Sonnet CCLXI

If winds would carry me, I’d fly to Neptune’s globe.
I’d stay awhile, wrapped in furs there, merrily,
the clouds of noxious gases swimming like a sea.
Perhaps you’d see me, dancing in the evening’s lobe,
an earring topaz-blue, a shining memory.
As darkness spreads, my piercing punctures holes to see,
the sequins shining in the woman’s nightly robe.

I’d wink at you, but all you’d see is twinkling light,
the lofty ritual of stars within the night.

One cannot tell the quasars from the galaxies
nor what the constellations render anymore.
One cannot see my face in Neptune’s tiny orb
nor even find it, lost within the hidden East.

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 CCIII

If I had any superpower, I would fly
so noxious transportation would be thusly spurned
for more efficient travel of the soaring birds.
I’d fly away, up in azure of cloudless skies
without emitting toxic fumes from dirty pipes
of cars. The world would be a distant, far-off earth
because I’d be so high above, a human bird,
so graceful, tumbling, spinning, dancing in the sky.

But in the chilly winter, could I stand the cold?
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t dare – I’m not that bold.

And thus, my crazy dreams of flying end right there.
I’d rather be wrapped up in comfy warmth than cold,
but birds, who fly and fly and fly to Mexico,
endure a massive trip for measly, humid air.

Sonnet CLXXI

A month ago my visitors had come:
the bugs and moths and lovely little flies
in morning, shivering their fragile thighs
as cold and crispy fall began its numb
and ended summer’s happy reign of sun.
However, after noon the sun would shine
a lovely sheen of swarthy, sallow lime
and warmed my freezing friends of darkish dun.

But autumn carries through and scrubs the game
of false, pretending summer’s warming rays.
The growing chill of morn shall soon encase
my helpless insects, frozen on the panes.
And bearing autumn chill along the way,
I swear my vengeance as the heat abates.

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 CXLVIII

Confused. And nearly blinded. Dumbstruck fly
amidst the yellow, hardwood floor and shelves,
commotion caused by shuffling feet and yells,
which swirled about in dizziness and fright.

And buzzing to another way close by,
it seems, to books of noble history,
the sullen fly begins to walk to see,
to comprehend what is that messy sty.

And magazines stared down nearby like bears
with giant scribbles, faces like above.
Then squashed, the fly would never find out where
this strange place was - a bookstore far from bare -
as someone’s shoe had squandered him with love
and Anne Boleyn stared from a novel’s head.

Sonnet CXXXVII

The swatter, blue and plastic genocide,
is resting in my bathroom cupboard’s bed.
So many flies from it did quickly hide,
but in the end they lost their priceless heads.

A mark remains upon my window’s side
where once before the swatter swiftly tread.
A deadly weapon filled with deadly pride,
a testament and warning from the dead.

So crude and cruel. But swatters kill the flies
that kill me with their loathsome, buzzing noise.
Thank goodness for my cunning, wicked means!
Without it, flies would come to eat my eyes,
my nose, my skin in death…their graceful poise
abandons them, and in revenge, they feast.

Sonnet CXXXVI

The burning heat had charred my weakened eyes
and on the ground I saw a horse’s tail.
I stopped. It was a frog’s poor legs and flies.
I saw the head as well, the tongue so pale.
And stretched along the body like a tree’s,
its twisted limbs, all gruesome green as dales.
The skin a flattened brown, ripped open, free,
the blood the colour of a rusted nail.

The flies – a million –all lucent black,
all crawling, fighting, filthy in their greed,
spread over their delicious feast of flesh.
At their delicious meat they crudely hacked,
the spoiling skin a more enticing treat,
all chewy, more than if it were more fresh.

Sonnet CXXXII

Escaping human wickedness, a fly
decided foolishly one fateful night
inside a shining lamp to there abide.

And eaten by the light bulb, he did fry,
the putrid smell of burning flesh a fright;
the humans flew and quickly fled to hide.

Thus craftiness earned no reward for him
and won’t for you, my crafty little friend.
The death of this poor fly was but a hymn
to honesty, a parable to mend
the wicked hearts where goodness starts to dim.
For as a little fly had perished then,
so too shall you. You’ll meet a fate as grim,
an equal wickedness to shape your end.

Sonnet CXXVIII

Ophelia is lying in her death,
reanimated for a dismal fate.
She lies in sewage, wasting dying breath.
While hunting for her substinence, she waits.

What happened to her lucent skin, so fresh?
Her high-exalted status and her mate?
What of her family and happiness?
Her pride and joy and carefree, happy ways?

Ophelia’s a frog, the shameful beast.
She loves no more and feels no happiness.
She hunts for flies. She’s selfish, crude, and brusque.
Destroyed by everyone, she’s awfully beat,
cares not if all the world has gone amiss.

What fitting joy for such a joyful mess!

Sonnet CXV

Existing for a breathless while,
the Fly, with no name but its own deceit.
Detested. Flying many weary miles.
Escaping cold inside to human heat.
And when the sunset dawns - Fly’s folly – vile,
enticing it to go outside to meet
unhappy chills, which wears down all it wiles –
but all that meets the window pane are feet.

The Fly must stay inside, subject to fate.
What fate but death? A promising result.
And chased to all wit’s end, the Fly still flies.
Exhausted, onward bound, pursued by hate.
Then beckoned by the light from all tumult,
it fries. The charred meat roasted in the night.