365 Sonnets is completed! While there be no more new posts, feel free to read the sonnets and comment! :)

You can read my new poetry at Some Turbid Night: :)

Sunday, November 16, 2008


The ketchup on these plates I wash is dry,
a spray of crimson spared from Monday’s fries.
I recognize those peanut butter marks
that decorate our cups with muddy tracks.

These fossils of the meals we once have shared
are found upon this dirty tableware,
but such remains will soon be washed away
and are replaced with newer, fresher stains.

We’ve shared so many meals upon these plates;
we shared so many secrets as we ate!
I grew from youth as cracks grew from their sides –
what memories these little bruises hide!

It’s sad to think I’ll one day leave these bowls,
to buy new sets to fill a newer home.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Sonnet CCCXX

Upon a glassy sea of sapphire,
two equal winds suspend our men.
What good is mutinous desire
when forces such as these attend?

The southern wind propels us northward;
the northern wind impels us southward.
Their equal strengths thus cancel out,
and hence we move not north nor south.

Our hopeless map is weak and futile –
our whims are simply whims, at most.
We have no say in where we go –
we’re at the mercy of such reptiles.

How cruelly vacant Titans play,
whose empty sighs control our fates!

Friday, November 14, 2008


A day begins anew as dawn arrives –
the Sun’s in love with all the Earth!
The bees are giggling in their beehives;
the gossip tickles all the birds.

You see that cautious glance, so distant?
He keeps afar, lest fiery passion
ignite his dearest, earthly love.
Devotion! Tender as a dove.

He warms her world and keeps it living
and return, she’s cruel and blind,
exalting in her selfish mind,
oblivious as planets can be.

If lovers loved like timid stars,
then love is pain and life is hard!

Thursday, November 13, 2008


You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.

Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.

There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –

And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


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!

Tuesday, November 11, 2008


The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Sonnet CCCXV

She plucks the ground with claws of ochre,
and pecks it – daintily – for worms.
She thus maintains her girlish figure,
so careful how she keeps her form.

She’s watchful of her patch of sidewalk,
the passing shoes exalt her peril.
She flutters, only to return,
her brief escape so quickly spurned.

She hops right into golden sunshine,
her feathers cast in different light.
Her task continues, to the right,
resolve unshaken, almost feline.

She looks around – so watchfully! –
while shining with an umber sheen.

Sunday, November 09, 2008


The trees, encased in pallid ices,
are groping at me dolefully.
I touch their limpid, frozen branches –
although my heart, as well, is bleak.

The snow has little hope for better,
and lights upon me, cold and tattered.
I melt each ashen, snowflake face,
and wish, at least, I had their grace.

But spring will come, I tell the frozen,
and thusly thinking, search for hope.
The rain will soon replace the snow;
returning warmth will soon embolden -

And cold despair shall dissipate,
as joy and bliss rejuvenate.

Saturday, November 08, 2008


To Robin,
             lying on the asphalt.
Another time would find us – live –
upon a grassy hill of beryl,
conversing as the time flies by.

We’d daily meet beyond the meadow,
a pair concealed beneath a willow,
the shadows overhearing us –
our gossip of the latest fuss.

But who has time these days to chatter?
My strict routines keep feet a-patter;
and you’re just trying to survive,
amidst my world – besides -

You’re roadkill, dead upon the road,
your breast a purest ruby-gold.

Friday, November 07, 2008


The pinkish, french-fry earthworms wiggle,
their gossamer a sheerest shine.
I carefully avoid their squiggles
and quickly leap minutely by.
The ravens perch like jet-black devils,
their eyes like opal, heads all level.
From trees above, they wait with glee,
their stomachs churning, fed with greed.
The rain is sloshing by my shoulders
and all about my feet as well.
Do I tread worms? I cannot tell!
Alas, I look beyond my sneakers -
I’ve helped a bird digest his meal–
at the expense of worms at heel!

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Sonnet CCCXI

The frozen earth is creaking slightly
as cautious footsteps tread its face.
My eyes, like guarded shells of brandy,
are scanning quickly ‘round the place.
I’m searching for the Dog I’m scared of.
He’s nowhere to be seen – but careful!
As walking past his home, he barks –
I see his muzzle, then his snarl.
But then I’m past and he is chained there,
and is he – puzzled? Curious?
We glance covertly, silent, lest
the other think the other weaker.
He barks, I bow; he stalks away –
but maybe we shall meet another day.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Sonnet CCCX

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Sonnet CCCIX

The hand that lives upon my left is virtuously good,
an advocate of chastity and humble purity.
My right hand dwells in boastful hubris – symbol of his greed!
My left hand sheds humility, of which my right hand should.

A pearl’s obtuse ambition stems from beauty in his plum.
Imaginings of greatness cloud his sphere – and like the sea,
ambition turns to laziness, and then to servantry –
accentuating other beauties, complimenting them.

The right hand wishes excellence; his talents justify.
In awe, we read his sentences, all crafted by his pen;
we hear his soaring melodies, and wear the clothes he mends –
And yet, his over-zealous flair is nothing but a joke.
In truth the virtue of the left is heightened by his friend –
the right’s distraught flamboyance causes need for humbleness.

Monday, November 03, 2008


The human race is ugliest of all and strange and odd:
our skins are limited to solid hues of neutral tones,
the shades of dark or light. Our ugly features cause us woe –
those eyes as small as sand, enlarged by crude mascara rods.

Oh look upon the birds with splendid wings, who fly to see their God –
how multicoloured are their feathers – gold and red as loam,
ignited by the sun. Oh look upon the fish below,
with scales of iridescent green and blue on every cod -

We long for spotted fur and shiny skin and lovely tails,
and everyday we looks at mirrors – not with vanity –
but with desire, wanting more than looking plain and ugly.

And yet we stare at magazines as if we’re something else –
but glossy pages can’t conceal – they only show our folly.
What good does fashion do but captivate our stupid need?

Sunday, November 02, 2008


The great economy of Spring is paralleled by none:
she’ll lease a birdsong lest we’re bored – but only to the trees;
she’s miserly with sunny warmth and sheds it grudgingly;
she only spares a tiny slip of ordinary sun.

Each gesture’s full of luxury, but counted in her sum,
and in the end we’re left with scraps, all small and crude and cheap:
a sliver of a heated ray, a menacing zephyr –
and even time is spent with care; it slowly sticks as gum.

It’s not until a month or two she spends some more and more;
her time is thrown away – like that! – and soon she starts to give –
her gold, the sun; the grass, an emerald – now shared as gifts.

As if she’s realized she’ll die; decides to spend it all –
and yet we know that’s not the case, in fact, the opposite –
that Spring – warmed by a guilty coal – has just begun to live.

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Sonnet CCCVI

A shadow’s awfully useless – doesn’t do much else than wait.
Of course it’s nice to have a patient friend – but not some stain
that doesn’t help at all. I need a friend that has a brain –
that moves at least – decisively, not copying my fate.

Because my shadow tags along all day, he proves to be a pain.
If he were helpful, life would be much easier – and great!
He’d follow me attentively, ensuring I’m not late –
and never would his disposition be of cruel disdain.

But shadows are too careful, treading much too cautiously.
They only move when I do – making sure it’s safe –
and even clouds seem deadly, driving them to hide away.

Oh, even in the natural world there’s infidelity.
You don’t get service if you never tip the servitor –
it’s sad how life is made by money – never made by more!

Thanks, Wordle!