Sonnet CCCLXII

A picnic we could have on ruby Mars,
upon a single orb of crimsonness –
surrounded by the solvent swaddling us,
delighted by the swarms of smiling stars?


If universes sang in students’ jars –
perhaps, perhaps! If dreams and fables lived
in every Erlenmeyer flask and dish,
how many poets would be turned to Bards?


Some silver snow bewitches ether skies
in Lotus Lands designed for gleaming eyes!
A foreign galaxy must beckon tales,
beyond the formulae and recipes –
it must transcend the ordinary Jail!


But is it only hapless chemistry?

Sonnet CCCLIII

Epiphany? My love is shorn to shreds!
A guileless love beguiled by devious ends…
Dark, bitter grief ignites my inner core –
I cannot love this monster anymore!


And yet – I tremble at each docile smile!
I loved the clever traitor all the while.
I now regret that fatal day, when first –
a charming word deceived my artless thirst.


And yes, I still feel dearly for the fiend;
a foolish heart does not know want from need.


Ignore the ingrate! Flee the treachery!
But how we still dream fondly, stubbornly;
demanding vengeance for our suffering,
yet far too weak to do the injuring.

Sonnet CCCLII

But how those crystal eyes stared back at me!
Grand ecstasies sparked through my soul and mind;
disarming and distracting harmonies
obscured my scrutiny and made me blind.


I waited, waited - how I darkly pined!
Some desperate, thrilling, growing hopefulness
turned ravenous at every sound and sight –
then soon fell, plummeting to hopelessness.


And I remember - stubbornly - with bliss -
at how each word and stolen brush and glance
drew joyously, exultant like a kiss,
upon my steely thoughts…as if to dance.


But not today – there still remains a space -
where cruel, blue plastic mocks your worthy place.

Sonnet CCCXLIX

The world, disfigured through the window pane,
appears to me a foreign, foreign beast.
I almost couldn’t say it was the same;
it once knew sharp and clear geometry.


Instead, some other logic speaks to me,
where lines melt wholly into endless flight
and light splits, starlit, into ecstasy;
untimely rains play freely with the eyes
and transient images dance swiftly by.


Emerging from the depths of rainy mess
she enters into view one final time,
delineated clearly from the rest.


But soon, she joins the liquid world out there,
obscured, forgotten – blurred beyond repair.

Sonnet CCCXXXVI

The glance is yours: do with it what you will.
To injure or inspire, love or kill –
the eyes speak volumes more than little lies.

I ponder this while looking at your eyes,
those pools of mercury, so cruel and cold.
Why leave such enmity untold?
Because the very animosity
would strike me dead with sorrow, instantly.

If loathing did not permeate your soul,
perhaps my eyes would not reflect your own.
Perhaps my eyes would not be lethal knives,
which pierce the heart with bitterness and spite
and read like Hate’s encyclopedia,
containing endless words, but not enough.

Sonnet CCXLVI

The fire in the frost, a raging coldness here -
is beautiful in form, entwined in frosty leaves.
White diamonds, precious gems, are hidden in those eaves
like earrings made of ice, and shining like a tear.

My heat dissolves the fire – touching there, I sear.
A window opens up, upon the pane from me,
until, within the handiwork, a gap I see
and fingers five of mine so mutely there appear.

The spiny trees I see, through window’s window seen,
and frost imposes on their shapely, tepid green.

I leave the bus. The wind is bitter, though I see
the funny, backward things the kids had scribed in words.
Adorning them, the frost appears like trees or birds,
perhaps a souvenir of bus ride scenery.

Sonnet CCXX

Before my presentation on Madame Dessay,
I went inside the French room, testing out my show
of slides. I ate my lunch and quickly had to go.
The other ones were quite well done, I have to say.

Approaching me, I started fervently to pray,
for it was near my very lucky turn to go.
And then, so randomly, my teacher went to crow,
“Oh Mike, your «jaune banane» is here for you to take!”

The class looked back at me, expecting my account.
Embarrassed, thus I told the class to turn around.

Retrieving it from up in front, I ate the fruit.
And then, short after that, my eyes were very round.
Presenting very fast (for class was ending now),
the bell then rang so loud. Cut off, I yelled, «Oh, zut!»

Sonnet CCXIV

When I was in Grade 5 (when I was 10),
life wasn’t all that great. My teacher wasn’t very nice.
He spoke with racism, which leaned a bit to vice.
The subtle nature of his words were not quite bold,
but sudden, cutting, like a monstrous speech was told.
And friends I had but three. The rest were wicked mice
that prodded all my innards with their verbal ice.
And hurt was thrown upon me; happiness deprived.

And Mrs. Principal had called me down one day,
insisting that I had offended in some way:

She said I was blasphemous to my friend named John –
he was but one of three – and hating her, I claimed
I was but innocent…but no, I was a pawn,
recruited for sadistic joy; by others tamed.

Sonnet CCXII

A year of goals and plans to make my life less bad,
agendas, long-term blueprints, failed attempts at more.
A month of disappointment, plain frustration’s war,
exhaustion’s beast, woke from the sleepless nights I had.
A week of writing, adding, talking, being mad,
obsessing, doing homework, doing projects, more.
A day of stress, remorse, upset, and times that bore,
and yelling, screaming, hurting, brawling, being sad.

Thank goodness ice cream, popcorn – foods like that – exist!
Without them, life would be a dismal, sombre list.

So coming home from school, unhappy as the sky,
I chug my cola., eat my chips. When Mom comes home,
she cooks more comfort foods. And like a greedy gnome,
I eat and eat until my heart’s content – or try!

Sonnet CCV

An English teacher is a nasty code to break.
Until you know their wants, until you know their style,
their code remains a cryptic one. With crafty guile,
they mask just what they want. Their comments are so vague –
“For next time, work on depth!” – and while I slowly break,
their code’s intact. And all this angry, busy while
(of writing), some elitist few have cracked the style
and never get below a hundred – though I ache!

It takes me ages still to find what teachers want.
And while I search and search, my marks shall mock and taunt.

Destructive, burning wickedly, my hands are hot.
And seething, taking what I wrote – at them I flaunt;
the codes of teachers chip away as them I daunt…
and now I spurn all wicked things that I was taught.

Sonnet CCII

The cooking days in cooking class were tons of fun:
there was a silly time I added tablespoons
of salt instead of smaller teaspoons in the food;
another time we made some cinnamon-y buns,
but made the larger, double recipe and some
had overflowed and burned into a blackened soot.
And when we used the powdered broth and not the soup,
our pasta turned too salty for our hungry tongues.

And though we had our share of small and great mistakes,
we kept on making cookies, mac and cheese, and cakes.

And so our cooking days last year were fun and odd:
we laughed at what we did and how we slyly faked
to like the food we cooked despite our small mistakes.
And yet, we learned so much, by silly errors taught.

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 CXCIX

A student is a chunk of tofu, pure,
so soft, and ready to be crafted by
a teacher’s words, which live and never die
and always have a studious allure.

And teachers cut and dice and chop, for sure.
Their cuts are permanent and never die,
imprinting messages into the minds
of tofu-children, sliced beyond a cure.

And cooking them in batches in a wok,
the teachers throw their sauces at the kids
and tofu-children easily absorb
the flavours of their teacher’s boring talk.
And one day, thrown in darkness and amidst
a teacher’s test, they’re chewed up, evermore.

Sonnet CXCVII

We have some time each day to read our books.
We call it SURF. For twenty minutes, mute,
we read without a qualm or class dispute;
we read of villains, heroes, brutes, and crooks.

Alas, I glance around with furtive looks:
instead I treat this “SURF” time as my loot
and write instead, which fits me like a suit.
Thus nervous apprehension hotly cooks…
for violating what the time is for,
I felt quite anxious writing sonnets there,
for teachers can be lenient or strict
and both exist today and evermore -
so play on whims and tiptoe everywhere
or agitate and freedom shall constrict.

Sonnet CXCVI

When six years old, my hands were quickly taught
to write in printing first. My b’s were d’s
(I mixed them up), but still I persevered.
The more I wrote, the neater letters got.
Amanuensis to my teacher’s scrawl,
when eight years old, my eyes saw cursive b’s
and copied them, enslaved to lettering.
And quickly, cursive writing stole my paws,
and everything I wrote was cursive script.
I kept on writing cursively in school,
for teachers never said which one to pick,
until one day my penmanship was whipped
by criticism. Mr. Scott said, cruel,
that cursive was too messy.
                                        Back I switched.

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 CLXXXII

Outside, crusaders in the blowing breeze
have battled everyday on walks to school.
They chatter frozen mouths and teeth in cool,
inviting wind and shiver icy knees.
Though chilled, the warriors still persevere
and brawl against the wind, so cold and cruel.
Although without a colour or a hue,
invisibly thus hides that enemy.

But armed are they, with mittens and with gloves,
with cherries on their backs that hold their books,
and knitted hats that flaunt their strengthened might,
While staunchly shielded by a mother’s love.
they sail their seas, still fighting as we look
and like two kites they sail beyond our sight.