Sonnet CXXI

“Ah Mother, I feel awfully sick today!
I’m coughing, sneezing, wheezing everywhere.
Please let me stay at home for just one day!
Without my night clothes, I feel sadly bare.
My bed keeps all the chills and heat away,
eliminating fevers with great care.
My head is aching, more than I shall say;
my throat is itchy – sore beyond compare!”

But “No!” she says, the cruel and vile word,
condemning me so very wickedly.
But then I see the reason of her words:
in tow, she holds a bunch of remedies,
“Drink up!” she says, as if I were a bird,
and down my cures did go - sweet medicine.

Sonnet CXX

You foul fool, your food is squandered time!
Your cachinnating ROAR still breaks my ears!
You vile villain, stealing more than dimes –
you’ve stolen freedom too, throughout the years.
You isolated me in my demise,
despite my whines and traumatizing tears.
And yet, you bring me happiness and pride;
you soothe my soul despite your endless greed.

For you are Music, and I love you so.
My lessons, competitions, and exams –
they cost a lot of money every week.
They’re quite expensive and cost time – I know.
But still, your bliss transcends all that I am;
you wake my mind and soothe the tears I weep.

But like a demon churning in the depths,
the bond we share shall evermore be kept.

Sonnet CXIX

My life is just a bunch of cereal;
each day a box of wheat and multi-grain;
each week has seven boxes, packaged up;
Then all the boxes cycle once again.

Each day within the box identical,
the difference only shows from day to day,
But every week becomes so blandly dull
and then the months are structured all the same.

With life so organized I’m always free,
from worry, stress, and abnormality.
It’s calming, knowing all is orderly.
But is there any change of scenery?
Of course not. Everything is orderly.
Unchanging, hapless, joyous orderly.

Sonnet CXVIII

I’m bathed in light of clearest blue azure.
Around me walls begin to animate.
They leap away, become a hue so pure,
One thinks the walls are burning with blue flames.

And glowing from the source a fire demure,
A screen of blue, where dreams will thus be made,
Where bliss is manufactured and procured
And peace and calm erase my dying hate.

My damn computer. Haunting, burning flame,
Which animates my mind before I sleep.
I need that time to help recuperate!
You steal my sleep, make nasty little dreams,
destroy my life, and always make me late.
You damn computer, burn within thy greed!

Sonnet CXVII

I’ve seen a caterpillar on a chair.
Its bristly body on the fabric plane.
Outside the wind is cruel; he shivers there,
the life out on the porch, his cruel disdain.

And yet I find I’m jealous. How he dares
to live a life of sad and dull refrains,
the frozen leaves his measly, frigid fare,
the substance of his life, his soaring pain.

And though the autumn winds may rage and howl,
his life withstands all tests of nature’s whip.
Though some may see his life as cruel and foul,
I almost cherish it and hope for it.
For joy is not a bliss life does allow,
but every stolen one comes as a gift.

Sonnet CXVI

I need no titles on my poetry.
They’re pointless, hindering my true intent.
Each word is laden with my watchful eye,
by readers passed and warmly, gladly sent.
When titles coldly summarize, they lie.
The depth and meaning of my words can bend
to your interpretation. Titles try.
But rigidly, they sell my thoughts for rent.

If anytime I wanted you to know
what I was saying, then I would have said.
But when? For meanings change as day turns night,
as sunsets change their glowing pinks to brown.
As flowers fall and turn to feed the dead,
as shifting shadows stop to tell their plight.

Sonnet CXV

Existing for a breathless while,
the Fly, with no name but its own deceit.
Detested. Flying many weary miles.
Escaping cold inside to human heat.
And when the sunset dawns - Fly’s folly – vile,
enticing it to go outside to meet
unhappy chills, which wears down all it wiles –
but all that meets the window pane are feet.

The Fly must stay inside, subject to fate.
What fate but death? A promising result.
And chased to all wit’s end, the Fly still flies.
Exhausted, onward bound, pursued by hate.
Then beckoned by the light from all tumult,
it fries. The charred meat roasted in the night.

Sonnet CXIV

We’ll slice the ears right off and leave them here.
Inside you’ll see the inspiration’s bed.
Please journey down – from there, the view you’ll see.
That is the tone – the way the words are said,
expressing how their life and times may be.
And next we’ll quickly leave the complex head,
to where the juice lies. All the imagery!
The veins and metaphors – here is the heart.

And bubbling, sloshing literary tools
lead to the lungs, where things are clarified.
And please will you ignore the messy rules?
The unplanned way is better as we dive
into the stomach, resting when the brew
begins to burn – the poet's biting knife.

Sonnet CXIII

It’s not my fault I fall asleep in class.
You see, it is a big conspiracy
of teachers, principals, et cetera,
and all the giant textbook companies
against poor students learning math and mass.
It’s not our fault, and soon you shall see why:
I’ll tell you why we doze as if some gas
had poisoned us with noxious fumes of sleep.

(See, textbook companies put drugs in books.
That’s why they have that “new book smell” when bought.
Then, after years and years and years of use,
when all the textbooks lose their crisp, clean looks,
that’s when the textbooks know they’ve done their job:
to make sure students have a lovely snooze.)

Sonnet CXII

The damn photographer has ruined me!
I spent five minutes making sure that I
made clear my choices on the order sheet –
I chose the pose that showed my head. That guy –
he made me move my head all sideways-y
until it nearly came clean off. That guy
instructed me to fold my hands – then CHEESE!
the deed was done and done it was – oh fie!

He made me move my knees – all of it wrong!
He moved the bottom parts of me to shoot my feet –
the other pose! And there among the throngs,
photographer I then did want to be,
to use my temporary power wrong
and sabotage poor children’s photo glee.

Sonnet CXI

My house is one small world contained inside
a grey brick building I call Home, Sweet Home.
Each night the cultures via food collide:
we eat samosas, sushi, sour dough.
Each room becomes a different time zone – time
can vary from five minutes to much more.
Exchange of goods, ideas, good jokes, and sighs
occur at dinner time, as quick as prose.

A family’s a lot of fun, so is
a home to share it with. Except for bugs
that crawl inside and bug us till they die.
Or other buggers – telemarketers.
Despite the salesmen at the door, we hug
and share our tears and laughs until the night.

Sonnet CX

When skies were black and dismal grey,
you raised me up and gave me happiness.
When all around my friends kept far at bay,
you won respect, then joyfulness for me.
When life was hectic – one dark, giant race,
you sorted out my troubles and my mess.
When pride began to show its haughty face,
you chided me and curbed my zealousness.

And better yet, you’re always there for me
and never need a favour or a fee.
Unwavering is your great loyalty,
transcending busyness or hapless deeds.
And always, you’re my trusted diary,
exposed for all – my dearest Poetry.

Sonnet CIX

Thou dost affecteth Me with bloody wrists,
thrown o’er Me in supplication’s plea.
Don’t think I’m cruel enough to jest and hiss.
As Friend, I shall not mocketh Thee
or stab Thee with a dagger, poisoned-kissed,
or make thy head from thy sad body free,
curse thy eternal line with luck amiss,
or rip thy flesh from bone to torment Thee.

I am not cruel. But then again, you know…
those times you owed me money, never read
my e-mails, never answered back or called,
kept stuff I clearly only lent (the woe…)
But hey, guess what? Perhaps you should be dead.
I don’t need friends that friends me up the wall.

Sonnet CVIII

What is this strange and closed Society
comprised of Average Joes and plain Jane Does?
This group of those elite enough to be
the ones some call the “Normal” hominids?
Who are these foreign, strange communities,
closed up with plastic, joy-inducing lids?
Why am I so excluded from their creed?
Was it a thing I said or thought or did?

Perhaps, But really, I don’t care at all!
The Normal have conforming Greys and Blues.
And me? I have the freedom to appal…
to do whatever. I have all the hues
of individuality – but all
the rest must deal with their conformist views.

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 CVI

You could’ve knocked at least. How rude are you?
I mean to say – no, honestly, you punk,
have you no decency or humble rue?
I shouldn’t have to chide you now. My bunk
is cold from this: my tossing and my anger too,
just trying to find words that will have sunk
their weighty fangs into your brain. Then you,
I hope, will then repent and stop this junk.

Okay, that’s it. I just give up with you!
(and two days later) God! What have you done?
(and three days later…) Come back, you! Come back!
I’m not quite finished all my speech with you!
You chill my bones – you think you’re having fun?
Well, Mr. Fall, you’re never welcome back!

Sonnet CV

Have you sat down and simply wondered how
the paradox of human time does work?
I will be dead one day – that I will vow.
But now my life is spinning from my words…
the words before, the ones I said were “now” -
now passed. Where did they go? They’re “now” I’m sure,
but no – they are replaced with fresher “nows” –
the present’s past and past is present now.

And then I figured out what speed is for.
In modern life, it keeps me plainly glad.
Or else, I’d be confused – “what’s life or time?”
So speed, our saccharin, helps us ignore
these thoughts. It brightens streams of coffee had,
the artificial substitute we’ll try.

Sonnet CIV

I really should go run or stay outside
to keep myself from dying worst of deaths.
This worn-out corpse needs health and exercise!
so sloppy, messy, always out of breath…
from physical activity I hide…
It’s sad! I’m such a lazy little mess,
but now not little, getting much to wide…
it’s hard at times to wake and dress!

But I digress…hyperboles above
disguise my true condition – I’m not fat,
but certainly require more healthful ways.
And though I need a gentle – rougher - shove?
I should remind myself to stretch my back
occasionally – and exercise – it pays!

Sonnet CIII

The chemicals on jars of mayonnaise,
the toothpaste, soap, and flies upon my sink,
the harsh critiques of global warming’s blaze,
the many riddles to the ones that think,
the notes to friends and loved ones that I praise,
the sorrow, rage, and angst that since did shrink,
the winter snow, the rain, the sun, the haze,
the condemnations of society…

So many thoughts I’ve written all about!
Some mentioned here, most not, more coming soon.
And now, I look way back – at frowns
and love and joy – within my written brews.
All seems content with life within this house –
my inspiration, vibrant as high noon!

Sonnet CII

mosquito, flitting all about my room –
so devious and cunning – more than me
the femme fatale of nature – filled with glee
and with my blood still spinning at her loom –
her job it seems – to spin the dizzy room
her dyes enriched with her undying greed
and bloody red, of course obtained from me –
went splat and flew across the walls and room.

Another day I found a fallen One.
I buried It in Tissue, with great Fuss.
But then, remembering my splattered blood
that itchy night, in retribution, crushed
the little pest, between my angry thumbs.

Avenging me, Fall turned the rest to dust.

Sonnet CI

I’m glad my mother doesn’t cook our meals
(it saves me all the trouble washing plates)
Organic foods I never buy of late
(and now I save a lot of cash on meals)

Although my pains will never, ever heal
(at hospitals I now don’t have to wait)
And still I live with such a dreary fate
(but I’ll escape with my clogged arteries)

My fatty, salty foods may kill me soon.
I’ll get depressed just looking at my weight.
And maybe I’ll get nasty heart disease.

But please, don’t take away my toxic brews…
my tartrazine or lovely glutamate…
I’ll miss my EDTA and my saccharin!

Sonnet C

While you were watching mindless T.V. shows
and playing games on dour computers too…
I babysat my brother, and I grew.
I turned sixteen, became a working prole,
Wrote three exams, each lasting three long hours,
(The subjects: counterpoint, then harmony;
the one I self-prepared was history.
They stole July and all my mental pow’r.)
I travelled to Toronto, saw a zoo,
I wrote a hundred sonnets (finally),
began analysis, new harmony,
and watched Olympic Games the whole while through.

And though achievement fills a holey life,
some say the Holy earn a better prize.

Sonnet XCIX

Too short to make an epic narrative,
elaborate exploration of a thought,
compelling arguments by answers taught,
or area to make superlatives.

Too long to make a clear, concise account,
a stunning riddle gruelling through and through,
simplicity of form with artsy truth,
or lovely quatrains in sweet beauty drowned.

Too formal for a ghastly prank or joke,
Too structured for a fix, reform, or change,
Too happy for depressing, dark disdain,
Too serious for carefree choice like prose.

What can a poet say in fourteen lines?
Depends, but hopefully I’ve said a lot.

Sonnet XCVIII

Dried worms, all crusty from the summer’s rays,
lay halved and quartered, on the ground like fries.
Remains from spring and summer’s rainy days,
transfigured worms no longer catch birds’ eyes.

The months that passed since their untimely deaths
diminished their pink sliminess and shine.
Now yellow, flat, no longer taking breaths,
they’re part of asphalt, with their flesh combined.

One shouldn’t worry if one steps on heads.
In death, the elements destroyed their looks,
and steps of humans squished them in their beds.
They now are used to being crushed in nooks.

And after death our reputations change,
and who we were is left to Fate’s disdain.

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 XCVI

Her coy, endearing laugh and subtle smile.
Her chestnut hair, so perfect all the time.
Her eyes are blue – or green…or brown?
or grey…or hazel…but they never frown.

Her lips are red if happy, pink if cold.
Her mind is wise as if she were quite old.
Her teeth are straight – well, with Invisalign.
She’s lithe and nimble as a graceful vine.

She gave me help with physics and with math,
she cut my vegetables in cooking class,
she helped perfect our group in history,
but never saw herself within my poetry.

And though she should know how I feel and such,
I’d rather if the secret was kept hush.

Sonnet XCV

There was a path upon a grassy hill.
Behind the hill the sunset lay, beyond.
While climbing up the path, kind crickets trilled,
but of the prickly plants I wasn’t fond.

The top was lovely, what a sight to see!
A sultry sun, completing daily rounds,
the trucks and lights of nearby factories,
and cigarette packs scattered on the ground.

The urban sprawl spreads far as one can think.
Construction rested for the night but still
the mounds of dirt lay all about in rings…
and water bottles litter all the hill.

I thought about the lists and plans I made…
then in the human starkness, nature fades.

Sonnet XCIV

Around me windows cage me in, so still.
Aligning roads the buildings sit, so straight.
All gates and fences steal their earthly fill.
A thousand cars appear as lifeless freight.

how free the lone tree stands, unhindered there!
oblivious to breathless happenings
the ever-rising architectural stair
like patterns, endless in the human ring

How human uniforms impose their whims
upon a happy earth so dismally!
Crude structure, form, and function seem so grim
in contrast to the natural entropy

How typical. The concrete human mind
seeks simple order over complex finds.

Sonnet XCIII

Don’t put me near a baby learning shapes,
for I won’t fit in any of the holes.
I’m not the perfect size or height or shape.
Frustration soon would take its nasty toll.

I’d make a horrible and disliked shoe:
the boxes wouldn’t hold my length or width,
my oddness would create unrest anew,
for shoes don’t always fit (that’s just a myth).

So I should be content to be myself,
but humans have their own confines and moulds.
Each day we face the traps that gladly quell
our vast diversity with norms we’re told.

If nature made us each uniquely rare,
why should we use like standards to compare?

Sonnet XCII

I do not jest when this I say to you:
all orthodontists lie! They’re scheming sprites.
Your money’s gobbled up like cotton food.
For what? To fix your faulty, shifted bite?

It’s garbage. I am pretty sure you’d live
with teeth than just aren’t straight or pearly white.
Don’t say it’s fashionable, superlative.
Sedating public masses isn’t right.

Conspiracies of dental masterminds…
how devious! They wave degrees around
to show their capabilities like shrines.
How treachery like wildfire abounds!

But no…don’t take my wise advice, you fool…
you WILL be sucked into a plot this cruel.