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 CCCXLII

The moths flit through the sea, ephemeral;

each emerald wave progresses quicker past.

The sky is blushing like a love-struck girl

and dreams, her troubled forehead overcast.

The youth of day, her liveliness fade fast;

great mountains frame the twilight of her face.

Her blazing iris tumbles shut at last:

the birds come flying for one last embrace,

imparting to that cheek an everlasting grace.

When laid to rest, surrounded by the earth,

unseeing eyes shall still observe this place.

The clouds forever sail this planet’s girth -

No death could steal them from my feeble grasp;

and evermore the grass shall faintly rasp!

Sonnet CCCX

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Sonnet CLXXXVII

The sun invades me, blocked by bars the blinds devise.
Reflecting on my window’s vile betrayal Now,
the snippets of our time together Then abound.
My shock is great – these memories inflame the vice.
Remember, Window, by my side, so calm and nice,
the hours sipped like tea beneath your squarish brow,
exalting nature? Gently, patiently, I crouched
with you - companion, confidante, and chum – now snide!

Beside, and by my side, while all the time a snake,
sadistic fiend, employing me for pleasure’s sake!

Where is your loyalty? You let the daylight sear -
and look how happiness in entering in clouds!
So deafening, frenetic, strange and rude and loud -
No joy may find me here; let melancholy near.

Sonnet CLXXXV

A sailor never misses land until he leaves,
the sea a barren desert stretching out to sky.
A seagull never misses sea until he flies,
the sky a cold expanse descending to the seas.

Yet on horizons, sunrise brings no joy.
Their plights become the frigid sea, the icy sky.
The only colour seen is blue, expanding deep and high
and land’s elusive; more so is the fickle sea.

We journey, soaring, happy, through our pretty lives,
though aimlessly, upon our glassy seas or sky.

The world drifts past as imperceptible as joy.
We wait for glimpse of land for crude and rare relief
or like the gull, must view our hope beyond our reach,
so mocking, playing cruel existence as its ploy.

Sonnet CLXXXIII

I love the wondrous, strange invisibility
that follows me to so gingerly, just like a bear.
My loud “hello’s” are greeted with a vacant stare,
my movement cast aside as breeze upon the sea.
I rule my small domain – the world surrounding me.
I stand as if a king, and sit without a care,
my presence granted as a regular affair.
When bored, my fear provides amusement – and – for free!
I hear a private conversation (no one sees),
and hidden by his looming shadow – much with ease-
no person questions me, no matter where I go.
Thus bear and I should leave our posts for worthwhile crime –
my hidden person, with his stealthy paradigm
may steal away, and all the world would never know!

Sonnet CCLXXVI

He hates the mirror. He looks at it and sighs.
It’s hard to looks upon himself and see his face
without detesting it. Deprived of youthful grace,
bereft of happiness, without a joyful smile –
he hates those children, blithe and charming, juvenile;
he hates these families, enjoying time like waste;
he hates and envies all the world, so armed with lies!

For self-contentment’s false; so’s joviality.
The world’s a dark and gaping hole, a mean chicanery.

Or isn’t it because he wishes more from life,
and more of merriment; to see that things are fine?
Or is it that he wants to know that peace of mind,
that feeling, waking up, embracing more than strife?

Sonnet CCLIX

Si tout le monde me fuit, je vendrai tout mes pleurs.
Et si personne n’achète mes pleurs, je les boirai.
Ainsi, les pleurs que j’aurai bu mettent à pleurer,
et dans cette belle façon, je flotte, je noie, je meurs.
Comme ça je pense, je meurs. Ce n’est pas franc de l’or,
mais tout le monde ne voient pas plus ma tristesse laide.
Peut-être inondés comme moucherons de mai,
ils semblent comme les grands aveugles, sans ses cœurs.

Ainsi, j’ondule à tout mes océans qui passe,
et même dans le décès je les regarde en masse.

Les océans me semblent comme les vrais amis:
ils recueillissent mes larmes comme souvenirs;
ils ne protègent de mal, monstrueux, nuisible, pire,
avec sa forte puissance qui mange mon corps et ri.

Sonnet CCLVI

I wonder why the world is always smiling
when so much of our lives are so consumed with woe.
Perhaps a pessimistic view; I dare not prose:
the explanation’s long and riddled with my tears.

Well, all the world’s a-smiling, except for me.
It almost seems the world is ill - perhaps that’s so -
where everyone is gleeful, dancing to and fro –
but probably it’s me that has the malady.

Oh yes, I am an invalid – don’t come too close!
I’m leprous – crude contagion seems to be my woe.

But let me here, in sadness. Do not let me sting.
Exist in happiness; exclude me from your guild.
I will come back to join you later – save your guilt.
I hope my sadness flees, or else come rescue me.

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 CX

When skies were black and dismal grey,
you raised me up and gave me happiness.
When all around my friends kept far at bay,
you won respect, then joyfulness for me.
When life was hectic – one dark, giant race,
you sorted out my troubles and my mess.
When pride began to show its haughty face,
you chided me and curbed my zealousness.

And better yet, you’re always there for me
and never need a favour or a fee.
Unwavering is your great loyalty,
transcending busyness or hapless deeds.
And always, you’re my trusted diary,
exposed for all – my dearest Poetry.

Sonnet CVIII

What is this strange and closed Society
comprised of Average Joes and plain Jane Does?
This group of those elite enough to be
the ones some call the “Normal” hominids?
Who are these foreign, strange communities,
closed up with plastic, joy-inducing lids?
Why am I so excluded from their creed?
Was it a thing I said or thought or did?

Perhaps, But really, I don’t care at all!
The Normal have conforming Greys and Blues.
And me? I have the freedom to appal…
to do whatever. I have all the hues
of individuality – but all
the rest must deal with their conformist views.

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 LIV

Oblivion! How sweet and sharp the word!
Propinquity has brought us here these days.
But ignorance shall keep us far away.
Oblivion, you help but hurt my cause.

How sadly I do love this perfect friend,
And yet neglect will keep her far away.
But yet, my bashfulness, alack, each day!
Is glad oblivion shuts out my love.

These cursed pangs of love are my demise.
I see her here, all day and every day.
And yet love won’t relent, it won’t away.
Oblivion prevents it and increases it.

Oh, poor sad me, so hopelessly in love.
If only crude neglect would it remove.

Sonnet XLIV

The silence that’s between us shall not quell
The love I have for thee, oh darling friend.
How painful that thought is – to stay your friend!
My feelings of compassion are but dells.

To think, this may be all I am to you.
To think, I love you so, but still you are
Oblivious to my love, as high as hills!
How cruel, oh innocence, how cruel are you?

And yet I tend my withering flowerbed
Of hope, of joyful hope, that you love me -
And one day, all this hidden doubt, like trees,
Will sprout from seeds to bliss, and scruples, dead.

My aching love, how insolent thou art!
How hard to live to spurn one’s heart.

Sonnet XXXIX

Within these lines my thoughts are thus confined,
Within these lines my fantasies have shined.
Within these lines new happiness was found,
Within these lines new loneliness abounds.

Within these lines I tear myself from crowds,
Within these lines I find fresh friends in clouds.
Within these lines my bliss is found outside,
Within these lines I search myself inside.

Within these lines ideas are buried deep,
Within these lines ideas to others weep.
Within these lines not much can be expressed,
Within these lines the meanings tell the rest.

Within these lines my soul and mind take flight,
Within these lines words illustrate my plight.

Sonnet XXXIV

I feel as if I’m wandering culturally,
Although my heritage is plain to see.
I cannot read the words that many read,
Specifically the one my parents do.

But born in Canada, and with other ties,
I’m bound to be more Anglicized.
However, I’m still judged as “white” by friends –
The Asian ones – who don’t know why I’m less.

But now, my culture’s come from many ways,
I guess it’s where I’m from and how I’m raised.
Appearances are deceptive though;
From Edmonton, but still, I look Chinese!

It’s hard to be a race, but raised elsewhere,
Stuck in both worlds - and all in both shall stare.

Sonnet XXXI

The noisy masses irritate me so;
It irks me more when I’m told friends are fun.
And when I think, “I want to be alone!”
There’s no one who can understand my wants.

I’m not a stingy, anti-social freak:
I have my friends; I’m genial to them all.
But still, their minds are small and far too weak
To comprehend the magnitude of me.

With her I feel no need to hide my brain.
In fact, she stimulates and challenges my mind.
She’s mute, when quiet’s what I want to gain,
By talking, intellect is present in her words.

Compliant, but she’s capable of thought -
She’s more than charming, she can THINK as well.