Sonnet CCCLV

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 CCCXLV

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 CVII

The rush one gets from hearing rhythms race
across one’s frigid skin, across one’s brain.
The chill a haunting melody can raise,
and tides of volume rising over pain.
The constant cycle of a metre’s grace,
the thrill of sound like winter’s frozen rain
perennial despite the season’s face,
erupting in the ecstasies of waves.

The art of music, is an energy
beyond the happiness of joyous stars.
Not average pop songs, rock, or worthless trash –
but music, soaring to the skies so free –
transcending time, so near and just as far –
pure sound, releasing us from life’s quick dash.

Sonnet XCVII

I think that music is a mystery,
combining all the sciences of sound,
the use of mathematic ordering,
and art – sporadic and aesthetic art.

It’s really quite amazing: music wakes
nostalgia, melancholy, mirthful glee;
and human brains can simply separate
what’s new from old, disgusting from the good.

All this created by twelve tones – no fuss.
Perhaps some different pitches, notes, and sounds –
but really, music is quite basic, thus
comprising harmonies and rhythmic drive.

But human minds perceive it to be more,
for music wakes the soul and lets minds soar.

Sonnet LXXXII

This sonnet was a ghastly pain to write.
The rhyme scheme didn’t work, and hence I tweaked.
It’s now an a-b-a-c – no delight
and not traditional like I had hoped.

The words I wanted weren’t iambic, yet
the words I found from Pete Roget weren’t great,
but still, I settled for my second best.
(these sacrifices better be of worth)

So anyways, I wrote the couplet next
to see how everything should fall in place.
It didn’t work. The thing became a mess.
The ending didn’t even rhyme that well.

And now I know you’re thinking this part’s best,
but still this statement’s not a good one yet.

Sonnet LXVI

Who taught the rivers to sing beautifully?
The rain of course, that mother lachrymose
who, moved by tears, spent hours by her streams
and listened to her toil’s wondrous work.

Who taught the trees to whisper melodies?
The birds of course, so selfless in their task
of teaching art to forests in the breeze -
obliged by empathy to share their gift.

And how those trees sing greater, after death!
In keyboards, leaves of art, and lover’s notes,
while spheric harmonies adorn the breath
of Dreamers, fed by lyric brooks and creeks.

Though praise of precious teachers disappear,
their work will last, commemorated here.

Sonnet LVI

It saddened me to hear my brother say,
“There’s nothing here to do without T.V.”
When I was his age I played by myself.
I had no siblings yet and made up games.

I read, I made neat crafts and music too.
Inventing things to play is what I did.
And now I use my creativity
To write these sonnets and play piano too.

Alas! Will youth today not learn to use
Imagination as a tool and gift?
Will T.V. be all that they think is “fun”?
And reading, arts – will they be boring too?

Today’s society will atrophy
If life revolves around that damn T.V.

Sonnet XLIV

The silence that’s between us shall not quell
The love I have for thee, oh darling friend.
How painful that thought is – to stay your friend!
My feelings of compassion are but dells.

To think, this may be all I am to you.
To think, I love you so, but still you are
Oblivious to my love, as high as hills!
How cruel, oh innocence, how cruel are you?

And yet I tend my withering flowerbed
Of hope, of joyful hope, that you love me -
And one day, all this hidden doubt, like trees,
Will sprout from seeds to bliss, and scruples, dead.

My aching love, how insolent thou art!
How hard to live to spurn one’s heart.

Sonnet XLI

Computer, get away, you make me weep!
You break all of my dreams and steal my sleep.
The Internet just makes you worse it’s just
Your evil partner, filled with greed and lust.

The Internet! How foul is that name!
My privacy and thoughts by you are maimed.
Away from me, you dour computer - now!
No sleep nor rest nor joy do you allow.

The Internet is full of ads and more;
Computers need their fixing – what a bore!
I hate and loathe you two – accomplices!
The two who rob my thoughts and laugh and hiss.

No calm nor rest nor freedom is allowed!
I’ll lock them up until both make no sound!