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 CCXCV

No King deserves such precious gems of finest quartz!
Look how they shine – like diamonds on the frozen earth,
so crafted carefully in perfect, rounded pearls,
a lacework crystal painted on our earthly floor.

No Queen deserves these diadems, just past my door!
Observe these clear tiaras, lacing trees in mirth,
their arborescent vanity a tool of hurt,
disdaining icy sceptres, shining from the porch.

No royal house can purchase such bijouterie,
which serves to decorate that Mother Nature’s greed.

Her winter vesture’s free for us to violate:
her gown of finest snow is dotted with our prints;
her polished nails upon the windows, ruined by our heated fist;
her valuables, with hungry eyes, we steal and desecrate.

Sonnet CCLXXVIII

Polyphony, as sumptuous as a rich brocade,
shines vivid crimson with its careful mastery.
A layer through a layer in a tapestry,
inverted motives in the fabric interplay.
One sees the colours, recognising themes like days,
arranged in curlicues of phoenixes and seas
of countersubjects, slit like ruby string,
between the lines of subjects, woven in a braid.
The balanced harmonies, which satisfy each voice
cohere so gingerly, a stitch by stitch with poise,
familiar majesty, a souvenir of old,
a tad bit tarnished from disuse, still grandly frail,
courageous in its use, a kingly conquest sailed –
surmised as luxury, subdued as precious gold.

Sonnet CLIX

When young, I read and read mythology:
Athena, Zeus, Demeter, Artemis;
their namely Romanized equivalents,
and other gods and other deities.

When young, I read and read the Tudor age:
the Kings and Queens – Elizabeth the first,
the wives her father had, the hate and hurt,
and intrigues of the court, like battles waged.

So why do I remain without a God?
I’ve read so many others; should I find
one there? And aren’t religious texts like tales
and histories? But still I’ll stay so fraught
with wondering, regret, and wasted time;
so obstinate, rejecting holy ways.

Sonnet CLIII

Of Aragon, fat Catherine was replaced
by Anne Boleyn, who lost her head one day
to Seymour Jane who, by her son, was saved
but killed, succeeded then by Anne the Mare
(of Cleves), supplanted next by Kathryn, laid
by all; last, Parr survived – because she prayed!

And so six wives King Henry thusly had.
He scared his children, never to have kids.
No wonder poor Elizabeth was glad
to stay a Virgin Queen, although amidst
a swarm of suitors – rich, ambitious lads.
But then again, King Henry’s eldest kid -
that Bloody Mary married Phillip, eh?
But then, hence stressed, she burnt those heretics...

Sonnet C

While you were watching mindless T.V. shows
and playing games on dour computers too…
I babysat my brother, and I grew.
I turned sixteen, became a working prole,
Wrote three exams, each lasting three long hours,
(The subjects: counterpoint, then harmony;
the one I self-prepared was history.
They stole July and all my mental pow’r.)
I travelled to Toronto, saw a zoo,
I wrote a hundred sonnets (finally),
began analysis, new harmony,
and watched Olympic Games the whole while through.

And though achievement fills a holey life,
some say the Holy earn a better prize.

Sonnet XCVI

Her coy, endearing laugh and subtle smile.
Her chestnut hair, so perfect all the time.
Her eyes are blue – or green…or brown?
or grey…or hazel…but they never frown.

Her lips are red if happy, pink if cold.
Her mind is wise as if she were quite old.
Her teeth are straight – well, with Invisalign.
She’s lithe and nimble as a graceful vine.

She gave me help with physics and with math,
she cut my vegetables in cooking class,
she helped perfect our group in history,
but never saw herself within my poetry.

And though she should know how I feel and such,
I’d rather if the secret was kept hush.

Sonnet LXXVII

The greatest magic is a language learned,
through lots of conjugation practise earned.
Though dictionaries of may be used at first,
facility grows better still, not worse.

Communication’s key to thrive, survive, and live.
The goods we need from others are derived.
No doubt, linguistic interaction brings
good company (or bad) and other things:

a source of pride, a handy travel guide,
a taste of culture (literally tried?),
new friends, old histories, used in all work,
an academic journey one can’t shirk.

Perhaps one’s diction may not be desired,
but one can speak and certainly be hired.