Sonnet CCCLXIII

Unwary laughter stirs the languid air:
The weary robins interlace their yawns
Unbidden breezes charm our tickled arms,
meandering toward the heaven's stair.

The shadows of the trees are barely there;
the limpid flowers rest their lurid shawls -
In viscous resignation, stilled and calm,
Warm oxygen absorbs our every care.

As Artemis is dying all the clouds,
Apollo closes up his pearly gate.
The final sun-kissed photons scintillate
as conversation takes its final bow:
these summer hours sedately dissipate,
and Mother Nature packs away her day.

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 CCCXLI

He slithers through the mute suburban maze,

A serpent buried in the silent night.

No mortal could escape that fiery gaze,

The vacant eyes aglow with ghostly light!

Some say they’ve seen the phantom taking flight,

His eerie glow an iridescent blue.

He mutely treads the roads til out of sight

and rests in wait until recalled anew.

When new day dawns he enters town to brood,

emerging, innocent as anything.

Then opening that gaping mouth for food,

the door snaps shut, his appetite appeased.

His eyes, those giant windows, gleam like stars

and noisily, the beast squeaks past the cars.

Sonnet CCCXXXII

He’s crafted hair for half a century,

so mine are pinpricks in a hairy sea.

He snips and combs, and strips away the old;

the excess falls like needles to my cloak.

They look like magnets, silver in the light;

at other angles, they are dark as night,

much blacker than the black that shields my clothes.

He starts to talk – on what he loves and loathes;

his loyal friends and customers all laugh.

His plans for after work, his coloured past –

these fill the place with laughter, joy, and mirth,

although there’s three of us (but soon a fourth).

He’s done with me at last. I smile and pay,

then turn back toward my mundane Saturday.

Sonnet CCXCVI

There’s daily proof the sun adores the glowing moon:
he clears the stars come morning, spreading out his arms,
and dusts the sky until he sweeps away the dark.
What sweet devotion, lasting past the heated noon!

But like a housewife, cooking, setting out the spoons –
his work’s in vain, and ruined by a single star.
Her children ruin beds, then tear the house apart;
his lover smears the spotless sky with starry shoes.

And yet, it’s loving effort keeping “house at hame”,
and sheer compassion keeping wicked anger tame.

So, still he waits, his ardour flaming like his light.
He waits eternally until the ceiling cools;
his hot anticipation’s mighty as a fool’s –
and steadily he loves, that husband of the night!

Sonnet CCXCII

I closed the door, then opened it for just a peek.
The light invaded, charging from the corridor.
I gasped, and gladly shut the ashen door once more.
And heading to my silent bed, I feel antique,
my limbs as wooden as a dresser, calmly meek.
The night is welcome, taking me toward its core,
as lying down, I close my eyes and hope to snore,
so weary of the world and all the things I seek.

How easily we fly into that final sleep,
at last prepared for nightly graveyard where we’ll keep.

The weary day, come dusk, succumbs to restful night
and yet, there shall be times the night proves permanent.
Although it’s hard to die unto our cerement,
into that final sleep – how easily we fly!

Sonnet CLXXXVIII

L’amour fleurit comme tout les noires et sombres nuits:
une fleur si belle et si mystérieuse comme toi.
Mais tout les temps tu fuis le jour et moi,
tes émotions, ombreuses; ses mots, le cœur de bruit.
Tu sais la joie? Je pense que non. La crise te suit;
les grandes tristesses sont tous tes grands nuages, si froid.
Mais toutes tes gouttes de pluie sont des larmes de moi –
et tu est insouciante et comme la lune, conduis.

Tu es la chose le jour fait comme un mal mémoire,
qui reste, puis, quitte ciel chaque souvenir de moi.

Mais maintenant, j’habite après la nuit de moi.
Le jour m’embrase, et chaque étreinte me donne la perte,
la perte de la mémoire, la perte de perte en perte –
et maintenant, j’oublie la sombre nuit, je crois.

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 CCLXI

If winds would carry me, I’d fly to Neptune’s globe.
I’d stay awhile, wrapped in furs there, merrily,
the clouds of noxious gases swimming like a sea.
Perhaps you’d see me, dancing in the evening’s lobe,
an earring topaz-blue, a shining memory.
As darkness spreads, my piercing punctures holes to see,
the sequins shining in the woman’s nightly robe.

I’d wink at you, but all you’d see is twinkling light,
the lofty ritual of stars within the night.

One cannot tell the quasars from the galaxies
nor what the constellations render anymore.
One cannot see my face in Neptune’s tiny orb
nor even find it, lost within the hidden East.

Sonnet CCLX

I cannot die to live, but always live to die:
my life is spinning out to death from just a thread,
attached to my beginning, birth beyond my head.
I’m like the paradox of day, which also dies,
despite its burst of lustre, bright Aurora’s red,
and in the end it cedes to night, unto its death
of sleep, unknowing, to another shining life.

But do I know for sure what sequel lies beyond?
Shall death’s old moon prevail or shall the sun stay round?

Perhaps the day does not just die to deathly night,
for from the morning, life turns to a brighter death –
the Noon – which grows with larger brilliance of breath,
reanimated from my corpse, the umbra’s light.

Sonnet CCXLV

Let’s hide away in dark, concealed from all the world;
and so alone we shall not be, but lone together here.
The outside world is noisy, loud, and full of cheer
as brooding, broth of us succumb to silence, pure.

Oh join us, friend, oh gladly join our dismal hurt.
Has Fate rejected you? Has Pleasure shed a tear?
Oh what a joy to hide, and such a wondrous year:
a year of dismal joy, a life of hidden hurt.

In darkness dancing, only voices transfer words,
and if our ears do die, our fingers fly like birds.

And if they die in darkness, what a happy death!
They’d die together here, so smothered in our grief.
And if the world is cold, it didn’t steal our breath.
We shunned its happy face and carved it in relief.

Sonnet CCXXXVI

The sky of snow is vast, surrounding me in white.
It’s dotted with its stars, my footprints in the snow.
The constellations shine; my feet shall make them grow;
my feet create the stars; my treading spreads the light.

If constellations live, and sleep not in the night,
but spread my fame about, in sheets of whitened snow,
perhaps I am the Bear, cast up in stars below,
eternal on the earth, but fleeting with the night.

Remember me like this: though footprints disappear,
emblazon me in night, where all can nightly peer.

And if the day comes soon, surmount my daily tread;
forget the noise I made, but follow memory.
And if disloyalty obscures nocturnal me,
I live but die in rage, eternally undead.

Sonnet CCXXXI

Justyna had been toiling on her festive feast
and cleaned while Husband toiled differently – at work.
She felt a little sad when chopping up the pork,
because her children all had grown. She took the yeast
and thought of how her life had counted for the least.
“But it is duty,” saying to herself, berserk,
repeating feverishly what kept her with a smirk
despite what chores annoyed her, chores that never ceased.

By night, it snowed a darkened snow, nocturnal, white.
A knock was heard. Justyna knew her husband’s might.

The knock was lighter. Humming cautious, anxious hymns,
she saw the woman. All the legends said that sight
of females first brings awful luck. And yet – Invite
her in, she thought. We women live too much on others’ whims.

Sonnet CCXXI

I call my classmate after trying tricky math.
The other end is clear; I hear their distant voice,
familiar, but far away. They make the choice
to call me back with answers when they’ve done the math.
In silence, night envelops me in shining bath,
that’s interrupted by a silver ringing noise.
With phone in hand, again I hear their helpful voice,
and crude comparisons begin of what we hath.

Anon, I hear the gentle sounds of rustling leaves
of paper, scratching of a pen; about it weaves.

But not as if they were close by, but far away,
contained within a cord directed at my ear.
And am I just the same? Transmitted all the way
to someone’s ear, a prick of sounds that one may hear?

Sonnet CXCI

MY GOD.
                Barack Obama
                                       was your choice.
He was, or wasn’t he? He’s worth your vote!
He’s better anyhow than Mister Old
and Miss Alaska-Gal, all bright and coy.

MY GOD. I actually don’t care a bit
to study for my math test. For this day –
MY GOD…this night of voting – isn’t play.
It’s real. It’s now. It’s not some fad to hit.

With seconds, minutes left, go vote or think
at least, politically. Discard the rags
of commonplace and trivial pursuits.
Don’t let your government and life just sink!
Take action, make your nation firm, not sag!
Or if you won’t, just watch the goddamn news!

Sonnet CLXV

The days of catching up unfinished work –
so much to finish, bits from everything...
if only catching up on needed sleep
were just as simple, but it’s not, of course –
for sleep is just a waste of time, no more,
required nonetheless, but time for sleep
is great in quantity though time’s not free,
and thus, for sleep we sacrifice our chores -
we could have done more work within that time;
we could have used it better than just rest...
and yet we need to rest, we need to sleep...
but so much work to do – and where’s the time -
alas - we need our beauty sleep and rest –
so then, it’s just a cycle, circling.

Sonnet CLXIII

A body rounded in the black of night,
the whitened moon within a darkened sky,
illuminated roads as I passed by
by way of its pristine and glowing light.
It seems as lovely as an evening pearl,
perhaps the home of cultured deities.
I wondered then if only humans dream;
that only we succumb to night’s allure.

But then I recollected how wolves praise –
their joyous howls to the lunar rays;
the crashing frenzy of the smitten waves;
the celebrations of the stars ‘til day –
and realizing I was not at bay
had warmed me in the chill of night like day.

Sonnet CLIV

I’m glad. I live in times of joy and peace.
I wake up, dress; I eat and brush my teeth.
I take a bus to school; no need to walk.
I have worry for my life: no fear.
I live with electricity and warmth.
There is no strife or arbitrary war.
I do not toil under slavery.

Stability is solid as a rock.

And yet complaints. Day in, day out they come,
like flying monsters, tarnishing the world.
I hear them from my mouth, the selfish things...
dissatisfaction raging like a gnome...
ingratitude from mouths of terror hurled...
what else can constant, tarnished spoilage bring?

Sonnet CXXXII

Escaping human wickedness, a fly
decided foolishly one fateful night
inside a shining lamp to there abide.

And eaten by the light bulb, he did fry,
the putrid smell of burning flesh a fright;
the humans flew and quickly fled to hide.

Thus craftiness earned no reward for him
and won’t for you, my crafty little friend.
The death of this poor fly was but a hymn
to honesty, a parable to mend
the wicked hearts where goodness starts to dim.
For as a little fly had perished then,
so too shall you. You’ll meet a fate as grim,
an equal wickedness to shape your end.

Sonnet CXXXI

My pills are batteries, so black and new.
They live inside my musical device –
their lovely case – and cure my pains anew.
They pleasurably thus anaesthetize,
their potency well-harnessed. Without rue,
so easily, accessibly, comprise
the power driving all those soothing tunes,
which hypnotize and petrify my life.

Sedated happily each night and day,
I’m neither sad nor glad – just in between.
Around me, lovely, aural visions laugh and play,
still keeping rhythms, volumes at a mean.
And carefree, drugged with sound in youthful grey,
I’m lonely, happy, lost, and strangely free.