An Epitaph

Deep in the earth, beneath unknowing skies,
I rest at last, far past the centuries.
The visitors have long bid their good-byes;
no maidens come to lay their laurel wreaths.

Though on a summer stroll across the hills
a courting couple oft pay their respects:
and wishing well with stolen daffodils
invite a blessing as they introspect.

"For love, for truth, for art," engraves the stone:
beyond the fateful words no history;
and all the joys and sorrows that I'd known
are silent to the traveller, wondering.

But from immortal eulogy begins
a second life, reborn to brilliance.

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 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 CCCIII

Two singers – sisters maybe – frozen on a tapestry –
gaze back at me, emotions still unchanged, though years have flown.
Who knows how long ago their faces first were stitched and sewn –
my guess the Renaissance – their clothes exude its majesty.

One gown is crimson-red; her sister’s, blue-green like the sea.
Who knows who was the prettier – they looks as twins – or foes.
Or maybe neither lived – they’re dreams that no one living knows -
but either way, they’re shrouded in their girlish mystery.

Eternalized forever, in this lovely piece of art,
they set us pondering, with wooden instruments in hand;
their mouths sing unheard notes, which twist their graceful dance.

Dismembering from their tongues, complex harmonies depart,
unravelling in our minds, and waking creativity.
Their voices die, yet live again with grand imagining.

Sonnet CCXXXVI

The sky of snow is vast, surrounding me in white.
It’s dotted with its stars, my footprints in the snow.
The constellations shine; my feet shall make them grow;
my feet create the stars; my treading spreads the light.

If constellations live, and sleep not in the night,
but spread my fame about, in sheets of whitened snow,
perhaps I am the Bear, cast up in stars below,
eternal on the earth, but fleeting with the night.

Remember me like this: though footprints disappear,
emblazon me in night, where all can nightly peer.

And if the day comes soon, surmount my daily tread;
forget the noise I made, but follow memory.
And if disloyalty obscures nocturnal me,
I live but die in rage, eternally undead.

Sonnet CCXX

Before my presentation on Madame Dessay,
I went inside the French room, testing out my show
of slides. I ate my lunch and quickly had to go.
The other ones were quite well done, I have to say.

Approaching me, I started fervently to pray,
for it was near my very lucky turn to go.
And then, so randomly, my teacher went to crow,
“Oh Mike, your «jaune banane» is here for you to take!”

The class looked back at me, expecting my account.
Embarrassed, thus I told the class to turn around.

Retrieving it from up in front, I ate the fruit.
And then, short after that, my eyes were very round.
Presenting very fast (for class was ending now),
the bell then rang so loud. Cut off, I yelled, «Oh, zut!»

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 CLV

I’ve just wrung out my hundred-fifty-fourth.
As much as Shakespeare wrote. How proud I feel!
Persistence, stubbornness – these got me here.
And now – I wonder – dare I write some more?

Perhaps I’ll stop tomorrow. End this war.
I’ll end this war of strange ideas and greed.
I’ve written tons. I’ve got that great Bard beat.
But still I write. I write until I’m sore.

Why do I write? Specifically, why these?
Why sonnets - difficult, and bratty too?
And why so many? What’s the urgent need?

I wish I knew. When answers come to be,
I’ll know the very first I’ll tell is you:
when finished, both of us need remedies!

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.

Sonnet LXXI

I want a gentle pat upon my head
and you to say I’m good all of the time.
Review my talents, comment on my strengths,
and say for all these things I have a knack.

These happy words and actions are now gone.
Of late I’m drowned in harsh reality.
Forever I will look upon these times
and wonder how those complements I won.

One thing I have to say: Don’t lie but tell
the Truth. I don’t need all your pretty tales.
Don’t float my ships with falsehoods you designed
to make my confidence and ego swell.

I’m not implying that you should be stark,
but don’t dilute good criticism’s sharks.

Sonnet LXIX

Come here…I have a secret for you now…
I’m dead. And have been for a decade’s time.
How I have watched you live your earthly life.
I have much now to tell you, friend of old…

You still disgrace the dead, you mortal sprite.
The zombie mummies resting in their tombs
are pleased not by your laughs – beware your doom.
The cemetery waits for those who smirk.

My lifetime’s work’s now yours to judge…who cares?
How good it is to be a murdered soul!
I care not what you think nor tricks you pull...
Now taunts are useless! I am cold and dead.

And now I only speak because you need
a soul to understand and soothe your greed.

Sonnet LVIII

Ah Fame, you were my King of long ago.
What are you now, I ask you, what are you?
You are a wretched beggar, on my streets,
Abandoned from my Kingdom, foul fool.

Ah Fame, you Tyrant, now I see your truth:

A bitter Trickster, digging cavities
for those of noble talent to fall through
and never see the light of modesty

You never crowned your subjects with fair crowns
(you never will, you idiotic prince)
you’ll always use your wiles to cheat our share

Of lowliness and honour, not a pinch!

It seems, when you had ruled my dim domain
you conned me for your own disastrous gain.

Sonnet LVII

Caught up in gloated glory, now I’m blind:
I think I’m much too good and much too great.
My work seems perfect, unattainable
Because my pride’s so strong it clouds my mind.

Ah Modesty, you virtuous maiden, you.
How difficult you are for me to seize...
How virginal and honest you are still…
How difficult to imitate and prove…

Alas, how sad, how sad for you, my dear.
You are the ultimate in virtue, yet ignored.
Shunned by society, by all you see -
Then, ignorant of you, their dreams are sheared.

Ha, cruel you are, you virtuous maiden, you!
The ones who spurn you spurn their fortune too!

Sonnet LV

Oh Tree, how solemn and how still and staid,
A gentle giant, towering above.
For centuries you’ve stayed there solemnly,
So steadfast, standing in the wind and rain.

While proud birds make their nests, defacing you,
While showy squirrels race amongst your leaves,
You bend in mute agreement, concordant
And modestly, you dress in moderate hues.

Oh Tree, unwaveringly humble, still!
While birds will flit away and find new homes,
While squirrels bore themselves with petty plans –
You stay there, never proud and modest still.

While triviality and fancies flee,
Firm modesty endures like humble trees.

Sonnet XXX

I’m always filled with pride that I can write.
I’m arrogant, and think to rival those
Who wrote the greatest works of literature.
No doubt, that foolishness is trite.

On reading Dickinson, I read her twice;
Her meanings are so rich and deep and wise.
And Shakespeare, virtuoso of his words
Becomes the Bard when read again but thrice.

It’s humbling seeing how my words compare
To poetry composed by geniuses.
Indeed their reputations aren’t made up,
For truly depth and character are theirs.

I write well for my age but still I know
That skills by modesty are thus endowed.