Sonnet CCCLXI

Interrogate the robins – ask them why –
some sudden sunshine peeks between the leaves.
Familiar laughter claims the startled ear
and torpid languor confiscates the eyes –


We spent such carefree days beneath the skies
and when the rain had interspersed between,
we hid like naughty children, impishly
and laughed and laughed and laughed away the sky –


Relinquish you –
                            beyond my feeble grasp,
released beyond my grandiose love at last,
such scenes we’ll see again our separate ways?
Rekindled in my solitary view
at all familiar turns I think of you –
do you remember me at all today?

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 CCLXXIII

Of late, she thinks about herself and how she’s changed.
She’s old, dependent, dying, trapped within her home.
She planned on travelling, to Paris, Cuba, Rome,
but now she lives off pensions, locked inside her cage.
She thinks of youth, and misses it, a bit amazed
at how the time has passed. Her only son is grown –
but stingy – keeping phone calls, money for his own,
while thinking she’s decrepit and deranged.

Her son would never spend a measly dime for her
despite his wealth. She’s raised him all these years, to err!

And yet – to err is only human. What of that?
Forgiveness is divine! If sons decide to scorn,
then who’ll coerce their smiles, forced and falsely warm?
An honest miser’s better than a lying rat.

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 CCXXIII

I have a lot of friends who love the opera too.
They come from France, Great Britain, Spain, and Germany.
A few are from the States and one’s from Italy.
I’ve others too, but I digress. Away we move.
Kind Beth of Texas is a mother and a muse,
and Phoenix is a nearby piano friend like me,
but she’s thirteen, won Nationals, and loves to teach.
I could go on: musicians, writers, artists too…

The world’s afloat with wondrous people, smart and kind.
The ones I’ve met so far are just like that, I find.

And yet, there are so many stalkers on the Net;
they terrorize and bully, like a bunch of fools.
However, all these contacts, friends, and such I’ve met
I found through websites, blogs, and other cyber-tools.

Sonnet CCXIX

I beg to differ to the fact that Hell is hot:
I say that Hell is cold as Hell – and just as mean.
It’s holding ladders for my Dad, as up he leans,
to put up Christmas lights on eaves with hooks we bought.
We move the leaden ladder to and fro a lot,
like frozen crabs a-scuttling to the yells of fiends.
Eventually, my fingers turn a lovely green,
my hat is itchy, legs are sore, my mind is fraught.

And still there’s half a way’s to go, a “wee” bit more…
I suffer, freezing, as the snow begins to pour.

I’m bitter, wondering why such a holiday
is celebrated with such foul means as this.
And then, sadistic snakes of wind begin to hiss,
as moaning, in my sadness, shout I, “Woe is me!”

Sonnet CCVIII

The fish I used to own was red - a betta fish –
the kind that fight and come from far-away Thailand.
But then it rotted, turning pink, then white like sand,
and then it died, afloat despite my fervent wish.
But then we bought another pair of lovely fish,
the one was chalico, the other lightish-bland.
One day, my brother (two) had dumped their food – like sand –
into their bowl. They soon became as mobile as a dish.

(They ate too much and subsequently had to halt.
They died of greed, although it wasn’t all their fault.)

And so we have no fish. We bought no more to keep.
We thought they’d bring food luck. We thought they’d be a charm.
Instead, we murdered them. And thus, they made us weep.
Instead of luck for us, we dished away some harm.

Sonnet CCVI

A Chicken and a Dog went out to see the Frog.
Said Chicken to the Dog, “Where is that Frog to-day?”
Said Dog to Chicken fair, “Perhaps he’s gone to play!”
The Chicken and the Dog searched at the barren bog,
but Chicken and the Dog found not their friend the Frog.
They searched the lily pads, the willows solemn grey,
they searched the river green, they searched the livelong day –
but Chicken and the Dog found not their friend the Frog.

Then meeting them at night, that Frog appeared at last
and brought with him a ship that moved so very fast!

They rode off to the moon, to see what they could find.
They had a lot of fun, and more as time had passed,
for friends may be quite late and may be always last,
but never think a friend shall purge you from their mind.

Sonnet CC

I used to live in Texas long ago.
The weather always shined so languorously.
In fall, there was a fleeting little breeze
and winter was a joke – there was no snow.
Our small apartment was beside a road
with palm trees bordering, so slim and high.
The flat was small and filled with moths and flies,
and cockroaches had pestered the abode.
Longfellow Elementary School was near,
and dusty baseball parks were near as well.
I came home daily, watching Spanish shows
and missed my mom, who wasn’t very near.
She studied in Purdue, said she was well,
and kissed her letters, sending lipstick home.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

The morning, groggy grey and solemn still,
had hushed the breeze, which wheezed so peevishly.
The churning of the bus was blasphemy
to quiet dawn, reflected in the hills.
The world was blur beyond the window sill,
perched silently above my leather seat
inside that lurid bus. I saw the trees,
the houses far away, a mill,
and then the cemetery by the church,
a little patch of names on tombstone squares.
My memory, by all those names incurred,
remembered all those names from everywhere,
the names of streets named after those who were,
an everlasting farmer’s tribute there.

Sonnet CLXXVI

Whose home is this, which gladly I destroy?
It’s mine I think; I recognise the place:
so messy, falling out of ordered grace –
I’ve failed to keep it running like a toy,
although I’ve tried a multitude of ploys
to save its limbs and legs and fallen face.
But still it shatters at a growing pace;
its moaning racket starts to thus annoy.

Collapse and death are threatening but near.
This home has not been kept for very long,
but doctors say there’s nothing they can do.
We only wait, regret, and wipe our tears
as bodies rot and live where they belong –
in earth, corrupt, and serving plants as food.

Sonnet CLVI

A tree in autumn, shedding yellow leaves
those butterflies that tumble, flying down
like snow of shining gold and tawny brown
a scene of stars as threads still interweave.
While winds do blow, the tree will bend and heave
and leaves will fall like flaxen sparks of light
as shimmering and glorious and bright
as if those leaves were electronic dreams.

A scene as if it came from summer’s days:
the streams of sunshine made of drifting leaves
while on the ground, the leaves that pause, remain,
a pointillistic picture where they lay -
as if Seurat had come within the breeze
and scattered ochre on the grass that day.

Sonnet CXXVI

My trusty steed, now lying in the dark,
the red now faded to a rusty brown.
To sidewalks, parks, and houses we embarked,
to nearby planets, foreign neighbours found.

Now lying in a large garage so stark,
obscured by toys and junk in hapless mounds.
No longer darting like a flying lark,
no longer whirring in a blaze of sound.

I miss you so, and times you shared with me.
In childhood and older you remained.
But now in teenage years you’ve faded out
to nothingness and languished memory.
I think of you sometimes, my bicycle, so red,
and wish that time with you was still allowed.

Sonnet CXIV

We’ll slice the ears right off and leave them here.
Inside you’ll see the inspiration’s bed.
Please journey down – from there, the view you’ll see.
That is the tone – the way the words are said,
expressing how their life and times may be.
And next we’ll quickly leave the complex head,
to where the juice lies. All the imagery!
The veins and metaphors – here is the heart.

And bubbling, sloshing literary tools
lead to the lungs, where things are clarified.
And please will you ignore the messy rules?
The unplanned way is better as we dive
into the stomach, resting when the brew
begins to burn – the poet's biting knife.

Sonnet CXI

My house is one small world contained inside
a grey brick building I call Home, Sweet Home.
Each night the cultures via food collide:
we eat samosas, sushi, sour dough.
Each room becomes a different time zone – time
can vary from five minutes to much more.
Exchange of goods, ideas, good jokes, and sighs
occur at dinner time, as quick as prose.

A family’s a lot of fun, so is
a home to share it with. Except for bugs
that crawl inside and bug us till they die.
Or other buggers – telemarketers.
Despite the salesmen at the door, we hug
and share our tears and laughs until the night.