Sonnet CCXVII

So like I said before: I’d love to write for pay.
But like I said before, I won’t get much to keep.
I’d be so poor, unable to buy food to eat.
I’d starve as artists do, but write the livelong day.
And would I stay more happy, living in this way?
Some say you’re better off when following your dreams.
But if you’re poor, unloved, with little food to eat,
and still rejected, what are to do or say?

Just nothing, probably. Write manga for your bread.
Or else your masterpiece will stay unread.

So drift away, my lovely dreams of easy fame,
relaxing hobbies, happiness. It’s fun to write,
it’s fun to read, but real ambitions keep us wise,
and bring stability, what true happiness should make.

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 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 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 CLXXXII

Outside, crusaders in the blowing breeze
have battled everyday on walks to school.
They chatter frozen mouths and teeth in cool,
inviting wind and shiver icy knees.
Though chilled, the warriors still persevere
and brawl against the wind, so cold and cruel.
Although without a colour or a hue,
invisibly thus hides that enemy.

But armed are they, with mittens and with gloves,
with cherries on their backs that hold their books,
and knitted hats that flaunt their strengthened might,
While staunchly shielded by a mother’s love.
they sail their seas, still fighting as we look
and like two kites they sail beyond our sight.

Sonnet CXLVIII

Confused. And nearly blinded. Dumbstruck fly
amidst the yellow, hardwood floor and shelves,
commotion caused by shuffling feet and yells,
which swirled about in dizziness and fright.

And buzzing to another way close by,
it seems, to books of noble history,
the sullen fly begins to walk to see,
to comprehend what is that messy sty.

And magazines stared down nearby like bears
with giant scribbles, faces like above.
Then squashed, the fly would never find out where
this strange place was - a bookstore far from bare -
as someone’s shoe had squandered him with love
and Anne Boleyn stared from a novel’s head.

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.)