An Epitaph

Deep in the earth, beneath unknowing skies,
I rest at last, far past the centuries.
The visitors have long bid their good-byes;
no maidens come to lay their laurel wreaths.

Though on a summer stroll across the hills
a courting couple oft pay their respects:
and wishing well with stolen daffodils
invite a blessing as they introspect.

"For love, for truth, for art," engraves the stone:
beyond the fateful words no history;
and all the joys and sorrows that I'd known
are silent to the traveller, wondering.

But from immortal eulogy begins
a second life, reborn to brilliance.

Sonnet CCCLXV

I am - too happy on this modest day.
The oxygen owns no unearthly charm;
but as the sun embalms the lucid way,
my wonder greets the breeze upon my arm.

Bouquets of unrequited smiles prance;
their pirouettes spin aimless on the grass.
Eternities resound their empty dance
as pliant leaves sift through the hourglass.

I cannot forecast all the grievances
that each covert Tomorrow seems to know.
I cannot cause the Heavens to descend
or pause Fortuna's wheel forever, though:

As I recall the morsels of this hour,
no mournful day shall ever wield its power.

Sonnet C

While you were watching mindless T.V. shows
and playing games on dour computers too…
I babysat my brother, and I grew.
I turned sixteen, became a working prole,
Wrote three exams, each lasting three long hours,
(The subjects: counterpoint, then harmony;
the one I self-prepared was history.
They stole July and all my mental pow’r.)
I travelled to Toronto, saw a zoo,
I wrote a hundred sonnets (finally),
began analysis, new harmony,
and watched Olympic Games the whole while through.

And though achievement fills a holey life,
some say the Holy earn a better prize.

Sonnet XCIX

Too short to make an epic narrative,
elaborate exploration of a thought,
compelling arguments by answers taught,
or area to make superlatives.

Too long to make a clear, concise account,
a stunning riddle gruelling through and through,
simplicity of form with artsy truth,
or lovely quatrains in sweet beauty drowned.

Too formal for a ghastly prank or joke,
Too structured for a fix, reform, or change,
Too happy for depressing, dark disdain,
Too serious for carefree choice like prose.

What can a poet say in fourteen lines?
Depends, but hopefully I’ve said a lot.

Sonnet XCVIII

Dried worms, all crusty from the summer’s rays,
lay halved and quartered, on the ground like fries.
Remains from spring and summer’s rainy days,
transfigured worms no longer catch birds’ eyes.

The months that passed since their untimely deaths
diminished their pink sliminess and shine.
Now yellow, flat, no longer taking breaths,
they’re part of asphalt, with their flesh combined.

One shouldn’t worry if one steps on heads.
In death, the elements destroyed their looks,
and steps of humans squished them in their beds.
They now are used to being crushed in nooks.

And after death our reputations change,
and who we were is left to Fate’s disdain.

Sonnet XCVII

I think that music is a mystery,
combining all the sciences of sound,
the use of mathematic ordering,
and art – sporadic and aesthetic art.

It’s really quite amazing: music wakes
nostalgia, melancholy, mirthful glee;
and human brains can simply separate
what’s new from old, disgusting from the good.

All this created by twelve tones – no fuss.
Perhaps some different pitches, notes, and sounds –
but really, music is quite basic, thus
comprising harmonies and rhythmic drive.

But human minds perceive it to be more,
for music wakes the soul and lets minds soar.

Sonnet XCVI

Her coy, endearing laugh and subtle smile.
Her chestnut hair, so perfect all the time.
Her eyes are blue – or green…or brown?
or grey…or hazel…but they never frown.

Her lips are red if happy, pink if cold.
Her mind is wise as if she were quite old.
Her teeth are straight – well, with Invisalign.
She’s lithe and nimble as a graceful vine.

She gave me help with physics and with math,
she cut my vegetables in cooking class,
she helped perfect our group in history,
but never saw herself within my poetry.

And though she should know how I feel and such,
I’d rather if the secret was kept hush.

Sonnet XCV

There was a path upon a grassy hill.
Behind the hill the sunset lay, beyond.
While climbing up the path, kind crickets trilled,
but of the prickly plants I wasn’t fond.

The top was lovely, what a sight to see!
A sultry sun, completing daily rounds,
the trucks and lights of nearby factories,
and cigarette packs scattered on the ground.

The urban sprawl spreads far as one can think.
Construction rested for the night but still
the mounds of dirt lay all about in rings…
and water bottles litter all the hill.

I thought about the lists and plans I made…
then in the human starkness, nature fades.

Sonnet XCIV

Around me windows cage me in, so still.
Aligning roads the buildings sit, so straight.
All gates and fences steal their earthly fill.
A thousand cars appear as lifeless freight.

how free the lone tree stands, unhindered there!
oblivious to breathless happenings
the ever-rising architectural stair
like patterns, endless in the human ring

How human uniforms impose their whims
upon a happy earth so dismally!
Crude structure, form, and function seem so grim
in contrast to the natural entropy

How typical. The concrete human mind
seeks simple order over complex finds.

Sonnet XCIII

Don’t put me near a baby learning shapes,
for I won’t fit in any of the holes.
I’m not the perfect size or height or shape.
Frustration soon would take its nasty toll.

I’d make a horrible and disliked shoe:
the boxes wouldn’t hold my length or width,
my oddness would create unrest anew,
for shoes don’t always fit (that’s just a myth).

So I should be content to be myself,
but humans have their own confines and moulds.
Each day we face the traps that gladly quell
our vast diversity with norms we’re told.

If nature made us each uniquely rare,
why should we use like standards to compare?

Sonnet XCII

I do not jest when this I say to you:
all orthodontists lie! They’re scheming sprites.
Your money’s gobbled up like cotton food.
For what? To fix your faulty, shifted bite?

It’s garbage. I am pretty sure you’d live
with teeth than just aren’t straight or pearly white.
Don’t say it’s fashionable, superlative.
Sedating public masses isn’t right.

Conspiracies of dental masterminds…
how devious! They wave degrees around
to show their capabilities like shrines.
How treachery like wildfire abounds!

But no…don’t take my wise advice, you fool…
you WILL be sucked into a plot this cruel.

Sonnet XCI

The childish joy of late invading me
makes all the tears of past and future worth
the pains endured and perils closely seen.
What joy to be a flask of cheerful mirth!

How I remember darkness ailing me,
impeding my potential, lingering.
How hindering, how frightening it seemed.
And then, the disappearance of dark things.

I can’t describe the way to overcome
the shrouds of sadness that may well annoy.
All I advise is wait and then wait some
for more inspiring, happy, blissful joy.

I wholly advocate the gifts of life,
for now that greater times have come, I live!

Sonnet XC

Of course there’s poetry about a nose
but so far I have read no nasal prose.
However, one must not forget the ear,
which tempts the senses with what one can hear.

Celestial sounds and music of the spheres
bear no enchantment with no ears to hear.
Though truly, hearing ears bring happy bliss:
a kind remark or smacking of a kiss.

When you are sad, kind ears hear happy songs.
Ears hear and recognize the ones you long.
Ears brighten days with all there is to hear.
Hear here how ears hear puns, right ear.

Perhaps ears look a little strange and crude,
but hearing stays though ears may be removed!

Sonnet LXXXIX

I saw a girl this morning, crying tears.
Her eyes were fire, bitter in her head,
of anger, pain, and sorrow’s burning fear,
by dismal happenchance and fate misled.

You’ve seen this girl. But what about her tears?
This girl could be a mother, working shifts
to feed three mouths, abandoned for a year.

Perhaps the woman shunned despite her gifts?

Perhaps cashiers who dreamt of more?
Perhaps the servant of her boyfriend’s whims?
The ever-giving wife, by all ignored?
The gal paid less because her name is Kim?

You think it’s easy for a sobbing girl
to live her life as scapegoat of the world?

Sonnet LXXXVIII

Once I was your age – small and spry and young.
Although we learnt the planets, stars, and sun,
things changed: “My very earnest mother just
served us nine…” what? No pizza, only crust.

Apparently the “p” for “pizza” ’s gone
(as Pluto’s not a planet – we were wrong).
And prices of our food and gas went up,
restricting just how full we filled our cups.

When I was your age, cell phones didn’t ring.
We had a thing called snow – this cold, wet thing.
Our phones weren’t portable, with lots of cords
and we used huge “CD’s”, now stuff of lore.

But what I hope will always still exist:
a sense of fun and lasting happiness.

Sonnet LXXXVII

Today I am sixteen. How do I feel?
Almost the same, perhaps a bit more tame.
Tomorrow I write two exams, then three,
including one exam on Saturday.

Another day to me, same everything.
No presents, cakes, or birthday songs I need.
I’d rather sit here, quiet, studying.
Achievement fills a void too easily.

But then again, I’m happier today.
New hope and inner peace make life more bright.
So much to see, to feel, to do, to say!
What joyful days enclose this path called life!

I know there will be days I’ll wish were through.
But now the grass is green and skies are blue.

Sonnet LXXXVI

Apologies to forks I have undone
I meant no harm to compliment the spoon.
A fork, as well, feeds all and everyone,
just with a different aim and manner too.

Ambition, marked by sharpness, greatness makes.
None matches grand achievement like a fork.
What else can jab a meatloaf or a cake
with such precision, grabbing up that pork?

And also, bold enough to learn more trades.
On icing, prongs make many little trails.
In gardens, other forks can dig all day.
And forks in roads make many sob and wail.

I’m sure that lofty goals may warrant blame.
But better to be eminent than tame.

Sonnet LXXXV

The roundness of a spoon should not be mocked
for such utensils feed the masses so.
With opened curve to grasp the soup below,
thus food diminishes while bellies grow.

A certain virtue grows from serving well,
for motionless and gently all the day
(and night perchance) round spoons receive no pay
for tasks so menial, as some might say.

However, one must never thus assume,
that spoons have no prestige, like lowly vales.
Mistake not dullness for a wit that fails,
for worldly foods have passed this lovely dale.

A little twinkle, flipping images
conveys what joy a life of duty is.

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.

Sonnet LXXXIII

The mirror insults me, not for its plain face,
but for the nature of its glassy stare.
Two wholes, alike, not meant to be a pair.
Its difference of sameness a disgrace.

Shall future joy exclude me, entering here?
I will not know; I mask all well, you see.
But still, as faulty allies break their creed,
the truth remains, a taunting little leer.

Alas, I’m superstitious, mutely so.
I’d never break a mirror willingly.
So shamefully the twins stay gleefully,
observant in their grief and undertows.

As over-replication causes waste
so do the many lies, which make distaste.