Sonnet CCCLVIII

A pair of crows stood, foolish, chatting!
Resplendent in the winter sun.
Was gossip ever idler, waiting?
Impending doom a distant drum!


And now my car comes crashing, wildly!
The earthworms tremble under, blindly…
The semi-frozen earth grows pale!
Vibrations thunder in the air!


But – ah! They flee too quickly – ninjas!
Oh, stealthy as the flashing winds…
Their flight igniting oxygen,
their wings opposing sluggish minutes!


But what a tale to tell at lunch!
"We only nearly dodged that one!"

Sonnet CCCXXIX

I cachinnate at all our three-chord songs,

at all attempts to fit in and belong.

Derision greets the slogans that I loathe,

the mindless humming of our T.V. shows.

But I discover what we all have known;

I dig, display emotions all have known;

subscribed to trends, like all have done before;

subjected life to patterns used before.

For we are humans, similar and all;

restrictions bind us to a common thread.

We tread for freedom, hear its blatant call,

but realize there’s only us ahead.

And we’re so all alike, recycling,

as if there is no news but our dis-ease.

Sonnet CCCXXVII

A lonely pair of lifelong enemies

sit, glaring in their tank, despondently.

Soon snapping claws are closed with rubber bands:

the water sprays; the buyers hide their hands.

From liquid to the dryness of a bag,

the foes grow weak, but ever, ever mad.

Transported to a fridge, they’re stuffed inside.

They sit at zero Celsius with wine.

The morning comes. The fridge light flickers on.

Removed from their abyss, they greet the warmth.

But all too soon they greet a greater one –

and boil in the flames of Hell, to death.

But if they’re lucky, they’ll be au gratin,

and if they’re not, they’re torn apart,

                                                                      to bits.

Sonnet CCCXXVI

Exalted in the happiness of pain,

The world is crowning me with strange disdain!

How proud I’ll be within its reverie:

My wreath’s an honour, undeserved of me.

My rough exterior’s inscribed by hate,

a fitting way to demonstrate my fate.

(Or else, I seem too arrogant, too proud,

rejoicing silently of hateful crowds.)

But like most monarchs I shall take to bed,

a-weary of the honours I’ve received.

And soon, as words begin to crowd my head,

I realize I have many woes to grieve.

And hate accumulates as pride grows dim…

the world is mine, and yet I serve its whims.

Sonnet CCCXXV

we long to drink we long for drugs and sex
were wicked teens strung high by natures hex
adrenaline and folly are our chant
our words are slurred our movements are a dance
were on computers every waking hour
ignoring chores and acting simply sour
were rude
               were boorish
                                    always such a mess
at every moment mad or quite depressed

and Yet –
               We still take buses to our school;
               Our mothers still remind us of the cold;
               We’re still subject to all our father’s rules;
               And frankly, we’re still kids – we’re not that old.

But rebels we shall stay, extreme or mild,
each one of us an adult-werewolf-child.

Sonnet CCCXIII

To Robin,
             lying on the asphalt.
Another time would find us – live –
upon a grassy hill of beryl,
conversing as the time flies by.

We’d daily meet beyond the meadow,
a pair concealed beneath a willow,
the shadows overhearing us –
our gossip of the latest fuss.

But who has time these days to chatter?
My strict routines keep feet a-patter;
and you’re just trying to survive,
amidst my world – besides -

You’re roadkill, dead upon the road,
your breast a purest ruby-gold.

Sonnet CCCVIII

The human race is ugliest of all and strange and odd:
our skins are limited to solid hues of neutral tones,
the shades of dark or light. Our ugly features cause us woe –
those eyes as small as sand, enlarged by crude mascara rods.

Oh look upon the birds with splendid wings, who fly to see their God –
how multicoloured are their feathers – gold and red as loam,
ignited by the sun. Oh look upon the fish below,
with scales of iridescent green and blue on every cod -

We long for spotted fur and shiny skin and lovely tails,
and everyday we looks at mirrors – not with vanity –
but with desire, wanting more than looking plain and ugly.

And yet we stare at magazines as if we’re something else –
but glossy pages can’t conceal – they only show our folly.
What good does fashion do but captivate our stupid need?

Sonnet CCCVII

The great economy of Spring is paralleled by none:
she’ll lease a birdsong lest we’re bored – but only to the trees;
she’s miserly with sunny warmth and sheds it grudgingly;
she only spares a tiny slip of ordinary sun.

Each gesture’s full of luxury, but counted in her sum,
and in the end we’re left with scraps, all small and crude and cheap:
a sliver of a heated ray, a menacing zephyr –
and even time is spent with care; it slowly sticks as gum.

It’s not until a month or two she spends some more and more;
her time is thrown away – like that! – and soon she starts to give –
her gold, the sun; the grass, an emerald – now shared as gifts.

As if she’s realized she’ll die; decides to spend it all –
and yet we know that’s not the case, in fact, the opposite –
that Spring – warmed by a guilty coal – has just begun to live.

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 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 CCLXXVII

She can’t imagine otherwise! The world’s a wreck;
it’s envious and bitter, flashing like a shrew!
What snow, how stupid! Biting at her shining shoe
and vying with its shining face and sloping neck.
What trees, how idiotic! Thinking branches, gems,
when all the world knows hers are best, that hers are new.
What birds, how foolish! Thinking feathers better hues
than chic designer clothes that madden any wren!

What sun, how bright! Should hide her face for fear of shame –
her style’s so last century, and still the same!

But brazen maiden, oh how stupid, oh how proud!
The snow will come again and shine more than your jewels!
The trees sustain, the sun still lives, as does the cloud! –
those birds shall bicker on your grave and laugh at you!

Sonnet CCLV

What shining snow beyond my windowpane! How brown!
Surrounded by the gaping grass, a strange chartreuse,
the splendid plane of lawn glows as a muddy mousse!
To think, the snow is sparse and what, December now?
I think myself too lucky for Pollution’s frown!
These clumps of snow, so gently touched by sun and goose,
are spread with canine excrement of darkish poop –
what chance – Pollution’s work! How kindly she endows,
and what a mastermind! As searing as a flame,
disrupting Old Man Winter’s stupid, foolish game -
salvation like prophetic scripture, free of vice!
Pollution favours us! We giggle at her touch,
which slaps the frozen earth and turns it to a mush,
exalting strange, unnatural warmth, obstructing ice!

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 CCXLIV

You kiss me on the cheek, a frozen, bitter kiss.
At times I wish for you. You’re early, sometimes not.
At time you bring me joy, but not for very long.
You’re fickle, ever-changing, fleeting from my bliss.
And stark. You’re barren, frigid white as an abyss.
You’re frozen, cold, and yet your passion feels so hot.
I’d almost say you’re sly, but no, you’re really not.
you’re nude, exposed, and always there: ubiquitous.

And there are times – the times I cannot stand your face,
the times I wish to slap you as you slap my face.

And yet, I love you. Winter’s bland without you here.
You’re precious, shining, platinum, and silvery,
an ornament that shimmers only once a year,
a costly spice that nature sprinkles sparingly.

Sonnet CCXLIII

No matter how I hate the music of today,
the granny living in my mind dies suddenly
come Christmas time, perhaps from carolling.
For Christmas carols don’t arouse my nagging ways
(although the electronic, tinny versions may).
The happiness within my soul at last is freed,
a chicken frightened usually to stay with me –
she cannot fly, so trapped with me, she must obey.

To what is viewed as crude commercialism’s bliss
I find myself succumbing – toxic happiness.

Its toys might be, but Christmas isn’t poisonous.
It’s not the presents (I don’t want one anyhow)
or even Santa (though he’s real). It’s that an ounce
of hope my heart must buy, as frugal as it is.

Sonnet CCXXX

To Mr. (Mrs.) Hacker #398:

I’m free of you at last – you’re vanquished – finally!
I hope you pay for what you do. (I guess we’ll see.)
Within my heart, for you alone, I saved some hate.
I saved it all for you because your stupid bait –
the crafty e-mails, monstrous download trickery -
corrupted my computer well and merrily.
I hope the cyber-cops will find you…just you wait!

And when they do, they’ll strap their manacles on you
and all accomplices: your wicked little crew.

My thanks go out to forums, solving daily hacks,
and spyware software. Thanks to better firewalls,
I’m safe and now I know the multitude of facts.
We’ll never come return to be your puppet dolls!

Sonnet CCXXV

If ill-appearing discords issue forth from me,
speak not of them. But rather, hide them with your flaws
of human blasphemy. Outstretch your lying claws
with kind deception, masked with lovely flattery.
Ignore ignoble Conscience, screaming honesty;
it lies, despite what seems to be a wholesome cause.
How else do feelings stay intact, as thin as gauze?
We live on lies, existing on our treachery.

But lying here, how do you know I tell the truth?
Thus, therein lies the paradox of lies and truth.

You cannot know what’s hidden from your hungry eyes.
Lugubrious, I may be happy hidden here;
ecstatic, deep repose is clandestine – but near.
And what lies here shall be returned with other lies.

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 CLXXIX

Too quick the insolence had left my mouth
and groping, watched it lay its wicked tracks,
imprinting anger, red and rude, then black
into my teacher’s face, which wished me south.

The other day my friend had screamed aloud,
frustration burning in their flaming back,
in tow a flaming dagger, set to kill,
their nails, so long and wicked, death avowed.

As tactfulness evades me like the Plague,
the anger mounts the steeple of a shrine
to vengeance, pointed as a poison dart,
an arrow waiting, wicked as a hag,
directed at my mouth, so sadly mine,
which cannot learn diplomacy, an art.