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 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 CCCLVI

At last I breathe again, at last I live:
perhaps my loneliness was only relative.
I once desired love – your company –
but I shall fill these hours easily.
From time-worn, weathered eyes erasing you,
replacing such projected joys with truth,
I live once more in grounded, present time
unbound of empty fantasy and rhyme.


I roam the changing earth, but pondering
as drifting, migrant snow joins, flight by flight –
and neither wind nor I know anything
of where we go from here and when or why –


but all we know is that we still exist,
if still unseen – at least by loyal sunshine kissed.

Sonnet CCCXLIV

Upon the hills that roll up to the sky
there lies a lone and steadfast aspen tree.
Come fall, the leaves glint gold and mutely fly
alighting on the rippling grassy sea.
With envy have I wished to be that free,
to voyage recklessly upon the air;
But never could I steer my destiny –
that endless flight would quickly bring despair.


Oh, what an empty life to live and share,
a one of many empty clones.
Then what a joy to be that tree up there;
But what unhappiness to be alone,
so mighty, yet forlorn upon the hill –


How better yet to be a human still!

Sonnet CCCXL

Attired richly – handsome ship, where to?

The grandest feasts where held for all the crew,

the Kingdom’s King and Queen have visited.

A garland circled every maiden’s head –

the skies were never bluer on that day!

We once knew love, we once had known the way,

but now we sail, forgotten, and alone.

By fog obscured, by raging rainstorms blown,

we have no end to seek and no return.

The ocean looms at every futile turn

yet hopelessly we search for sight of land.

We curse the weather’s fiercely bitter hand

and suffer in our salty carousel,

remembering a time we knew ourselves.

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 CCCXX

Upon a glassy sea of sapphire,
two equal winds suspend our men.
What good is mutinous desire
when forces such as these attend?

The southern wind propels us northward;
the northern wind impels us southward.
Their equal strengths thus cancel out,
and hence we move not north nor south.

Our hopeless map is weak and futile –
our whims are simply whims, at most.
We have no say in where we go –
we’re at the mercy of such reptiles.

How cruelly vacant Titans play,
whose empty sighs control our fates!

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 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 CCC

She wrapped her woollen shawl against her tender bones,
as frail and white as freshly fallen snow outside.
The snowflakes mutely sprinkled gingerly like rice,
then melted, leaving tarnished grasses to the cold.
She mutely waited by her simple, ashen phone
and thought of all her children’s bulging, frog-like eyes,
with wonder, watching early snows and all the ice -
but that was long ago, and thoughts like that are old.

She missed her role as mother, though. The time seemed brief,
yet full, like festive winters passing on the breeze.

She waited for her older husband’s waking words
and wondered at the emptiness within. She saw
as sparrows took to morning flight while mother birds
would wait with worry, loneliness beginning, raw.

Sonnet CCXCIX

Her crimson nails were blazing on the windowpane,
competing with the burning bushes down below.
The autumn wind was blowing children to their homes,
the afternoon already finished up again.
She put her duster down and watched them pass and play,
like dandelion puffs now drifting past her toes.
Their hair was jet against their shirts like granite crows,
their shirts now wrinkled like the leaves – some mother’s pain.

A horrid wistfulness welled up inside of her
as laughs rang through the window’s crack to pester her.

She closed the window, shutting out the bitter chill.
She has her money, home, a husband – all so nice –
but not a boy or girl. And then, before her eyes,
the school-kids passed beyond her placid windowsill.

Sonnet CCLXIX

The awning seemed like fire, flapping in the breeze:
a palish beige flickering and whipping hot,
there perched upon a small gazebo’s wooden lot.
If only I were not infirm of strength, so weak!
To be that awning – how resiliently neat,
aflame with strange desire, burning smartly raw,
established on a vantage point aloof, afar,
a kingly simpleton, so crude, yet full of ease!

No water puts it out; no wind detracts its flare;
and only change of season – change of taste – may dare.

An instant, flapping in the autumn, in the fall,
now in the winter, flapping on the wooden beams.
Who dares remove such strange and fierce audacity,
combating flames with insolence and naughty gall?

Sonnet CCLXVII

A battered ship entangled in the breeze, it shakes
and creaks, belying strength one thinks it should portray.
I doubt its oblong cage, although its massive plane
proves warmer than the seas of air that now invade.

As is if some demon, churning at the sides and panes,
these winds do not relent, but carry on and bray,
forgetting all their summer cousins, filled with grace.
These winds instead encourage enmity, disdain.

Oh turbulent and wicked! Fear exalts my face,
now lifted, wishing that I had the faith to pray.

Instead, within this home my hopes remain for life.
Within, I find seclusion from the chill and cold
through artificial means. For life I beg and hold,
which storms prove frail compared to frigid winter strife.

Sonnet CCLXIII

The winter wind was moaning pessimistically,
its foghorn worn and overused, a tad bit flat.
It sang some weary minuet; it dancers sat,
for having heard the ditty, wouldn’t move their feet.

Still rasping to the point of boredom’s crude retreat,
the winter wind turned more aggressive, almost mad.
It shrieked but none complied. They picked about their plaid
as if their petty qualms could help them spurn the breeze.

A train then rumbled, wary of the wind at hand.
A semitone apart, their sighs proved dissonant.

The train then parted, sharply on its rigid cue.
The wind remained, unflapped, eternal, overcast –
and stays when even winter parts and trains move past,
its dancers long since dead, the sky turned brightly blue.