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 CCXLII

Incessant buzzing, motor in a noisy fly.
Convulsions, writhing in his agonizing grief.
His legs a-flailing; desperation’s plea,
but stubborn, never letting life to bid good-bye.

My mother always tells me not to waste my mind.
My father always tells me contribution’s key.
My conscience away tells me, “Help the poor and weak!”
My soul permits me peril if I don’t comply.

Sadistic now, I seem a drooling hypocrite,
obsessive over nothing, weak within a fright.

The fly I see, is falling off the sill; he lives.
He’s on his back – again. I find his little legs.
But no, it’s not my fingers guiding him.
My heart is moving, by an orange pencil helped.

Sonnet CXCIV

I waited for my blue retainer when
my braces fled. Two days had passed before
they put my piano sticker in the core
- a nice allusion to my hobby - then
they gave the jewel to me on Thursday, hence
I wore it like a prize – a painful ore
or gem – from months of suffering and gore
retrieved. This trinket was the treasured end!

Well, now I take it out and look at it
instead of wearing it like I should do.
But then, remembering my given rules,
I stick it in and swallow quite a bit.
My words are foreign, odd and strangely new,
the work of my retainer, brightly blue.

Sonnet CXXXIV

The taps upon the roof remind me hence
to look outside the window happily
and greet my lovely guests, who holler whence.
It makes me very glad to see them screech.
They looked so sullen on the wooden fence;
it does them good to be so filled with glee.
And yelling in their dialect no sense
upon my roof, they stamp with heavy feet.

I love my crows (or ravens, I don’t know).
They bring me joy with antics strangely done
and I, of course, indulge them with my laugh
and mimic them. We loudly, brashly crow.
We have a lot of gibberish and fun.
Then leaving to our duty, end our chaff.

Sonnet LXXXV

The roundness of a spoon should not be mocked
for such utensils feed the masses so.
With opened curve to grasp the soup below,
thus food diminishes while bellies grow.

A certain virtue grows from serving well,
for motionless and gently all the day
(and night perchance) round spoons receive no pay
for tasks so menial, as some might say.

However, one must never thus assume,
that spoons have no prestige, like lowly vales.
Mistake not dullness for a wit that fails,
for worldly foods have passed this lovely dale.

A little twinkle, flipping images
conveys what joy a life of duty is.