Sonnet CCCLXIV

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 CCLXIII

The winter wind was moaning pessimistically,
its foghorn worn and overused, a tad bit flat.
It sang some weary minuet; it dancers sat,
for having heard the ditty, wouldn’t move their feet.

Still rasping to the point of boredom’s crude retreat,
the winter wind turned more aggressive, almost mad.
It shrieked but none complied. They picked about their plaid
as if their petty qualms could help them spurn the breeze.

A train then rumbled, wary of the wind at hand.
A semitone apart, their sighs proved dissonant.

The train then parted, sharply on its rigid cue.
The wind remained, unflapped, eternal, overcast –
and stays when even winter parts and trains move past,
its dancers long since dead, the sky turned brightly blue.

Sonnet CXLVII

Their rhythms hypnotize and calm me down,
their repetition easing all my qualms.
The simple harmonies remove my frown,
replaced with artificial stupor’s awe.
Their strange effects are amplified with sounds
of luscious singers, singing with a drawl.

The state of modern music is a mess:
it’s been reduced to basic chords and such,
mixed in with skill-less “singers”, poor at best,
and mediocre lyrics, weak as mush,
repeating in their choruses, no less.
No substance, only hypnotizing mush.
It suits our lack of truthful happiness,
a fitting dullness in a life of such.

Sonnet CXXXVIII

What use have I for polynomials?
Will I go to a grocery store one day
and simplify a polynomial?
Or maybe rational expressions? Say,
“I’ll simplify and state restrictions!” - lull
the poor cashiers to sleep; make others pray
I’d never put those things inside my skull?
Oh, how may functions help me everyday?

Of course they do - in ways I fail to see -
but now, I drudge through math as it were mud.
It isn’t even art, so bare and free -
but even art has purpose, one might add:
to entertain with skill aesthetically;
to bring us bliss when functions make us mad.

Sonnet L

And though through death my slumber is but reaped,
Eternity shall break my salvaged rest.
Though immortality will be my prayer
It kills the purpose of my death – to sleep.

Ah, long eternity will wait for me.
That dismal length of time where boredom lays.
I cannot help society or such
And human pleasures I could never see.

Eternity, a cruel and ugly word,
Which makes the thought of Heaven feebly dry.
If I was to but live for all of time
What uselessness and boredom I’d incur!

Oh, sad infinity, which is a lie.
In calm fulfilment I would rather die.