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 CCLXII

How green-eyed is the painter of the sunset’s hues!
He cannot capture them and put them in his pot
nor even copy them with dowdy paints he’s bought.
And yet, he loves the sunset, marvels in its blues!

How covetous the dancer is of sunset’s moves!
She cannot be as subtle by the way she’s taught
nor just as strong, capricious, eloquently raw.
And yet, she loves the sunset, worshipping its shoes!

How wishful is the singer of the sunset’s tones!
She cannot radiate the warmth beyond the West
nor speak her beauty only with a moment’s rest.
And yet, she loves the sunset, stores it in her bones!

How jealous are the arts against the sunset’s grace –
and yet, look how they love its flaxen face!

Sonnet CXXII

A true friend shall not use you for their aims
or curse you if you fail to serve them well.
A true friend isn’t jealous of your fame
or bitter, hearing new successes swell.
A true friend does you favours. And the game
the others play of selfish playback quells.
A true friend loves you through your flaws and frays
and comforts you in sickness and in Hell.

Does such a friend exist? I must say no.
It’s nice to think one has a friend like that.
But all of us have plans and goals and dreams;
we can’t serve others faithfully and know
the friendship’s symbiotic. Some are that,
but most reciprocate the very least.

Sonnet LIII

Get up, you lazy spawn of atrophy -
whose minds and bodies have no dignity.
You idle products of our selfish kind -
shut up, stop eating, talk but sensibly.

Please leave, and send us all to joy
You don’t deserve the treatment you employ.
We're worthy, but we rot and wait for beds,
While you take all, while you still do annoy.

It seems that folly and obesity,
Induced by sugars, fats, and dull T.V.
Beat brains and diligence and kindness too -
While purity has left society.

All lazy, stupid, ignorant, and fat.
What pulchritude! I can’t compare with that.

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.

Sonnet XXIX

Appoggiaturas, mordents, trills adorn
The unaccompanied melody of birds.
Combined, their voices mingle in the fugue
Of nature, so majestic, but also so forlorn.

As simple as the calls of joyous birds,
Our world contains such loveliness;
Obstructed now by human barricades.
However, still, there’s time to save our earth.

Reflecting back on songs of birds, I think
There’s nothing lovelier than nature’s own
And in my heart, a little envy grows
Because my art’s confined to human means.

Oh! What artists birds do seem to be!
They sing without a care so naturally.

Sonnet XXII

My vast plantation glows a crimson green.
My loyal workers comb the lawn for worms.
Mechanically they bob their silly dance
while shimmering a darkly luscious sheen.

At noon they rest and gossip just a bit,
rejoining others at another spot.
Alarmed, they sometimes briskly flit away
and then regroup to share more of their wit.

Some days they never come to visit me.
(My green plantations don a jealous jade)
We envy all the trees that steal our friends,
who spurn our warm and gracious charity.

Then we connive, like dogs to get our feed
whilst happy days, unhindered, still proceed.

Sonnet II

Ambition fails me here and now once more.
This twisted passion falsely guides me through.
The labyrinth of the heart is black with war,
With strange desires, evil tendencies.

My heart grows sick with jealousy.
All joyous, you who love the gracious calm.
Within the bliss, disaster’s revelry.
Unrest dawns here, though happiness prevails.

Insane I am, it’s true and very so,
For envy here I hold for reason not.
Disastrous ways shall cause much strife and woe,
The first of which pervades my very life.

The spite still grows within my hated soul;
To live the day unharmed, that is my goal.