Sonnet CCXIII

I’m now a country mouse. My field is grand and free,
my dwelling’s lots of fun; behind’s a large, old barn
(I told my rodent friends, who thought it was a yarn)!
The city’s far away – and such a sight to see!
At night, illuminated, lights shine merrily,
like islands, pricked in pins of pink beyond the barn.
And standing mute as mice, the trees become a cryptic cairn,
a bunch of waves “good-night”, procuring sleep for me.

Before, I was a city mouse that lived away;
in domiciles of dreary sameness did I stay.

But now I am a country mouse, so proud with joy!
My life out here in hamlets, small and filled with ease
is better. Still, it’s hard for every place to please:
some like the city; others love more rustic joy!

Sonnet CCXII

A year of goals and plans to make my life less bad,
agendas, long-term blueprints, failed attempts at more.
A month of disappointment, plain frustration’s war,
exhaustion’s beast, woke from the sleepless nights I had.
A week of writing, adding, talking, being mad,
obsessing, doing homework, doing projects, more.
A day of stress, remorse, upset, and times that bore,
and yelling, screaming, hurting, brawling, being sad.

Thank goodness ice cream, popcorn – foods like that – exist!
Without them, life would be a dismal, sombre list.

So coming home from school, unhappy as the sky,
I chug my cola., eat my chips. When Mom comes home,
she cooks more comfort foods. And like a greedy gnome,
I eat and eat until my heart’s content – or try!

Sonnet CCXI

On rainy days, the ladders come to play with me.
They drop my player down a serpent’s cruel abyss
and make me wish that space was where I got to miss.
Alas I’m never petulant for long – for glee
is just a toss away. Surmounting ladders three,
I’m winning! But my brother’s close behind, amiss.
Then soon the tables turn and then my happiness
is fleeting as my fortune, dimming with each leap.

How quickly hours pass! What fun surmounts us here!
Perhaps I’ll play this game again, each day each year!

Alas, the rain subsides. The sun resumes its rounds.
The electricity comes back to all the lights.
But staying in our home, we watch the thudding pounds
of villains losing on T.V. in awesome fights.

Sonnet CCX

The hats I wear are many, varied, large, and small:
my music hat is vast and eats away my time,
but brings me endless joy, residing in its prime;
my academic hat encompasses my all;
my thinking cap is great, but can’t but help but rhyme
in iambs, forming sonnets; last, my hat of dimes
is small, though teaching kids for pay’s a joyous brawl.

But like an average Joe, my hats of family
remain supreme, as brother, son, and happy teen.

Though being part of such an awesome bunch of folks
is daunting, frightening, and strange at times, though fun.
I love the hugs, the bliss, the kisses, endless pokes,
but more than that, the love we share’s a glowing sun!

Sonnet CCIX

I used to listen to a station on the dial.
It plays my favourite music of the old Baroque
and other “ancient” times – the waltzes slowly poke,
the overtures are bristling with a youthful guile –
but now the station has become so cruelly vile.

Of late, the station seems a bit less old Baroque,
and more commercial. Stupid ads appear and poke,
those bristling words I hate, as foul as my bile.

But no, the station hasn’t changed a lot these years.
Alas, perchance I was mistaken in my fears?

And yes, it’s stayed the same this while, although I’ve grown.
It’s me that’s changed, grown up, matured, and turned more wise.
I see that blinding innocence of youth has flown,
and in its place I see manipulation’s vice.

Sonnet CCVIII

The fish I used to own was red - a betta fish –
the kind that fight and come from far-away Thailand.
But then it rotted, turning pink, then white like sand,
and then it died, afloat despite my fervent wish.
But then we bought another pair of lovely fish,
the one was chalico, the other lightish-bland.
One day, my brother (two) had dumped their food – like sand –
into their bowl. They soon became as mobile as a dish.

(They ate too much and subsequently had to halt.
They died of greed, although it wasn’t all their fault.)

And so we have no fish. We bought no more to keep.
We thought they’d bring food luck. We thought they’d be a charm.
Instead, we murdered them. And thus, they made us weep.
Instead of luck for us, we dished away some harm.

Sonnet CCVII

With wild abandon, all the kids would run around.
We’d messify the basement like a big stampede.
We’d moo like cows, we’d screech like birds, we’d mount a steed
and fly like cheetahs, searching like a wise, old hound.
We’d play some board games. Bored, we’d board a couch and read.
And then we’d watch T.V. until we had to eat.
We’d go upstairs, complaining, making such a sound.

But none of us would eat a thing. We’d want to play.
For weeks we waited for this frabjous party day!

We’d run downstairs and raise a ruckus there once more.
We couldn’t tell how late it was – we didn’t care –
We only wanted fun and played our truth or dare -
but then they had to leave, departing out the door.

Sonnet CCVI

A Chicken and a Dog went out to see the Frog.
Said Chicken to the Dog, “Where is that Frog to-day?”
Said Dog to Chicken fair, “Perhaps he’s gone to play!”
The Chicken and the Dog searched at the barren bog,
but Chicken and the Dog found not their friend the Frog.
They searched the lily pads, the willows solemn grey,
they searched the river green, they searched the livelong day –
but Chicken and the Dog found not their friend the Frog.

Then meeting them at night, that Frog appeared at last
and brought with him a ship that moved so very fast!

They rode off to the moon, to see what they could find.
They had a lot of fun, and more as time had passed,
for friends may be quite late and may be always last,
but never think a friend shall purge you from their mind.

Sonnet CCV

An English teacher is a nasty code to break.
Until you know their wants, until you know their style,
their code remains a cryptic one. With crafty guile,
they mask just what they want. Their comments are so vague –
“For next time, work on depth!” – and while I slowly break,
their code’s intact. And all this angry, busy while
(of writing), some elitist few have cracked the style
and never get below a hundred – though I ache!

It takes me ages still to find what teachers want.
And while I search and search, my marks shall mock and taunt.

Destructive, burning wickedly, my hands are hot.
And seething, taking what I wrote – at them I flaunt;
the codes of teachers chip away as them I daunt…
and now I spurn all wicked things that I was taught.

Sonnet CCIV

Like Mr. Thomas Alva Edison perhaps,
I’ll build some great and cool invention, like a stick
that reaches to the distant, tiny, stupid switch
that operates the lights. The stick would gently tap
the switch and all the lights would turn right off, like that.
I wouldn’t have to leave my comfy bed to switch
the lights, in darkness, off. I’d take my handy stick
and switch the switch. What fun I’d have with things like that!

Alas, the use for such a stick is limited
and wouldn’t market very well, despite my bid.

However, writing like a nutty madman here,
my thoughts, ideas, and such are never limited.
And many buy my thoughts, although I have no bid,
for poetry can move the public all to tears.

Sonnet CCIII

If I had any superpower, I would fly
so noxious transportation would be thusly spurned
for more efficient travel of the soaring birds.
I’d fly away, up in azure of cloudless skies
without emitting toxic fumes from dirty pipes
of cars. The world would be a distant, far-off earth
because I’d be so high above, a human bird,
so graceful, tumbling, spinning, dancing in the sky.

But in the chilly winter, could I stand the cold?
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t dare – I’m not that bold.

And thus, my crazy dreams of flying end right there.
I’d rather be wrapped up in comfy warmth than cold,
but birds, who fly and fly and fly to Mexico,
endure a massive trip for measly, humid air.

Sonnet CCII

The cooking days in cooking class were tons of fun:
there was a silly time I added tablespoons
of salt instead of smaller teaspoons in the food;
another time we made some cinnamon-y buns,
but made the larger, double recipe and some
had overflowed and burned into a blackened soot.
And when we used the powdered broth and not the soup,
our pasta turned too salty for our hungry tongues.

And though we had our share of small and great mistakes,
we kept on making cookies, mac and cheese, and cakes.

And so our cooking days last year were fun and odd:
we laughed at what we did and how we slyly faked
to like the food we cooked despite our small mistakes.
And yet, we learned so much, by silly errors taught.

Sonnet CCI

Away, away, some distant galaxy away,
suspended in a murky fluid, dark and red,
the dancing bubbles floated ‘round my tiny head
and splashed around as all my little fingers played.
While kicking Mother’s stomach every single place,
my Mother’s yummy nutrients had kept me fed.
Then bright and warm one noon, born on a pallid bed,
I left my mother’s womb to see the brand-new day.

And what a splendid day it was! So loud and bright!
I saw the noisy world and screamed with all my might.

My mother, with a home-cut, shabby haircut, said,
“Oh what a splendid day it is!” Her face was bright.
She saw her little baby, hugged him with her might,
and he was I, a little baby, wet and red.

Sonnet CC

I used to live in Texas long ago.
The weather always shined so languorously.
In fall, there was a fleeting little breeze
and winter was a joke – there was no snow.
Our small apartment was beside a road
with palm trees bordering, so slim and high.
The flat was small and filled with moths and flies,
and cockroaches had pestered the abode.
Longfellow Elementary School was near,
and dusty baseball parks were near as well.
I came home daily, watching Spanish shows
and missed my mom, who wasn’t very near.
She studied in Purdue, said she was well,
and kissed her letters, sending lipstick home.

Sonnet CXCIX

A student is a chunk of tofu, pure,
so soft, and ready to be crafted by
a teacher’s words, which live and never die
and always have a studious allure.

And teachers cut and dice and chop, for sure.
Their cuts are permanent and never die,
imprinting messages into the minds
of tofu-children, sliced beyond a cure.

And cooking them in batches in a wok,
the teachers throw their sauces at the kids
and tofu-children easily absorb
the flavours of their teacher’s boring talk.
And one day, thrown in darkness and amidst
a teacher’s test, they’re chewed up, evermore.

Sonnet CXCVIII

The weeks or two when Halloween had passed
was time to find the box of candy treats.
I searched and searched for all those yummy eats
and soon I found the treasured box at last.
Alas, I found it wasn’t, very fast.
It was in fact the year-old, mouldy treats
I didn’t like. I searched behind the seats,
the cupboards, tables – everywhere I passed.

I couldn’t find it. Angry, frenzied now,
a chocolate demon thrashed within me still,
awaiting candy bars to satisfy
its candy craving. Tearing all the house
apart, I found the box and ate my fill,
then hid it in my room to keep it mine.

Sonnet CXCVII

We have some time each day to read our books.
We call it SURF. For twenty minutes, mute,
we read without a qualm or class dispute;
we read of villains, heroes, brutes, and crooks.

Alas, I glance around with furtive looks:
instead I treat this “SURF” time as my loot
and write instead, which fits me like a suit.
Thus nervous apprehension hotly cooks…
for violating what the time is for,
I felt quite anxious writing sonnets there,
for teachers can be lenient or strict
and both exist today and evermore -
so play on whims and tiptoe everywhere
or agitate and freedom shall constrict.

Sonnet CXCVI

When six years old, my hands were quickly taught
to write in printing first. My b’s were d’s
(I mixed them up), but still I persevered.
The more I wrote, the neater letters got.
Amanuensis to my teacher’s scrawl,
when eight years old, my eyes saw cursive b’s
and copied them, enslaved to lettering.
And quickly, cursive writing stole my paws,
and everything I wrote was cursive script.
I kept on writing cursively in school,
for teachers never said which one to pick,
until one day my penmanship was whipped
by criticism. Mr. Scott said, cruel,
that cursive was too messy.
                                        Back I switched.

Sonnet CXCV

The hidden message of my spectacles
reveal themselves when suddenly they break:
when fragile arms are snapped when lightly pulled,
when during cleaning, lenses fly and break,
when nose pads slip, escaping to the lull
of irretrievability, to stay.

And subsequently, breaking them unfolds
a glasses’ strange enigma, like a cat
awakening from slumber large and fat,
to show us just how frail he is – and old.

Thus parts appeared before my eyes like gold:
the nose pads, arms, a lens, and parts like that.
They screamed their frantic memo when I sat
on pairs of them – “Please fix me now!” was told.

Sonnet CXCIV

I waited for my blue retainer when
my braces fled. Two days had passed before
they put my piano sticker in the core
- a nice allusion to my hobby - then
they gave the jewel to me on Thursday, hence
I wore it like a prize – a painful ore
or gem – from months of suffering and gore
retrieved. This trinket was the treasured end!

Well, now I take it out and look at it
instead of wearing it like I should do.
But then, remembering my given rules,
I stick it in and swallow quite a bit.
My words are foreign, odd and strangely new,
the work of my retainer, brightly blue.

Sonnet CXCIII

Machinery and scissors, large and great.
had chipped away and shined and flew about
my teeth, obedient like frightened clouds,
directed to those instruments with hate,
a-brooding gloomily below their weight.
And yellow sparks of bonding glue had found
their nasty way, with water, to my round,
astonished eyes, insulted by the spray.

But it was done, at last. I rinsed my mouth.
Yet put back to the chair once more and shocked,
they put a pinkish mixture in my mouth
to take impressions, gagging me with love.
When done, they let me rinse my battered mouth
once more. And thus the braces were removed.

Sonnet CXCII

That day was dim and filled with crude remorse.
“I don’t want braces!” one could hear me pout,
but nonetheless, they took the spacers out.
I lay sprawled out while tools had screamed and roared.

Then I remembered, early on, before,
my teeth grew fast and fast they fall right out
and Mom had said, without a swaying doubt,
that all my teeth were pearly white - and more.

But then I fell at Sea World, chipped a tooth.
The poor replacement squeezed the rest around.
But sitting, flipping through a book of hues,
the times with braces in my head were found
and almost sad, I chose the solemn blue
retainer. Then my braces came right out.

Sonnet CXCI

MY GOD.
                Barack Obama
                                       was your choice.
He was, or wasn’t he? He’s worth your vote!
He’s better anyhow than Mister Old
and Miss Alaska-Gal, all bright and coy.

MY GOD. I actually don’t care a bit
to study for my math test. For this day –
MY GOD…this night of voting – isn’t play.
It’s real. It’s now. It’s not some fad to hit.

With seconds, minutes left, go vote or think
at least, politically. Discard the rags
of commonplace and trivial pursuits.
Don’t let your government and life just sink!
Take action, make your nation firm, not sag!
Or if you won’t, just watch the goddamn news!

Sonnet CXC

I wish I could leap backward to the sky,
remain there, never to come back to Earth.
I’d leave the atmosphere and upwards fly
to lunar lands and planetary dirt.
I’d dance around the rings of Saturn’s side
and float in gases blue and cold and pure.
I’d float back then to burning suns and fry
in lovely warmth and searing hot allure.

But landed back on Earth, in dying warmth,
I wish for more exotic life and times.
But writing and escaping like a bird,
I fly beyond confining dirt and tar
and soar to bliss or tears - or more sublime -
to places never seen, through magic words.

Sonnet CLXXXIX

How long ago those pills had danced inside
my maddened head, the key to sleepy death.
It seems like yesterday the water’s breath
was comforting, a friend that would abide
and smother me in welcome suicide.
It seems the plans I made are new and fresh,
exciting, festive, joyful happiness
that since departed as all thoughts should die.

But thankfully all that is gone and now
replaced by hope – more truthful in its form,
more loyal in its character but proud.
No more shall sadness land beside my shores
or in my seas. Instead, within my ground
no fears abound nor cruelly wage their war.

Sonnet CLXXXVIII

A pity autumn colours fleet too soon:
I would have gathered them within the arms
of memory, but now I am alarmed
because their beauty is escaping far too soon
to far off worlds, of which there’s endless noon.
And there is where great happiness is farmed
and painted with my fleeting hues afar,
conditioned with the silver rays of moons.
But staying with me skeletons of trees
shall comfort me, as aging, turn to white.
Their emptiness apparent from their knees
and skinny arms, both starved by gloomy night.
Yet neither trees nor I shall cry or weep,
but reach toward the moons where losses die.

Sonnet CLXXXVII

I’ve missed the precious boat eternally
and never to return, it’s gone for good.
What shall I do but what I rightly should?
I’ll buy more tickets for more trips to sea
and board more boats before they slyly flee.
I’d catch the ones I missed – I really would –
but boats will leave me wishing that I could,
as all is lost, like sailors drowned at sea.

For life is turbulent and sometimes mess,
forever sloshing, passing by on waves,
destroying hopes, replacing them at best
with newer ones that give us dormant grace,
although we know we’re never put to rest,
but always sent to toil, mouth agape.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

The morning, groggy grey and solemn still,
had hushed the breeze, which wheezed so peevishly.
The churning of the bus was blasphemy
to quiet dawn, reflected in the hills.
The world was blur beyond the window sill,
perched silently above my leather seat
inside that lurid bus. I saw the trees,
the houses far away, a mill,
and then the cemetery by the church,
a little patch of names on tombstone squares.
My memory, by all those names incurred,
remembered all those names from everywhere,
the names of streets named after those who were,
an everlasting farmer’s tribute there.

Sonnet CLXXXV

In Hamlets far away in Canada,
there was a holiday called Halloween
where children, kind, obedient, or mean –
regardless of their character – were glad,
as all had knocked on doors of wood and glass
and then received their fill of charming sweets.
But only after yelling “trick or treat!”
(of course), and making sure the giver wasn’t mad,
a pedophile or rapist (or they’d run).
Kids got a heap of varied candies from
the teens a-writing essays on Macbeth,
the mothers watching husbands with their sons
(or daughters), grandmas left alone with rum…
and thrice the cauldron charmed their dreaming breaths.

Sonnet CLXXXIV

Who are they? Bumblebees and witches, fruit.
From house to house and yard to yard they fly:
a fairy princess or an action guy;
perhaps a pumpkin, stout, rotund, and cute,
or lovely mermaids, lithe or more obtuse.
In any case, their flashlights light the night
with glowing beauty simple as their plight
of chasing candy down in scattered troupes.

And “trick or treat!” they call, but only “thanks”
are whittled out of them when parents chide,
apologise, and carry them away.
Though happy with their sweet and chocolate weight,
soon all our little demons flee inside,
exhausted, thirsty, itchy, pulling pranks.

Sonnet CLXXXIII

The popcorn’s littered on the ground and rug
and in their hair. Like fireflies and moths
dismembered from the night and swiftly lost
(astray in happy warmth and friendly hugs).
Vermillion from movie marathons,
their beady eyes are flaming ochre suns,
persistent, gnawing movies; mouths a-froth;
the monsters all around the clock are up.

But fattened from the peanut butter’s taupe,
they’re hungry still and feed their growing greed
with movies, scary, wrapping them in fear.
But also wrapped in blankets, red and mauve,
they scream and yell and cackle, shout and screech;
but all in fun, for none shall shed a tear.