Sonnet CCCLIV

My geese – my ever-faithful geese – have left!
I watched the emptied autumn sky, bereft,
and watched them steal away to tropic lands…
oh how’ll they’ll love those toasty, sun-baked sands!


I cursed their infidelity that day
and bent upon my lonesome, grumpy way –
I’d find some other loyal friend to love!


But everyday I’d check the skies above
and find them vacant as my mournful heart.


Then suddenly – in shy, reluctant March
they squawked once more upon the melting moors!


And I – my injured self! – ignored their lure
(with great contempt) – and sauntered, haughty, off –
remarking how we’ve changed – and how they’ve not!

Sonnet CCCLIII

Epiphany? My love is shorn to shreds!
A guileless love beguiled by devious ends…
Dark, bitter grief ignites my inner core –
I cannot love this monster anymore!


And yet – I tremble at each docile smile!
I loved the clever traitor all the while.
I now regret that fatal day, when first –
a charming word deceived my artless thirst.


And yes, I still feel dearly for the fiend;
a foolish heart does not know want from need.


Ignore the ingrate! Flee the treachery!
But how we still dream fondly, stubbornly;
demanding vengeance for our suffering,
yet far too weak to do the injuring.

Sonnet CCCXLV

Demonic monsters of the turbid sky,
guffawing with your gaping mouths like beasts -
away, away! Take wing and swiftly fly!


Regarding jealously at all who feast
and clammoring for every greasy piece -
away, away! We steadfastfully ignore!


The children, fearful, hurry to their seats,
or else combat the grey-specked, greedy hoard.
For such disturbance, there is no reward!
Mind quickly to yourselves, o scavengers...


There's scraps upon the ground - don't ask for more.
Your gluttony grows only angrier;
the laden tables are your battlegrounds -
away, away! Show mercy this time round!

Sonnet CCCXL

Attired richly – handsome ship, where to?

The grandest feasts where held for all the crew,

the Kingdom’s King and Queen have visited.

A garland circled every maiden’s head –

the skies were never bluer on that day!

We once knew love, we once had known the way,

but now we sail, forgotten, and alone.

By fog obscured, by raging rainstorms blown,

we have no end to seek and no return.

The ocean looms at every futile turn

yet hopelessly we search for sight of land.

We curse the weather’s fiercely bitter hand

and suffer in our salty carousel,

remembering a time we knew ourselves.

Sonnet CCCXXXIV

My envy seethes below the fallen leaves,

defiant hills of discontented green.

I cannot find serenity today:

where are the placid fields of yesterday?

The strident branches reach up to the sky,

almighty in their rage, and ever high.

How void the arms which once held happiness,

which now are shrivelled in their bitterness;

how stark the cloudless sky of gray above,

a limitless expanse devoid of sun.

I have no place at lovely Nature’s feast;

the hosts all mimic me and tease.

I only see the progeny of rage,

which taunts me, multiplied in every way.

Sonnet CCCXXX

Today the sky is tearful, dark, and sad.

The walls are greyish-brown and drab;

they’re not the taupe I chose the other day.

Awakening today is bitter, full of pain;

my bed sheets strangle me; they hold me back.

Their jarring, lurid yellow drives me mad;

their cheerfulness is mocking, hateful, dry.

The windows drown me with their torrid light.

My neck and back are sore; I need a drink.

An anger burns my mouth; my teeth are clenched.

My empty cup sits, waiting next to me –

my heart agrees. The world is emptiness.

It takes a massive bound to leap from bed,

to have the guts to face the day ahead.

Sonnet CCCXXVII

A lonely pair of lifelong enemies

sit, glaring in their tank, despondently.

Soon snapping claws are closed with rubber bands:

the water sprays; the buyers hide their hands.

From liquid to the dryness of a bag,

the foes grow weak, but ever, ever mad.

Transported to a fridge, they’re stuffed inside.

They sit at zero Celsius with wine.

The morning comes. The fridge light flickers on.

Removed from their abyss, they greet the warmth.

But all too soon they greet a greater one –

and boil in the flames of Hell, to death.

But if they’re lucky, they’ll be au gratin,

and if they’re not, they’re torn apart,

                                                                      to bits.

Sonnet CCCXXV

we long to drink we long for drugs and sex
were wicked teens strung high by natures hex
adrenaline and folly are our chant
our words are slurred our movements are a dance
were on computers every waking hour
ignoring chores and acting simply sour
were rude
               were boorish
                                    always such a mess
at every moment mad or quite depressed

and Yet –
               We still take buses to our school;
               Our mothers still remind us of the cold;
               We’re still subject to all our father’s rules;
               And frankly, we’re still kids – we’re not that old.

But rebels we shall stay, extreme or mild,
each one of us an adult-werewolf-child.

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 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 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 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.

Sonnet CCXXXI

Justyna had been toiling on her festive feast
and cleaned while Husband toiled differently – at work.
She felt a little sad when chopping up the pork,
because her children all had grown. She took the yeast
and thought of how her life had counted for the least.
“But it is duty,” saying to herself, berserk,
repeating feverishly what kept her with a smirk
despite what chores annoyed her, chores that never ceased.

By night, it snowed a darkened snow, nocturnal, white.
A knock was heard. Justyna knew her husband’s might.

The knock was lighter. Humming cautious, anxious hymns,
she saw the woman. All the legends said that sight
of females first brings awful luck. And yet – Invite
her in, she thought. We women live too much on others’ whims.

Sonnet CXXVIII

I’m just a human dragon, dressed in darkest coal.
My breath – a freezing fire – burns a frozen white,
illuminated in the chilly morning’s bite.
My freezing scales and skin destroy my drifting soul
and soon the monstrous cold begins to take its toll.
I stamp my fiendish feet, as loudly as the night
and those who shiver ‘round me shiver in their fright,
still thinking I’m grotesque and vicious as a troll.

I’m angry, now impatient, waiting for my bus.
Destructive in frustration, now I crossly fuss.

But when it comes, I turn into another beast.
I’m still a dragon, but now I am one, sage and wise.
My happiness, refreshed at last, is like the east –
for now it shines much like the glowing suns that rise.

Sonnet CCXXII

His name was Matt; I still remember that as clear as day.
He made my life so miserable, so long ago.
Back then, he called me names, but then, I didn’t know
what all those words had meant. He shouted every day,
“Hey China-Chink!” And snickers filled the bus in brays
and shame endowed me with its growing hood of woe.
He’s poke sadistic fun at Asians – loud and bold –
while friends of his would laugh and laugh each horrid day.

The sharpest sticks and twigs; the sharpest flint and stones -
could hurt me all they’d like and break my fragile bones.

But never could they hope to vie with words of ice,
more sharp than splinters, crueller than a sword of steel.
For bones can piece together; cuts can always heal –
but words shall always stay, embedded with their vice.

Sonnet CCXVIII

Agility and fabulous technique astound:
magnificent bravura, massive jumps and leaps,
cadenzas, runs (impossible, but there), and heaps
of gorgeous tones, sustained with quivering of sound.
Such awesome feats of voices everyday abound,
incredible, instilling awe, with cries and weeps.
Infused with raw emotion, like a blood that seeps
on tissue, marked with everlasting hues of sound.

None other than magnificent and magic ways
of operatic lyricism, lacking praise.
How easy opera singers make their craft to seem,
when notes are high and runs are difficult and fraught
with peril. Though they sing with all they’ve rightly got,
alas – some think that opera’s just a bunch of screams.

Sonnet CCXVI

The day is long and fraught with woe and toil too!
I’d rather stay in bed, the warmth surrounding me,
the winter far away, which fits me perfectly.
I’d rather stay entombed in bed than grab a shoe
and slap it on my aching feet. I’d rather snooze
than rinse my mouth and eat my food and brush my teeth.
When getting out of bed a chill embraces me.
I’d rather keep it waiting for another fool.

Alas, alas, alas – my damn alarm persists again!
Annoying me, I cannot sleep and thus I wake.

I greet the world, so wicked, and the chill of course,
so bitter, boiling in my freezing rage and clothes.
And walking to my bus, which everybody loathes,
I scream and throw a nasty tantrum, ‘till I’m coarse.

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 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.