Sonnet CCCLVI

At last I breathe again, at last I live:
perhaps my loneliness was only relative.
I once desired love – your company –
but I shall fill these hours easily.
From time-worn, weathered eyes erasing you,
replacing such projected joys with truth,
I live once more in grounded, present time
unbound of empty fantasy and rhyme.


I roam the changing earth, but pondering
as drifting, migrant snow joins, flight by flight –
and neither wind nor I know anything
of where we go from here and when or why –


but all we know is that we still exist,
if still unseen – at least by loyal sunshine kissed.

Sonnet CCCLV

What strange machines! I stand in dumbstruck awe.
They dig so monstrously, with scrawny claws;
petite – but mighty, steely, debonair.
Grey, prickly feathers splice the pungent air
and scores of them bob stably in the sea,
a half-assembled army, oddly free.


In syncopated rhythms, side by side,
now trading spots for newer soil to try,
then scurrying, returning now, for more –
acknowledging a neighbour’s small domain
then stealing it – and there erupts a war!


Unmoved, the others plod along their way,
but hesitant, I stay awhile myself,
escaping my routine for theirs, for them.

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 CCCXXIX

I cachinnate at all our three-chord songs,

at all attempts to fit in and belong.

Derision greets the slogans that I loathe,

the mindless humming of our T.V. shows.

But I discover what we all have known;

I dig, display emotions all have known;

subscribed to trends, like all have done before;

subjected life to patterns used before.

For we are humans, similar and all;

restrictions bind us to a common thread.

We tread for freedom, hear its blatant call,

but realize there’s only us ahead.

And we’re so all alike, recycling,

as if there is no news but our dis-ease.

Sonnet CCCXXVIII

White fluffy clouds are fleeing far away,

preparing for their darker, darker day.

Last drips of summer trickle down my face;

the breezes taunt me like a sheerest lace.

I watch the flowers pack away their youth,

to save each memory of fiery hue.

Lest old regrets cloud bliss and happiness;

we celebrate the days we’ll always miss.

The sweetest honeyed murmurs swaddle me,

but words melt into laughs – then slowly cease.

Cicadas hum their final melody,

and autumn winds prepare to shake the trees.

I just have time to bid my mute adieu,

and swallow up the sky, so cobalt blue.

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 CCCXXV

we long to drink we long for drugs and sex
were wicked teens strung high by natures hex
adrenaline and folly are our chant
our words are slurred our movements are a dance
were on computers every waking hour
ignoring chores and acting simply sour
were rude
               were boorish
                                    always such a mess
at every moment mad or quite depressed

and Yet –
               We still take buses to our school;
               Our mothers still remind us of the cold;
               We’re still subject to all our father’s rules;
               And frankly, we’re still kids – we’re not that old.

But rebels we shall stay, extreme or mild,
each one of us an adult-werewolf-child.

Sonnet CCCXXIV

This caterpillar never learns to crawl,

but quivers from a tree branch, scorned by all.

It hangs to ripen with the rain and sun,

until its skin is soft and hue is dun.

This brooch of precious pearls and ruby gems

is now the butterfly upon each stem.

It’s only till we taste them that we know

that they yet to darken and to grow.

The darkest ones, as black as charcoal ink

are unmistakable as night itself.

Their violet innards stain our fingertips,

collapsing at our touch into themselves.

Around the berry tree we dance around –

to pluck the jewels to pop into our mouths!

Sonnet CCCXXIII

O newborn baby, quiet as a sheep,

your eyes are tightly closed in tender sleep!

How soft your rosy skin, how small your lips;

What tiny nails upon your fingertips!

Your eyes are opening, first one, alone

(the other one is much too tired to show)!

Your ears, two conches, listen all around –

The world’s a brand new place, so full of sound!

But happiness dissolves to angry cries,

Much stronger than expected of this child!

Poor Dad and Mommy try and search and try…

But calming Baby takes awhile!

Then soon she’s off again, asleep for hours,

A precious little angel, sweetly sour.

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 CCCXXI

The ketchup on these plates I wash is dry,
a spray of crimson spared from Monday’s fries.
I recognize those peanut butter marks
that decorate our cups with muddy tracks.

These fossils of the meals we once have shared
are found upon this dirty tableware,
but such remains will soon be washed away
and are replaced with newer, fresher stains.

We’ve shared so many meals upon these plates;
we shared so many secrets as we ate!
I grew from youth as cracks grew from their sides –
what memories these little bruises hide!

It’s sad to think I’ll one day leave these bowls,
to buy new sets to fill a newer home.