Sonnet CCCLX

But in my sad seclusion, saw the sky;
some strange, Immortal sunlight beckoned me:
a fragile wonder touched my everything –
I felt a pensive calm, not knowing why.


And in that humble instant, dropped my pride;
without my strength and inner harmony,
searched – desperate for a Higher sympathy.


But wondered at my strange internal lies –
uncertain of the warmth and bliss I felt.
For did I, in my lonesome emptiness,
contrive to forge imagined happiness –


or did my cold self-adequacy melt –
thus drawing me toward the kind Above,
which waited for the day I needed
                                                        – Love?

Sonnet CCCLIX

Disintegrating into rippling shards:
the crystal earth, at once, is liquefied.
A subtle smile of sunshine at my side,
an unexpected twinkling from afar –
and thus, my heart, as well, is eased apart.


And all the tantrums and those icy eyes
seem silly…all these heartless thoughts, a lie?
Dissolved, at once, beneath the burning stars.


Some unknown bliss, some unrequited plant
shoots, surging, unpredicted, from the core –
and could I wish it stay here evermore?


The scent of joy unfolds beyond its hand –
and would these seconds last for centuries,
such simple days could paint eternities.

Sonnet CCCLI

The dying afternoon, diaphanous –
how young October smiled upon my cheek!
Then through a stretch of sun-filled oxygen
your voice and eyes called blithely out to me!


We walked, our eyes upon the skyward seas,
our eyes delirious with shifting skies
as clouds subsided to obscurity
in grandiose swashes, gold and pastel dyed.


I could have stayed forever at your side,
evaporated honey everywhere;
but as our paths diverged in weary light
I drowned into intoxicating air.


I paused – in step – exultant, yet forlorn
and as the leaves spun round, I stood
                                                            - transformed!

Sonnet CCCL

I stand, exhilarated, on the hills –
I burn with new and sprightly inner fire!
The winds of autumn cannot bind my will:
my yearning glance ignites with strange desire!
With fierce furore, these eyes will never tire –
I search the turbid skies for signs of warmth.
Beloved summer! Ever-tuneful lyre!
To leap into those warm and loving arms!


I’ll wait, unloved, forlorn, as lovers are,
but only when your promise sings again
will you return, melodious and warm –
and only then will carefree folly reign,
my foolish heart revived once more to mirth.
And only then will blossoms fill the earth!

Sonnet CCCXLVIII

The trembling leaves fly quicker as I pass -
If I could snatch one for myself, I would!
But could that transient oak leaf ever last?


If I could slice a piece of sun, I would!
One sliver, glowing like a seraph could,
As ardent as a lover’s keen farewell!


If I could steal the blazing sky, I would!
I’d need the ocean’s blue, expensive well,
But where the clouds should go, I cannot tell!


Alas, the summer cannot flee the fate
six ancient pomegranate seeds have dealt:
her stay is brief, but dazzles everyday
before her burnished sun-crown, songbird calls;
her grass perfumes – her sunsets – yield to fall!

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 CCCXXXI

The summer has departed: autumn’s here.

The lazy, torpid days have fled in tears,
Afraid of chilly days, afraid of cold.
The ruby leaves replace the sunny gold,
Accompanied by silver of the clouds.
The daisy’s petticoats are dry and brown,
Discarded in farewell to lovely youth
In favour of their barren stems and roots.

But no more rain or tears! Enough of that!
The year moves on, forgetful of the past.
We’ll watch the geese fly south; we’ll wait for snow,
While treasuring the warmth that we have known.

Farewell, farewell to dearest summertime –
What joy we’ve felt, what joy we’ll always find!

Sonnet CCCXXIV

This caterpillar never learns to crawl,

but quivers from a tree branch, scorned by all.

It hangs to ripen with the rain and sun,

until its skin is soft and hue is dun.

This brooch of precious pearls and ruby gems

is now the butterfly upon each stem.

It’s only till we taste them that we know

that they yet to darken and to grow.

The darkest ones, as black as charcoal ink

are unmistakable as night itself.

Their violet innards stain our fingertips,

collapsing at our touch into themselves.

Around the berry tree we dance around –

to pluck the jewels to pop into our mouths!

Sonnet CCCXIX

A day begins anew as dawn arrives –
the Sun’s in love with all the Earth!
The bees are giggling in their beehives;
the gossip tickles all the birds.

You see that cautious glance, so distant?
He keeps afar, lest fiery passion
ignite his dearest, earthly love.
Devotion! Tender as a dove.

He warms her world and keeps it living
and return, she’s cruel and blind,
exalting in her selfish mind,
oblivious as planets can be.

If lovers loved like timid stars,
then love is pain and life is hard!

Sonnet CCCXVIII

You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.

Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.

There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –

And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.

Sonnet CCCXVI

The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.

Sonnet CCCXV

She plucks the ground with claws of ochre,
and pecks it – daintily – for worms.
She thus maintains her girlish figure,
so careful how she keeps her form.

She’s watchful of her patch of sidewalk,
the passing shoes exalt her peril.
She flutters, only to return,
her brief escape so quickly spurned.

She hops right into golden sunshine,
her feathers cast in different light.
Her task continues, to the right,
resolve unshaken, almost feline.

She looks around – so watchfully! –
while shining with an umber sheen.

Sonnet CCCXIV

The trees, encased in pallid ices,
are groping at me dolefully.
I touch their limpid, frozen branches –
although my heart, as well, is bleak.

The snow has little hope for better,
and lights upon me, cold and tattered.
I melt each ashen, snowflake face,
and wish, at least, I had their grace.

But spring will come, I tell the frozen,
and thusly thinking, search for hope.
The rain will soon replace the snow;
returning warmth will soon embolden -

And cold despair shall dissipate,
as joy and bliss rejuvenate.

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 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 CCXVI

The day is long and fraught with woe and toil too!
I’d rather stay in bed, the warmth surrounding me,
the winter far away, which fits me perfectly.
I’d rather stay entombed in bed than grab a shoe
and slap it on my aching feet. I’d rather snooze
than rinse my mouth and eat my food and brush my teeth.
When getting out of bed a chill embraces me.
I’d rather keep it waiting for another fool.

Alas, alas, alas – my damn alarm persists again!
Annoying me, I cannot sleep and thus I wake.

I greet the world, so wicked, and the chill of course,
so bitter, boiling in my freezing rage and clothes.
And walking to my bus, which everybody loathes,
I scream and throw a nasty tantrum, ‘till I’m coarse.

Sonnet CCIII

If I had any superpower, I would fly
so noxious transportation would be thusly spurned
for more efficient travel of the soaring birds.
I’d fly away, up in azure of cloudless skies
without emitting toxic fumes from dirty pipes
of cars. The world would be a distant, far-off earth
because I’d be so high above, a human bird,
so graceful, tumbling, spinning, dancing in the sky.

But in the chilly winter, could I stand the cold?
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t dare – I’m not that bold.

And thus, my crazy dreams of flying end right there.
I’d rather be wrapped up in comfy warmth than cold,
but birds, who fly and fly and fly to Mexico,
endure a massive trip for measly, humid air.

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 CLXXXIII

The popcorn’s littered on the ground and rug
and in their hair. Like fireflies and moths
dismembered from the night and swiftly lost
(astray in happy warmth and friendly hugs).
Vermillion from movie marathons,
their beady eyes are flaming ochre suns,
persistent, gnawing movies; mouths a-froth;
the monsters all around the clock are up.

But fattened from the peanut butter’s taupe,
they’re hungry still and feed their growing greed
with movies, scary, wrapping them in fear.
But also wrapped in blankets, red and mauve,
they scream and yell and cackle, shout and screech;
but all in fun, for none shall shed a tear.

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?