Sonnet CCCLXIV

Alone, amongst the waves, beneath the sun -
I fear I'll drown; I've waded out too far.
The seabirds cackle in a frenzied bunch,
detecting noontime spoils from afar.
So far from land, so far from everyone,
I cannot say why I feel merrier:
my cheeks exude a strange vermillion,
my eyes ablaze with some unearthly star.

Perhaps I do not need an audience:
if I should whisper some aquatic rhyme,
the simple joy of it is bountiful -
if one should pause to note its loveliness,
then it is Art; if one should call it crime,
then I am mad as any starving gull.

Sonnet CCCXXIX

I cachinnate at all our three-chord songs,

at all attempts to fit in and belong.

Derision greets the slogans that I loathe,

the mindless humming of our T.V. shows.

But I discover what we all have known;

I dig, display emotions all have known;

subscribed to trends, like all have done before;

subjected life to patterns used before.

For we are humans, similar and all;

restrictions bind us to a common thread.

We tread for freedom, hear its blatant call,

but realize there’s only us ahead.

And we’re so all alike, recycling,

as if there is no news but our dis-ease.

Sonnet CXXII

A true friend shall not use you for their aims
or curse you if you fail to serve them well.
A true friend isn’t jealous of your fame
or bitter, hearing new successes swell.
A true friend does you favours. And the game
the others play of selfish playback quells.
A true friend loves you through your flaws and frays
and comforts you in sickness and in Hell.

Does such a friend exist? I must say no.
It’s nice to think one has a friend like that.
But all of us have plans and goals and dreams;
we can’t serve others faithfully and know
the friendship’s symbiotic. Some are that,
but most reciprocate the very least.

Sonnet CXIX

My life is just a bunch of cereal;
each day a box of wheat and multi-grain;
each week has seven boxes, packaged up;
Then all the boxes cycle once again.

Each day within the box identical,
the difference only shows from day to day,
But every week becomes so blandly dull
and then the months are structured all the same.

With life so organized I’m always free,
from worry, stress, and abnormality.
It’s calming, knowing all is orderly.
But is there any change of scenery?
Of course not. Everything is orderly.
Unchanging, hapless, joyous orderly.

Sonnet CVIII

What is this strange and closed Society
comprised of Average Joes and plain Jane Does?
This group of those elite enough to be
the ones some call the “Normal” hominids?
Who are these foreign, strange communities,
closed up with plastic, joy-inducing lids?
Why am I so excluded from their creed?
Was it a thing I said or thought or did?

Perhaps, But really, I don’t care at all!
The Normal have conforming Greys and Blues.
And me? I have the freedom to appal…
to do whatever. I have all the hues
of individuality – but all
the rest must deal with their conformist views.

Sonnet XXXIX

Within these lines my thoughts are thus confined,
Within these lines my fantasies have shined.
Within these lines new happiness was found,
Within these lines new loneliness abounds.

Within these lines I tear myself from crowds,
Within these lines I find fresh friends in clouds.
Within these lines my bliss is found outside,
Within these lines I search myself inside.

Within these lines ideas are buried deep,
Within these lines ideas to others weep.
Within these lines not much can be expressed,
Within these lines the meanings tell the rest.

Within these lines my soul and mind take flight,
Within these lines words illustrate my plight.

Sonnet XXXVIII

One cannot be enclosed in reveries,
For present life is carried on at break-neck speed.
If one does not proceed, one misses out;
One must be with the norm, or be cast out.

But why? What if I simply want to dream?
Then I suppose I’d have no food or clothes -
The world now won’t pay for philosophy,
Nor poets, who but muse and write for free.

To live – that is, eat, drink, and have a home,
We need to have a practical career.
Though some still value creativity,
Without reward, they give no generosity.

Or if we dream, as poets do all day,
We must be cruel and sell our thoughts to live.

Sonnet XXXVII

Have you observed how keen the minds of youth
do seem to be? They notice all the things
we miss because we’re caught in our strict lives.
We miss their youthful search, I realize.

And artist is a child who’s grown but keeps
the vibrant mind of youth that’s full of dreams,
applying creativity to things
in ways mature, but still on Fancy’s wings.

An artist wipes the blackboard clean
and scrubs the moulded thoughts away.
An artist finds new ways of thought, unique
from previous ideologies and views.

An artist starts anew, fresh from the norms,
like children, learning everything again.

Sonnet XXXV

If fowl fly, fish swim, and bees tend hives
Why should they be subject to equal plans
Which compromise their differences and make
Them equal creatures made for unlike lives?

The problem with our education now
Is that our schools have equal blueprints for
The youth who must go off to different lives.
Creative minds, suppressed and not allowed.

If people are so different, they say,
Then why are we put in generic moulds?
Each person has their different learning style;
We should but learn in different ways.

Uniqueness should be given room to grow
In order for our youth to find their roles.