand as if a king, and sit without a care,
my presence granted as a regular affair.
When bored, my fear provides amusement – and – for free!
I hear a private conversation (no one sees),
and hidden by his looming shadow – much with ease-
no person questions me, no matter where I go.
Thus bear and I should leave our posts for worthwhile crime –
my hidden person, with his stealthy paradigm
may steal away, and all the world would never know!

Sonnet CLXXXII

2008-10-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

The night was bright; alarum, loud as bugle’s call.
I waited for another soul to wake up first,
for fear entreated me until it almost burst.
My feeble mask of calm destroyed by noisy brawl,
my curiosity surmounted me, too tall
for crude containment. Fearing all the very worst,
the courage in my heart enticed me as it nursed;
my person, so possessed, then clambered to the hall.

The night, aflame with lamplights, hid the criminal,
while naked weakness left me unprotected, null.

Upbraiding every door, inspecting carefully,
each room held nothing but our anxious oxygen.
Now beckoned to our beds by found security,
our feet let to the stair, descending not again.

Click here for the story behind this sonnet.

Sonnet CLXXXI

2008-10-07T12:00:00.000-04:00

Not cold nor dark, for Death cannot be felt nor seen.
Not silent, sad, nor stark, for Death has lost its ears,
which then were empathetic, now astray on years
and deafened, caring not to listen to your plea.

Not painful for beholders, greeting him with glee,
absurd. Not cruel nor beneficial by one’s fears,
but nonchalant, uncaring – thus bereaved of tears –
which, would it Life, be bitter, copiously seen.

Who felt the Death impending then, its fingers bare,
unsheathed for Life, prepared for new-acquired fare?

It was the almost-dead, deprived of feeling’s vice,
emotion stripped, their closing minds beginning end;
their eyes ablaze with nothingness, their lips a friend
to emptiness, as raw as day, as bright as ice.

Sonnet CCLXXX

2008-10-06T12:00:00.000-04:00

I wonder why I wake when other people die.
The sun begins to dim, reflecting on their fate;
the calls of birds seem less like ditties for a mate
and more like delicately grieving, solemn sighs.
My footsteps tread with guilt toward the beastly right.
My eyes draw to the sun and greet its sullen face -
I wonder why I still may see its tepid grace
as Death deprives the living of their human sight.

The world seems cruel on such a bitter morning’s start,
when all the world seems stripped of love and crudely stark.

And what a pain to feel for such that isn’t mine –
as here I am, ungracious, petty, as a toy.
And whilst I sympathise, I do not help – but sigh! –
a most unseemly vice, a most beseeming ploy.

Sonnet CCLXXIX

2008-10-05T12:00:00.000-04:00

A new year spreads before me like a snowy page,
another leaf of white awaiting marks and prints.
So much to use – escaping from my fingertips –
a plane of eager time poised on the newer age.

Envisioning what fresher seasons shall engage,
I look – anticipating – to these fields and hints
of what’s to come. The future wakes from sleeping fits –
reluctant – starting unto human guessing games.

The seconds, glittering, unbutton in the snow,
their shining flakes like frosty jewels in the cold!

There’s much anticipation – moods change much within a day –
from boredom of the past to welcoming the new.
The minutes fly – time’s racing by – the skies are blue!
The snowflakes fall – the year’s alight – and so’s the fray!

Sonnet CCLXXVIII

2008-10-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

Polyphony, as sumptuous as a rich brocade,
shines vivid crimson with its careful mastery.
A layer through a layer in a tapestry,
inverted motives in the fabric interplay.
One sees the colours, recognising themes like days,
arranged in curlicues of phoenixes and seas
of countersubjects, slit like ruby string,
between the lines of subjects, woven in a braid.
The balanced harmonies, which satisfy each voice
cohere so gingerly, a stitch by stitch with poise,
familiar majesty, a souvenir of old,
a tad bit tarnished from disuse, still grandly frail,
courageous in its use, a kingly conquest sailed –
surmised as luxury, subdued as precious gold.

Sonnet CCLXXVII

2008-10-03T12:00:00.000-04:00

She can’t imagine otherwise! The world’s a wreck;
it’s envious and bitter, flashing like a shrew!
What snow, how stupid! Biting at her shining shoe
and vying with its shining face and sloping neck.
What trees, how idiotic! Thinking branches, gems,
when all the world knows hers are best, that hers are new.
What birds, how foolish! Thinking feathers better hues
than chic designer clothes that madden any wren!

What sun, how bright! Should hide her face for fear of shame –
her style’s so last century, and still the same!

But brazen maiden, oh how stupid, oh how proud!
The snow will come again and shine more than your jewels!
The trees sustain, the sun still lives, as does the cloud! –
those birds shall bicker on your grave and laugh at you!

Sonnet CCLXXVI

2008-10-02T12:00:00.000-04:00

He hates the mirror. He looks at it and sighs.
It’s hard to looks upon himself and see his face
without detesting it. Deprived of youthful grace,
bereft of happiness, without a joyful smile –
he hates those children, blithe and charming, juvenile;
he hates these families, enjoying time like waste;
he hates and envies all the world, so armed with lies!

For self-contentment’s false; so’s joviality.
The world’s a dark and gaping hole, a mean chicanery.

Or isn’t it because he wishes more from life,
and more of merriment; to see that things are fine?
Or is it that he wants to know that peace of mind,
that feeling, waking up, embracing more than strife?

Sonnet CCLXXV

2008-10-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

Intense and bitter were the icy winds he crossed,
his jacket clutched within his anxious, nervous fist.
He walked into the store and glanced upon his list,
evasive of the camera. His hair was tossed,
his face unshaven – eyes like frigid fire, lost.
He snatched a basket; glued it to his quaking wrist.
He clambered through the store, remembered what he missed,
turned back and veered again, to pay for what he bought.

As feared, that same cashier was there, her smile, fake.
She smacked her gum, forgetting him, their love – their hate.

An anger flared like sun. He seized his blanched receipt.
Her eyes acknowledged his. He grabbed his groceries.
He stormed away. He stared upon the ashen sheet.
Her name, impudent, sauntered in his thoughts and teased.

Sonnet CCLXXIV

2008-09-30T12:00:00.000-04:00

There’s never greater disappointment than the sun,
meandering, intense and sinister, to you.
You know these curtains whisper in the night, untrue,
exalting in their strange conspiracy of fun.
The sheets are mocking you, awash with yellow dun,
untruthful flattery, so calmly clean and new.
The ceiling’s laughing: crowded frescoes flame your rue,
their stellar constellations pointed as a gun.

There’s never greater disappointment as you turn
and know you must wake up to face your world of spurn.

Go to your windowsill; uncover all the panes.
Regard the light azure with caution – gingerly!
Again you must live under it, and swim its sea,
and move and speak and laugh, and face the world’s disdain.

Sonnet CCLXXIII

2008-09-29T12:00:00.001-04:00

Of late, she thinks about herself and how she’s changed.
She’s old, dependent, dying, trapped within her home.
She planned on travelling, to Paris, Cuba, Rome,
but now she lives off pensions, locked inside her cage.
She thinks of youth, and misses it, a bit amazed
at how the time has passed. Her only son is grown –
but stingy – keeping phone calls, money for his own,
while thinking she’s decrepit and deranged.

Her son would never spend a measly dime for her
despite his wealth. She’s raised him all these years, to err!

And yet – to err is only human. What of that?
Forgiveness is divine! If sons decide to scorn,
then who’ll coerce their smiles, forced and falsely warm?
An honest miser’s better than a lying rat.

Sonnet CCLXXII

2008-09-28T12:00:00.002-04:00

Momentous, momentary pleasure must secede
to watching weight, so equally as selfish though
a lot less fun; an effort spent with foolish Woe.
How difficult and ravenous the task must be
when such delicious Turkey crowns the Festive Feast!
One smiles, sipping wine, and all the while knows
the foul fowl lights the Greed within the bowel,
a ghastly, menacing, and dangerous Disease.

One smacks their lips, a wolf delighted with their Hare;
but truly, is it hare or Wolf that’s now ensnared?

A-rumbling in the antechamber of the gut,
a trembling Fire burns, the inkling of Desire.
One takes the fork and grabs a bite as now the pyre
alights, ignites, and rages like a dirty Smut.

Sonnet CCLXXI

2008-09-27T12:00:00.001-04:00

Curvaceous hips and comely bosom, virgin smile,
with hazel eyes of gloating satisfaction’s glaze.
And hers embraced his eyes, abashed and full of praise,
exalting her, subjected to her nude beguile.

His mind was hers, commanded by her cunning wile;
his feet, two frozen pillars; eyes and brain, ablaze;
and all this time she waits and like a lion, plays,
manipulating him like worthless clay now worth her while.

The crowd moves on, a patter on the marble floor
to fresher art, abandoning the brazen whore.

And lest he be removed from all the blatant rest,
he saunters on, uprooting from his rude desire.
The whore remains, a frozen painting made of fire,
the temptress drawing newer victims to her breast.

Sonnet CCLXX

2008-09-26T12:00:00.000-04:00

My mind is partly put at fault for arson’s crime,
although the world provides the fuel and grime.

Sequestered in a quiet room, the world’s alight:
surrounding winds destroy the silence with their games
and thoughts ignite my barren walls with tarnished flames.
My windows bring the sun in, seat him at my right,
his bars of light as gracious as a gentle dame’s.
My pencil flying, unaware, preparing, aims,
then picks the marks and sends me soaring, off to write.

Sprayed on the page, one never sees the criminal;
the Inspiration’s hidden; so’s Identity.
Perhaps the only thing you’ll see is memory,
collected here, a souvenir of short ago.

Sonnet CCLXIX

2008-09-25T12:00:00.000-04:00

The awning seemed like fire, flapping in the breeze:
a palish beige flickering and whipping hot,
there perched upon a small gazebo’s wooden lot.
If only I were not infirm of strength, so weak!
To be that awning – how resiliently neat,
aflame with strange desire, burning smartly raw,
established on a vantage point aloof, afar,
a kingly simpleton, so crude, yet full of ease!

No water puts it out; no wind detracts its flare;
and only change of season – change of taste – may dare.

An instant, flapping in the autumn, in the fall,
now in the winter, flapping on the wooden beams.
Who dares remove such strange and fierce audacity,
combating flames with insolence and naughty gall?

Sonnet CCLXVIII

2008-09-24T12:00:00.000-04:00

I find the world today requires desperate aid:
- politics: all the world’s a-brew and needs its law
- environment: the world’s unzipping as it thaws
- economy: recession; wealth unfairly paid
- humanity: our bunch, becoming more abate
- society: all wanton with its plastic gods
- our health: destroyed with every fry in paw
- tradition: culture pasted over, blue and grey

When shall salvation rescue us from grief and strife?
Where is our superhero? Busy with his life?

What we can do is make ourselves informed and wise:
destroy our atrophy with pride and dignity,
imbued with purpose, duty, hospitality –
and only then can Earth be salvaged from us mice.

Sonnet CCLXVII

2008-09-23T12:00:00.002-04:00

A battered ship entangled in the breeze, it shakes
and creaks, belying strength one thinks it should portray.
I doubt its oblong cage, although its massive plane
proves warmer than the seas of air that now invade.

As is if some demon, churning at the sides and panes,
these winds do not relent, but carry on and bray,
forgetting all their summer cousins, filled with grace.
These winds instead encourage enmity, disdain.

Oh turbulent and wicked! Fear exalts my face,
now lifted, wishing that I had the faith to pray.

Instead, within this home my hopes remain for life.
Within, I find seclusion from the chill and cold
through artificial means. For life I beg and hold,
which storms prove frail compared to frigid winter strife.