Sonnet CCCV

I tumbled in a world of poetry, unknowing then
it planted many unborn seeds within my growing head.
When life became more cruel and difficult and more bereft,
I wrote. Those early seeds exploded, eating up the sad.
It turned to times I lost what little that I used to have –
and namely things like dignity and peace and happiness.
and even cherished poetry was causing buoyant debt;
the rhymes turned darker, weaker, pushing me toward the mad.

And how has poetry transfigured me? I’ve learnt to live,
and to express, of course. I steal the world a second time
to take in all its details differently and make them mine.

Now everything’s a poem and everything has sharpened since.
I can’t say phrases properly – they always tend to rhyme!
How much my life has changed – now poetry’s my way of life!

Sonnet CCCIV

There’s something I forgot – I dropped it on the way to school.
It’s lost now, covered by the snow, and never to be found.
The very thing I lost is buried in these whitish mounds
and stubbornly stays buried in its snowy tomb.

I look up at the blazing sky and feel like quite the fool.
I’ve known this thing before perhaps – perhaps it’s still around,
or left back at the house – perhaps it’s lost back at the town?
The thing confounds me with its game. Its riddle’s strange and cruel.

Perhaps you’ve lost a twin to mine – a spool of thought escaping.
When reckless, threads pop through your head and drift off to the snow.
And though you search and search, it’s somewhere else– that much you know.

But where, exactly? Was it critical, this thing?
Or something trivial? I walk away and hope my brain’s
intact, or other things will spill and make me more inane.

Sonnet CCCIII

Two singers – sisters maybe – frozen on a tapestry –
gaze back at me, emotions still unchanged, though years have flown.
Who knows how long ago their faces first were stitched and sewn –
my guess the Renaissance – their clothes exude its majesty.

One gown is crimson-red; her sister’s, blue-green like the sea.
Who knows who was the prettier – they looks as twins – or foes.
Or maybe neither lived – they’re dreams that no one living knows -
but either way, they’re shrouded in their girlish mystery.

Eternalized forever, in this lovely piece of art,
they set us pondering, with wooden instruments in hand;
their mouths sing unheard notes, which twist their graceful dance.

Dismembering from their tongues, complex harmonies depart,
unravelling in our minds, and waking creativity.
Their voices die, yet live again with grand imagining.

Sonnet CCCII

I gaze upon my precious fingertips as if they’re gold.
You’ve never looked upon your own? They swirl and dance like birds,
their curlicues like hieroglyphs – some foreign future’s words?
I marvel at their shapely curves, a wonder to behold.

Each cell was crafted wonderfully – each doing as it’s told.
I gasp when moving all of them – cohesively – they work,
all lumped together on my thumb, the link up like a herd,
reacting similarly, swift. What suppleness unfolds!

I’m never bored on looking at our digits’ old refrain.
The handiwork is more than fine – it’s masterful and grand.
The shape is pleasing – so’s the grain! A finger’s never bland.

I marvel at our wondrous hands, and digits on their plane,
supreme in craftsmanship and form, unmatched in eminence –
our bodies still defy the change of tastes with excellence!

Sonnet CCCI

I think – at times – I cannot live without my poetry.
I’d die without a haunting verse - some mirror of the world;
some puzzle clarifying life where other methods err –
and yet, I’ve lived a week with naught a poem by my seat.

But have lived? And have I truly breathed? And have I seen?
There’s never breath without a poem’s chilling murmur under,
and never sight without a poem’s complex face to ponder.
Is life a life without my strange, beloved poetry?

It’s better never understanding odd, poetic hints;
to never know a poem’s cunning power more than ink;
to never read a line until the mind begins to shrink –

than knowing how elliptical it is, and radiant:
how scarce and well-placed crystals shear the heart like swords of steel,
disrupting dull routine with contemplation’s seal.

Sonnet CCC

She wrapped her woollen shawl against her tender bones,
as frail and white as freshly fallen snow outside.
The snowflakes mutely sprinkled gingerly like rice,
then melted, leaving tarnished grasses to the cold.
She mutely waited by her simple, ashen phone
and thought of all her children’s bulging, frog-like eyes,
with wonder, watching early snows and all the ice -
but that was long ago, and thoughts like that are old.

She missed her role as mother, though. The time seemed brief,
yet full, like festive winters passing on the breeze.

She waited for her older husband’s waking words
and wondered at the emptiness within. She saw
as sparrows took to morning flight while mother birds
would wait with worry, loneliness beginning, raw.

Sonnet CCXCIX

Her crimson nails were blazing on the windowpane,
competing with the burning bushes down below.
The autumn wind was blowing children to their homes,
the afternoon already finished up again.
She put her duster down and watched them pass and play,
like dandelion puffs now drifting past her toes.
Their hair was jet against their shirts like granite crows,
their shirts now wrinkled like the leaves – some mother’s pain.

A horrid wistfulness welled up inside of her
as laughs rang through the window’s crack to pester her.

She closed the window, shutting out the bitter chill.
She has her money, home, a husband – all so nice –
but not a boy or girl. And then, before her eyes,
the school-kids passed beyond her placid windowsill.

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 CCXCVII

Outside, the cherry blossoms litter grass with pink
like joy, now visible. Contentment fills her heart
and pruning pretty plants, she starts toward her art.
Beside, her baby’s sleeping, gurgling like a sink,
her stomach undulating like the rosy spring.
The dried-up leaves upon her plant she stores apart
each time she snips their crumbling softness, crushed to stars.
The task completed now, she sketches, casually.

Her pencil’s rapid scratches send her wondering:
to children, actions should be done more carefully.

She cannot snip her careless faults like dying leaves,
and rash mistakes could never be erased or fixed.
Unlike a sketch, unlike a leaf, her deeds transfix,
like spring’s unfolding captivates the mind’s reprieve.

Sonnet CCXCVI

There’s daily proof the sun adores the glowing moon:
he clears the stars come morning, spreading out his arms,
and dusts the sky until he sweeps away the dark.
What sweet devotion, lasting past the heated noon!

But like a housewife, cooking, setting out the spoons –
his work’s in vain, and ruined by a single star.
Her children ruin beds, then tear the house apart;
his lover smears the spotless sky with starry shoes.

And yet, it’s loving effort keeping “house at hame”,
and sheer compassion keeping wicked anger tame.

So, still he waits, his ardour flaming like his light.
He waits eternally until the ceiling cools;
his hot anticipation’s mighty as a fool’s –
and steadily he loves, that husband of the night!

Sonnet CCXCV

No King deserves such precious gems of finest quartz!
Look how they shine – like diamonds on the frozen earth,
so crafted carefully in perfect, rounded pearls,
a lacework crystal painted on our earthly floor.

No Queen deserves these diadems, just past my door!
Observe these clear tiaras, lacing trees in mirth,
their arborescent vanity a tool of hurt,
disdaining icy sceptres, shining from the porch.

No royal house can purchase such bijouterie,
which serves to decorate that Mother Nature’s greed.

Her winter vesture’s free for us to violate:
her gown of finest snow is dotted with our prints;
her polished nails upon the windows, ruined by our heated fist;
her valuables, with hungry eyes, we steal and desecrate.

Sonnet CCXCIV

I sit here, thinking now, of love and life – and you.
I think that love must be a boat of gentle size,
with us its former passengers. Within we’d daily ride,
contained within our pair, unseeing of the blue.
If overturned, we’d find ourselves in seas anew,
like those still plashing in experience’s tide.
We sailed each day to find where satisfaction lies,
but never reached it still intact – we’ve split in two.

I swear there’s always fish within that sea,
and one will be the one for me – or close. We’ll see.

But our first maritime adventure into love
shall be remembered – or at least by sea bound me.

I think I see you now – you’re drifting calm and free
- away – unto the brighter sky, as if a dove -

Sonnet CCXCIII

It stood there mutely, acting like some hellish hound.
The breeze bashed both of us, and crackled in between,
electric, cackling like a hag; as crudely mean.
Its eyes ablaze, they flamed like fire with no sound,
as hiding mine, I searched the barren ground.
I flinched – he snapped – uprooting like canine fiend.
But hindered by his metal chain, he couldn’t reach me,
as carefully, I crossed the road, with fearful leaps and bounds.

He barked and snarled, and looked quite helpless as it seemed,
and in my glad escape, I raced away and beamed.

When morning came again, I set about my trek,
prepared to face its flaring muzzle if it neared.
Around the bend, I cautious walked – now more prepared –
but saw no dog. I almost missed his flaming breath.

Sonnet CCXCII

I closed the door, then opened it for just a peek.
The light invaded, charging from the corridor.
I gasped, and gladly shut the ashen door once more.
And heading to my silent bed, I feel antique,
my limbs as wooden as a dresser, calmly meek.
The night is welcome, taking me toward its core,
as lying down, I close my eyes and hope to snore,
so weary of the world and all the things I seek.

How easily we fly into that final sleep,
at last prepared for nightly graveyard where we’ll keep.

The weary day, come dusk, succumbs to restful night
and yet, there shall be times the night proves permanent.
Although it’s hard to die unto our cerement,
into that final sleep – how easily we fly!

Sonnet CCXCI

We go to death as easy as a sum to solve,
but struggle through our lives, obsessing over much.
We struggle, even growing close to death and push
to keep ourselves the younger selves we’ve come to love.
Old age and death – these things we fight until they come.
An yet – we go to them quite easily and hush
as quickly as a baby to his nap. We gush –
we gush like mad to stop it – yet it comes, quite dull,
at last; we wish it wasn’t easy leaving happy life –
the treasure cherished heavily and loved like strife,
and yet we struggle through, at last to end the trip,
but still regretful. Coming swift and suddenly,
there’s little hesitation. Meet death like a dream –
and blindly grope the livelong way until you see.

Sonnet CCXC

A worthy novel grips me for a week or two.
Upon its end I find myself dissatisfied.
The themes are dull, the scenes are plain, the prose is dry.
Sparse millions of phrases drift unto the new.

A poem’s brief. Just forty words suffice for you.
And yet, those cautious forty words stick more in mind
than fifty thousand, spread within a novel’s bind.
Poetic words are crafted so they make us brood -
until – they’re solved – those riddles needing different keys,
depending on the eye unlocking what they keep.

Unlike a novel – poems stay with us, for life.
No tree nor sky nor robin looks the same again.
We wonder how our poets craft such skilful rhymes
that so succinctly captive the lives we tend.

Sonnet CCLXXXIX

Do you remember me? I’m droplets in the rain
now perching on your eaves. I’m dreams you never cry
and tiny snowflakes, mingling in the azure skies.
I’m every happiness, each beaming face, each step to pain.
I’m jealousy, and worry; anger and disdain.
I’m carried in the breeze – at least my thoughts would fly –
I’m burning in the crimson leaves, and cooled by ice,
which drips so dangerous, above your window pane.

And though you’ve faded well, I still remember you –
some memory of fall now buried in the new!

No sun shall be a greater happiness – no moon
a sadder memory of lengthy hours since;
No snow a colder wickedness – no bitter wind
a frigid, madder leap toward the passing noon.

Sonnet CLXXXVIII

L’amour fleurit comme tout les noires et sombres nuits:
une fleur si belle et si mystérieuse comme toi.
Mais tout les temps tu fuis le jour et moi,
tes émotions, ombreuses; ses mots, le cœur de bruit.
Tu sais la joie? Je pense que non. La crise te suit;
les grandes tristesses sont tous tes grands nuages, si froid.
Mais toutes tes gouttes de pluie sont des larmes de moi –
et tu est insouciante et comme la lune, conduis.

Tu es la chose le jour fait comme un mal mémoire,
qui reste, puis, quitte ciel chaque souvenir de moi.

Mais maintenant, j’habite après la nuit de moi.
Le jour m’embrase, et chaque étreinte me donne la perte,
la perte de la mémoire, la perte de perte en perte –
et maintenant, j’oublie la sombre nuit, je crois.

Sonnet CLXXXVII

The sun invades me, blocked by bars the blinds devise.
Reflecting on my window’s vile betrayal Now,
the snippets of our time together Then abound.
My shock is great – these memories inflame the vice.
Remember, Window, by my side, so calm and nice,
the hours sipped like tea beneath your squarish brow,
exalting nature? Gently, patiently, I crouched
with you - companion, confidante, and chum – now snide!

Beside, and by my side, while all the time a snake,
sadistic fiend, employing me for pleasure’s sake!

Where is your loyalty? You let the daylight sear -
and look how happiness in entering in clouds!
So deafening, frenetic, strange and rude and loud -
No joy may find me here; let melancholy near.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

My life is Palette, Brush is pen, and thoughts are Paint;
my Canvas, you, unpainted by my vibrant hues.
Each strange occurrence makes a colour, if I choose,
and finds its stumbling way to tarnish your terrain.
Your whitish square’s confining, sometimes such a pain;
the guidelines of your edges trap as if a glue.
Alighting from your surface angers you -
I scrap the masterpiece and paint your mind again.

I paint again, again, although the paint is scarce,
and Palette dries my Brush’s bristly little hairs.

The hues you’ve seen before; you’ve sniffed their toxic fumes.
And yet I paint, my similes this cautious red,
my metaphors a runny green. But find the room,
and see my art, display the Paint, expose my head.

Sonnet CLXXXV

A sailor never misses land until he leaves,
the sea a barren desert stretching out to sky.
A seagull never misses sea until he flies,
the sky a cold expanse descending to the seas.

Yet on horizons, sunrise brings no joy.
Their plights become the frigid sea, the icy sky.
The only colour seen is blue, expanding deep and high
and land’s elusive; more so is the fickle sea.

We journey, soaring, happy, through our pretty lives,
though aimlessly, upon our glassy seas or sky.

The world drifts past as imperceptible as joy.
We wait for glimpse of land for crude and rare relief
or like the gull, must view our hope beyond our reach,
so mocking, playing cruel existence as its ploy.

Sonnet CLXXXIV

His fingers clammy, wet with fearful nervousness;
his crime, his art; his weapon, digits of his hand;
a criminal of highest calibre and brand,
successful more than always – powerful – no less.

His method, less than clear; his target, everyone.
His mind, complex and dark; his pleas, his twisted fun.

He meets the floor, still greeted by the silent night.
The keys are his; the audience applauds and waits.
His humble bow is perfect, elegance his bait.
And then, in shock, we see his violent, bloody fight,
his sheer expressive force invading sound and sight.
Now no one sees his coldness, hidden from his face,
which lets whatever ambience he wants to make
exist and dazzle, seizing victims by the mind.

Sonnet CLXXXIII

I love the wondrous, strange invisibility
that follows me to so gingerly, just like a bear.
My loud “hello’s” are greeted with a vacant stare,
my movement cast aside as breeze upon the sea.
I rule my small domain – the world surrounding me.
I stand as if a king, and sit without a care,
my presence granted as a regular affair.
When bored, my fear provides amusement – and – for free!
I hear a private conversation (no one sees),
and hidden by his looming shadow – much with ease-
no person questions me, no matter where I go.
Thus bear and I should leave our posts for worthwhile crime –
my hidden person, with his stealthy paradigm
may steal away, and all the world would never know!

Sonnet CLXXXII

The night was bright; alarum, loud as bugle’s call.
I waited for another soul to wake up first,
for fear entreated me until it almost burst.
My feeble mask of calm destroyed by noisy brawl,
my curiosity surmounted me, too tall
for crude containment. Fearing all the very worst,
the courage in my heart enticed me as it nursed;
my person, so possessed, then clambered to the hall.

The night, aflame with lamplights, hid the criminal,
while naked weakness left me unprotected, null.

Upbraiding every door, inspecting carefully,
each room held nothing but our anxious oxygen.
Now beckoned to our beds by found security,
our feet let to the stair, descending not again.

Click here for the story behind this sonnet.

Sonnet CLXXXI

Not cold nor dark, for Death cannot be felt nor seen.
Not silent, sad, nor stark, for Death has lost its ears,
which then were empathetic, now astray on years
and deafened, caring not to listen to your plea.

Not painful for beholders, greeting him with glee,
absurd. Not cruel nor beneficial by one’s fears,
but nonchalant, uncaring – thus bereaved of tears –
which, would it Life, be bitter, copiously seen.

Who felt the Death impending then, its fingers bare,
unsheathed for Life, prepared for new-acquired fare?

It was the almost-dead, deprived of feeling’s vice,
emotion stripped, their closing minds beginning end;
their eyes ablaze with nothingness, their lips a friend
to emptiness, as raw as day, as bright as ice.

Sonnet CCLXXX

I wonder why I wake when other people die.
The sun begins to dim, reflecting on their fate;
the calls of birds seem less like ditties for a mate
and more like delicately grieving, solemn sighs.
My footsteps tread with guilt toward the beastly right.
My eyes draw to the sun and greet its sullen face -
I wonder why I still may see its tepid grace
as Death deprives the living of their human sight.

The world seems cruel on such a bitter morning’s start,
when all the world seems stripped of love and crudely stark.

And what a pain to feel for such that isn’t mine –
as here I am, ungracious, petty, as a toy.
And whilst I sympathise, I do not help – but sigh! –
a most unseemly vice, a most beseeming ploy.

Sonnet CCLXXIX

A new year spreads before me like a snowy page,
another leaf of white awaiting marks and prints.
So much to use – escaping from my fingertips –
a plane of eager time poised on the newer age.

Envisioning what fresher seasons shall engage,
I look – anticipating – to these fields and hints
of what’s to come. The future wakes from sleeping fits –
reluctant – starting unto human guessing games.

The seconds, glittering, unbutton in the snow,
their shining flakes like frosty jewels in the cold!

There’s much anticipation – moods change much within a day –
from boredom of the past to welcoming the new.
The minutes fly – time’s racing by – the skies are blue!
The snowflakes fall – the year’s alight – and so’s the fray!

Sonnet CCLXXVIII

Polyphony, as sumptuous as a rich brocade,
shines vivid crimson with its careful mastery.
A layer through a layer in a tapestry,
inverted motives in the fabric interplay.
One sees the colours, recognising themes like days,
arranged in curlicues of phoenixes and seas
of countersubjects, slit like ruby string,
between the lines of subjects, woven in a braid.
The balanced harmonies, which satisfy each voice
cohere so gingerly, a stitch by stitch with poise,
familiar majesty, a souvenir of old,
a tad bit tarnished from disuse, still grandly frail,
courageous in its use, a kingly conquest sailed –
surmised as luxury, subdued as precious gold.

Sonnet CCLXXVII

She can’t imagine otherwise! The world’s a wreck;
it’s envious and bitter, flashing like a shrew!
What snow, how stupid! Biting at her shining shoe
and vying with its shining face and sloping neck.
What trees, how idiotic! Thinking branches, gems,
when all the world knows hers are best, that hers are new.
What birds, how foolish! Thinking feathers better hues
than chic designer clothes that madden any wren!

What sun, how bright! Should hide her face for fear of shame –
her style’s so last century, and still the same!

But brazen maiden, oh how stupid, oh how proud!
The snow will come again and shine more than your jewels!
The trees sustain, the sun still lives, as does the cloud! –
those birds shall bicker on your grave and laugh at you!

Sonnet CCLXXVI

He hates the mirror. He looks at it and sighs.
It’s hard to looks upon himself and see his face
without detesting it. Deprived of youthful grace,
bereft of happiness, without a joyful smile –
he hates those children, blithe and charming, juvenile;
he hates these families, enjoying time like waste;
he hates and envies all the world, so armed with lies!

For self-contentment’s false; so’s joviality.
The world’s a dark and gaping hole, a mean chicanery.

Or isn’t it because he wishes more from life,
and more of merriment; to see that things are fine?
Or is it that he wants to know that peace of mind,
that feeling, waking up, embracing more than strife?

Sonnet CCLXXV

Intense and bitter were the icy winds he crossed,
his jacket clutched within his anxious, nervous fist.
He walked into the store and glanced upon his list,
evasive of the camera. His hair was tossed,
his face unshaven – eyes like frigid fire, lost.
He snatched a basket; glued it to his quaking wrist.
He clambered through the store, remembered what he missed,
turned back and veered again, to pay for what he bought.

As feared, that same cashier was there, her smile, fake.
She smacked her gum, forgetting him, their love – their hate.

An anger flared like sun. He seized his blanched receipt.
Her eyes acknowledged his. He grabbed his groceries.
He stormed away. He stared upon the ashen sheet.
Her name, impudent, sauntered in his thoughts and teased.