Sonnet CCCLVIII

A pair of crows stood, foolish, chatting!
Resplendent in the winter sun.
Was gossip ever idler, waiting?
Impending doom a distant drum!


And now my car comes crashing, wildly!
The earthworms tremble under, blindly…
The semi-frozen earth grows pale!
Vibrations thunder in the air!


But – ah! They flee too quickly – ninjas!
Oh, stealthy as the flashing winds…
Their flight igniting oxygen,
their wings opposing sluggish minutes!


But what a tale to tell at lunch!
"We only nearly dodged that one!"

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 CCCXXXVII

They say Verona’s roses paled nearby

and summer winds retired out of spite

the day the master poised the brush to paint.

Madonna smiles, resplendent in her grace,

the Child swaddled in her azure robes:

The critics rave about the lucid strokes

that shine like flames upon a canvas sea.

The hues shine through the many centuries,

the souvenir of brightest brilliance,

undying to the transient populace.

Instead –

                 thrown out with trash and cans of beer,

half-painted as a shoddy, forged Vermeer,

by whom, but rats shall it be seen?

Oh Fame, you are a fickle, fickle fiend!

Sonnet CCCXXXVI

The glance is yours: do with it what you will.
To injure or inspire, love or kill –
the eyes speak volumes more than little lies.

I ponder this while looking at your eyes,
those pools of mercury, so cruel and cold.
Why leave such enmity untold?
Because the very animosity
would strike me dead with sorrow, instantly.

If loathing did not permeate your soul,
perhaps my eyes would not reflect your own.
Perhaps my eyes would not be lethal knives,
which pierce the heart with bitterness and spite
and read like Hate’s encyclopedia,
containing endless words, but not enough.

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 CCCXXVI

Exalted in the happiness of pain,

The world is crowning me with strange disdain!

How proud I’ll be within its reverie:

My wreath’s an honour, undeserved of me.

My rough exterior’s inscribed by hate,

a fitting way to demonstrate my fate.

(Or else, I seem too arrogant, too proud,

rejoicing silently of hateful crowds.)

But like most monarchs I shall take to bed,

a-weary of the honours I’ve received.

And soon, as words begin to crowd my head,

I realize I have many woes to grieve.

And hate accumulates as pride grows dim…

the world is mine, and yet I serve its whims.

Sonnet CCCXXII

The human heart is full of treachery:
for some know wicked arts of flattery,
which – fused with coldness – prove unstoppable,
transforming wise men into simple fools.

The moths are hiding on the bark of trees;
the katydids blend in with all the leaves –
such sly deception’s even learned by them!
Beware – the world is full of wicked men!

But time and time again we’re aptly fooled:
an eyespot here, a clever colour there!
How hated is that smile, so amused,
concealing such betrayals of our care!

We’ll one day read the patterns of the moths,
or else we’ll still be fraught with rage and loss!

Sonnet CCCXVII

By day, by night, she is a mother,
regardless of her viciousness.
At times, by day she’s also…vampire…
as wicked as a mini-witch.

Her wings are silver as a spirit,
her eyes, vermillion as carrot.
Her stealth is ninja-like – beware! –
her flight is silent through the air.

The prick she takes is practised, wary,
unfelt and quick, as if a word.
Oh villain, stealing precious blood!
Upon your vicious crime I’ll tarry:

you feed your monstrous little babes
at my expense! You’ll pay someday!

Sonnet CCCIX

The hand that lives upon my left is virtuously good,
an advocate of chastity and humble purity.
My right hand dwells in boastful hubris – symbol of his greed!
My left hand sheds humility, of which my right hand should.

A pearl’s obtuse ambition stems from beauty in his plum.
Imaginings of greatness cloud his sphere – and like the sea,
ambition turns to laziness, and then to servantry –
accentuating other beauties, complimenting them.

The right hand wishes excellence; his talents justify.
In awe, we read his sentences, all crafted by his pen;
we hear his soaring melodies, and wear the clothes he mends –
And yet, his over-zealous flair is nothing but a joke.
In truth the virtue of the left is heightened by his friend –
the right’s distraught flamboyance causes need for humbleness.

Sonnet CCLII

Oh Frosty Jack, what maiden has afflicted you?
How frigid her rejection; even more your rage!
How turbulent your frosty fury, now uncaged,
unleashed in wicked anger, pallid, ashen, shrewd!

How wickedly your shattered heart has come to brew!
A broken mix of icy tears, a bitter mace,
a weapon ripping wounds, exposing them to air,
a wintry blizzard seeking crude revenge anew.

Please spill that chilly blood again, you wintry fiend,
and let me suffocate on such a pungent drink!

You liked me not; how cruel of you to let me live!
You should have slayed me in the dark of day, for now
I cannot die! Hence Frost and I shall share our vow
of misery, eternal, evermore so acrid!

Sonnet CCLI

The winter’s such a crude reminder of your face –
how could you be so frigid in this time of warmth?
These wintry hexagons shall always be a storm
and never beauty, only wickedness, light grey,
so pallid, lethal in betrayal – oh, such grace! –
that murders me, and murders me, and snaps my heart,
which melts, refreezing to the bitter, icy stars
of winter – snowflakes – delicately, cruelly made.

And snow I shovel, push away in growing piles.
But you – I cannot purge – yet you have purge my wiles.

And what have I but tattered snowflakes, littering,
polluting blank expanse within my asphalt mind,
obstructing darkness with the ancient hope of time?
Now even Spring cannot amend my shabby wings.

Sonnet CCXLI

A bar of Pain, as soapy as a sweet shampoo,
entices us to delve in misadventures Pain may dwell within.
Seductive, slippery, inevitable therein
and entering the eyes of cruel sensation’s shoe,
undressing us and lathering us naked too,
now wicked Pain dives deeper to our eyes – a pin –
as sharp as any other wickedness or sin,
and burning, strikes us unprotected, bare, and nude.

How desperately we rub, augmenting magnitude!
And liquid aspirins of joy seem flat and crude.

For water spices Pain, as water fires spice.
But after our ordeal, the Pain still stays nearby
and reddens eyes with tears, as each and everyone
is branded with a soapy souvenir of vice.

Sonnet CCXXXVII

The words of men are webs. The sticks of men are words.
Obstructing blue the sky, they branch from trees,
enlaced in branches there, obstructing what I see.
I hear their rustling calls, like twitting of the birds,
and yet, they seem as bears, as trunks from where they spring.
Obstructing me, I cannot see, I cannot breathe –
and darkness of their interweaving swallows earth.

But can they swallow me? They come from tiny seeds,
an acorn maybe, sometimes from ambitious weeds.

And so, can webs of trees – envelop me in dark?
They try, a canopy above my upward head,
but burn in lightning’s blaze, turn green with envy’s bark
and sicken, die like toads, from webs die overfed.

Sonnet CCXXVII

The ravens are their namesakes, ravenous and dark,
desirous of more food, thus hungry, black, and poor,
relying on reluctant mercy, door to door.
Their benefactors see not how good deeds embark;
they are annoyed, see extra work and mess – and hark!
They hear the crowing ravens, seeking more and more.
Apparently, the charity now turns to war
and hatred makes the eyes who fed now stark.

However piteously the ravens plan their plot,
it always turns to this – a war that’s yelled and fought.

In fact, voraciousness is not an awful sin.
If hungry, why should ravens not be let to eat?
So what if garbage bags are torn with angry feet,
torn up in search for any leftovers within?

Sonnet CCXXV

If ill-appearing discords issue forth from me,
speak not of them. But rather, hide them with your flaws
of human blasphemy. Outstretch your lying claws
with kind deception, masked with lovely flattery.
Ignore ignoble Conscience, screaming honesty;
it lies, despite what seems to be a wholesome cause.
How else do feelings stay intact, as thin as gauze?
We live on lies, existing on our treachery.

But lying here, how do you know I tell the truth?
Thus, therein lies the paradox of lies and truth.

You cannot know what’s hidden from your hungry eyes.
Lugubrious, I may be happy hidden here;
ecstatic, deep repose is clandestine – but near.
And what lies here shall be returned with other lies.

Sonnet CCXXIII

I have a lot of friends who love the opera too.
They come from France, Great Britain, Spain, and Germany.
A few are from the States and one’s from Italy.
I’ve others too, but I digress. Away we move.
Kind Beth of Texas is a mother and a muse,
and Phoenix is a nearby piano friend like me,
but she’s thirteen, won Nationals, and loves to teach.
I could go on: musicians, writers, artists too…

The world’s afloat with wondrous people, smart and kind.
The ones I’ve met so far are just like that, I find.

And yet, there are so many stalkers on the Net;
they terrorize and bully, like a bunch of fools.
However, all these contacts, friends, and such I’ve met
I found through websites, blogs, and other cyber-tools.

Sonnet CCXV

I have a topic every time I write – but then –
it squirms and wiggles, thrashing everywhere I move,
develops like a foetus, growing more and more,
until I see how everything should rightly end.

However, not expectantly, my words amend,
rewriting to another place. My child’s gore
spills on my page, controlling me. I start the war
and soon we battle. Who shall win? Just find the end.

And you shall see how thoughts have sorted out like mice,
lined up at last, behaving prim and clean and nice.

But oftentimes my children come to pressure me.
I follow what they tell my hands, which should suffice,
but no – the war shall rage. And in the end, advice
from them has changed my writing to another beast.

Sonnet CCXIV

When I was in Grade 5 (when I was 10),
life wasn’t all that great. My teacher wasn’t very nice.
He spoke with racism, which leaned a bit to vice.
The subtle nature of his words were not quite bold,
but sudden, cutting, like a monstrous speech was told.
And friends I had but three. The rest were wicked mice
that prodded all my innards with their verbal ice.
And hurt was thrown upon me; happiness deprived.

And Mrs. Principal had called me down one day,
insisting that I had offended in some way:

She said I was blasphemous to my friend named John –
he was but one of three – and hating her, I claimed
I was but innocent…but no, I was a pawn,
recruited for sadistic joy; by others tamed.

Sonnet CCXII

A year of goals and plans to make my life less bad,
agendas, long-term blueprints, failed attempts at more.
A month of disappointment, plain frustration’s war,
exhaustion’s beast, woke from the sleepless nights I had.
A week of writing, adding, talking, being mad,
obsessing, doing homework, doing projects, more.
A day of stress, remorse, upset, and times that bore,
and yelling, screaming, hurting, brawling, being sad.

Thank goodness ice cream, popcorn – foods like that – exist!
Without them, life would be a dismal, sombre list.

So coming home from school, unhappy as the sky,
I chug my cola., eat my chips. When Mom comes home,
she cooks more comfort foods. And like a greedy gnome,
I eat and eat until my heart’s content – or try!

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.