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 CCCXVI

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.

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.

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 CCLXIX

The awning seemed like fire, flapping in the breeze:
a palish beige flickering and whipping hot,
there perched upon a small gazebo’s wooden lot.
If only I were not infirm of strength, so weak!
To be that awning – how resiliently neat,
aflame with strange desire, burning smartly raw,
established on a vantage point aloof, afar,
a kingly simpleton, so crude, yet full of ease!

No water puts it out; no wind detracts its flare;
and only change of season – change of taste – may dare.

An instant, flapping in the autumn, in the fall,
now in the winter, flapping on the wooden beams.
Who dares remove such strange and fierce audacity,
combating flames with insolence and naughty gall?

Sonnet CCLXVIII

I find the world today requires desperate aid:
- politics: all the world’s a-brew and needs its law
- environment: the world’s unzipping as it thaws
- economy: recession; wealth unfairly paid
- humanity: our bunch, becoming more abate
- society: all wanton with its plastic gods
- our health: destroyed with every fry in paw
- tradition: culture pasted over, blue and grey

When shall salvation rescue us from grief and strife?
Where is our superhero? Busy with his life?

What we can do is make ourselves informed and wise:
destroy our atrophy with pride and dignity,
imbued with purpose, duty, hospitality –
and only then can Earth be salvaged from us mice.

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 CLXXIV

The farmer’s field behind my backyard nest
is gold and vast and flows to forest’s green
so far away. There stood the greyish geese,
Canadian and proud. And from the west
there blew almighty winds that caused unrest
and sent the geese, amidst the howling breeze,
to form a line, a fence, to fight the freeze
of wind attacking them. And all the best
they tried, protecting young, embracing death,
a noble flock of geese, a flustered bunch.
But passing with a flutter, that cruel gale
had passed and turned Chinook-like as a breath,
Zephyr as gentle as a passing sun,
as weak as farmers feeding geese their sales.

Sonnet CLXII

A Death. Significant and Ominous.
As powerful as life but permanent.
Some say it’s rising to the Firmament
- to Heaven, everlasting happiness.

Some say that Death’s a barrier to love
or rather, strengthens it as time dies down.
Some say a Death reminds us not to frown,
infirming us of courage from above.

And then there’s death. The crude, real deaths:
the flies that drop and die so suddenly,
the spiders crushed upon the walls in rage,
the flowers in the frost that lose their breath,
the thoughts that flitter, fly, and swiftly cease...
And quickly fears of death thus dissipate.

Sonnet CLXI

Determined as the autumn wind I fight,
ambition strikes me, turning me more fierce
as hot resolve inflames my maddened tears
and drives me still against the chilling bite.

And colder winds blow, driving me to fright
and almost beat, I lose all of my cheer.
But then, reminded of the mounting jeers,
resolve shall tighten, courage just as tight.

And onward, struggling, I clear the way,
not weak, but lethal, in my potent rage.
And flying through the wind I quickly race,
a bit advanced each coming subtle day.
And breaking from my wicked, wintry cage,
I spare no pity, only faulty grace.

Sonnet VII

A soul is floating in the universe,
The tiny world of glass and spreading leaves.
With eyes of gold as round and hued as sun
And fins of silk like rich brocaded sleeves.

So graceful, trailing clear and silver cloth,
Thou swimmest gently in the shining sea.
Though wounded badly here you still persist
In swimming, living – courage I do see.

Your body shimmers, like the moon’s desires.
Your movements simple, yet perfection shows
How sad you seem to be, but brave you are.
My pleasure, from your grace and beauty flows.

Thou art my friend, my granted silent wish,
None other than my much-loved, loving fish.