An Epitaph

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

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 CCCLXIII

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 dissipate,
and Mother Nature packs away her day.

Sonnet CCCLVII

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 CCCLI

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

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 CCCXLVIII

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

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

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 CCCXLIV

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 CCCXLII

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 CCCXXXVII

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 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 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 CCCXXIV

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 CCCXVII

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 CCXCVIII

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 CCLXIX

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 CCLXII

How green-eyed is the painter of the sunset’s hues!
He cannot capture them and put them in his pot
nor even copy them with dowdy paints he’s bought.
And yet, he loves the sunset, marvels in its blues!

How covetous the dancer is of sunset’s moves!
She cannot be as subtle by the way she’s taught
nor just as strong, capricious, eloquently raw.
And yet, she loves the sunset, worshipping its shoes!

How wishful is the singer of the sunset’s tones!
She cannot radiate the warmth beyond the West
nor speak her beauty only with a moment’s rest.
And yet, she loves the sunset, stores it in her bones!

How jealous are the arts against the sunset’s grace –
and yet, look how they love its flaxen face!

Sonnet CCXXVI

I wonder why I stare so often at the sky…
perhaps I am afloat in buoyant vanity,
a narcissus suspended in its shiny sea.
So distant in the mirror of reflective sky,
curvetting dreams and thoughts surround my sullen eye,
the pettifoggery of clouds enshrouding me.
Or if I seek my blazoned image in the sun,
I’m blinded by my folly, made to mutely sigh.

In patterns unbeknownst to me, I see a star,
or flower, dissonant in beauty, wise afar.

Reflective, do the skies reflect my pensive scheme?
Or do I only wish to see the world as clear?
I wish for comprehension, see the saltus near –
and lose it, plunging through oblivion, to dream.