Sonnet CCLXVI

My life’s a yellow yarn, but not the kind that lies –
the kind that spins, from forth my hands, to sombre death.
Entwining me, enveloping, constricting breath,
my life is not a yarn perhaps – a noose, at times –
then other times it seems unravelling and bright,
the backwards handiwork of grannies put to bed
with thread, awakening then to see it gone and dead
and life destroyed, and never waking from its time.
Who knows just where the scissors chomp? Not I nor you,
but shrewd Atropos knows! She rests her shears and brews
a cup of tea. And all the while, searching here,
we wonder if the end is near or if it’s not,
and as we think, immortal Fates imbibe and plot
- and spin – while here we are, rope’s end and all with fear.

Sonnet CLXXVIII

Of course I’m back for more. I have more vids.
I’ve polished them to near perfection’s grace.
Athena, goddess ruling over trades
like art and weaving, war, intelligence
would be so jealous, having not the means
to reach such crafted, perfect, magic skill.
For mortal flair, she’d hunt and crudely kill…
but here I go, endangering my peace…

Mein Gott! Der hölle rache is burning now!
My opera videos will never load!
These cursèd sites I’ll one day kill!
I smash and bash the mouse, with rage endowed,
and rip the keyboard up to shreds in woe…
and then the IT guy shall bring the bill…!

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 LXXXIV

Persephone had painted all their heads
with artists’ eyes and nature’s finest brush.
In tow she had her paints and gentle touch,
to lightly prod and colour flower beds.

But what did she become? The Queen of Death.
Forced under earth to rule a new abode.
Instead of birds she heard sad, dismal odes,
instead of spreading life she smothered breath.

The virtuous work of poor Persephone
was lost to greed. While mothers mourned she thrived,
to new endeavours solemnly belied.
And lost in seasons, died to history.

But plants live on, eternally un-dead,
collecting bitter tears the Muses shed.