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 CCXCVIII

The humid summer pressed against her torpid brow
and painted perspiration on its surface there.
A drop plopped on her pale-white rose and cooled its face,
then holding it, she saw it darken like a frown.
The day crept by, morose and full of lazy sounds
and as she waited, felt the warm zephyr of air.
She didn’t think her birthday was a boring day,
but cherished solitude like nature’s precious crown.

Her mom was sweet and gave the lovely rose to her
before she quickly left with Dad to go to work.

And though they’d all go celebrate the day at night,
the rose was special, almost like a quiet thought
that wished to make itself more known and seen, so wrought
its loving self within the loveliest of sights.

Sonnet CCXCVII

Outside, the cherry blossoms litter grass with pink
like joy, now visible. Contentment fills her heart
and pruning pretty plants, she starts toward her art.
Beside, her baby’s sleeping, gurgling like a sink,
her stomach undulating like the rosy spring.
The dried-up leaves upon her plant she stores apart
each time she snips their crumbling softness, crushed to stars.
The task completed now, she sketches, casually.

Her pencil’s rapid scratches send her wondering:
to children, actions should be done more carefully.

She cannot snip her careless faults like dying leaves,
and rash mistakes could never be erased or fixed.
Unlike a sketch, unlike a leaf, her deeds transfix,
like spring’s unfolding captivates the mind’s reprieve.

Sonnet CCXCVI

There’s daily proof the sun adores the glowing moon:
he clears the stars come morning, spreading out his arms,
and dusts the sky until he sweeps away the dark.
What sweet devotion, lasting past the heated noon!

But like a housewife, cooking, setting out the spoons –
his work’s in vain, and ruined by a single star.
Her children ruin beds, then tear the house apart;
his lover smears the spotless sky with starry shoes.

And yet, it’s loving effort keeping “house at hame”,
and sheer compassion keeping wicked anger tame.

So, still he waits, his ardour flaming like his light.
He waits eternally until the ceiling cools;
his hot anticipation’s mighty as a fool’s –
and steadily he loves, that husband of the night!

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 CCLXXV

Intense and bitter were the icy winds he crossed,
his jacket clutched within his anxious, nervous fist.
He walked into the store and glanced upon his list,
evasive of the camera. His hair was tossed,
his face unshaven – eyes like frigid fire, lost.
He snatched a basket; glued it to his quaking wrist.
He clambered through the store, remembered what he missed,
turned back and veered again, to pay for what he bought.

As feared, that same cashier was there, her smile, fake.
She smacked her gum, forgetting him, their love – their hate.

An anger flared like sun. He seized his blanched receipt.
Her eyes acknowledged his. He grabbed his groceries.
He stormed away. He stared upon the ashen sheet.
Her name, impudent, sauntered in his thoughts and teased.

Sonnet CCLXXIII

Of late, she thinks about herself and how she’s changed.
She’s old, dependent, dying, trapped within her home.
She planned on travelling, to Paris, Cuba, Rome,
but now she lives off pensions, locked inside her cage.
She thinks of youth, and misses it, a bit amazed
at how the time has passed. Her only son is grown –
but stingy – keeping phone calls, money for his own,
while thinking she’s decrepit and deranged.

Her son would never spend a measly dime for her
despite his wealth. She’s raised him all these years, to err!

And yet – to err is only human. What of that?
Forgiveness is divine! If sons decide to scorn,
then who’ll coerce their smiles, forced and falsely warm?
An honest miser’s better than a lying rat.

Sonnet CCLXXI

Curvaceous hips and comely bosom, virgin smile,
with hazel eyes of gloating satisfaction’s glaze.
And hers embraced his eyes, abashed and full of praise,
exalting her, subjected to her nude beguile.

His mind was hers, commanded by her cunning wile;
his feet, two frozen pillars; eyes and brain, ablaze;
and all this time she waits and like a lion, plays,
manipulating him like worthless clay now worth her while.

The crowd moves on, a patter on the marble floor
to fresher art, abandoning the brazen whore.

And lest he be removed from all the blatant rest,
he saunters on, uprooting from his rude desire.
The whore remains, a frozen painting made of fire,
the temptress drawing newer victims to her breast.

Sonnet CCXXXI

Justyna had been toiling on her festive feast
and cleaned while Husband toiled differently – at work.
She felt a little sad when chopping up the pork,
because her children all had grown. She took the yeast
and thought of how her life had counted for the least.
“But it is duty,” saying to herself, berserk,
repeating feverishly what kept her with a smirk
despite what chores annoyed her, chores that never ceased.

By night, it snowed a darkened snow, nocturnal, white.
A knock was heard. Justyna knew her husband’s might.

The knock was lighter. Humming cautious, anxious hymns,
she saw the woman. All the legends said that sight
of females first brings awful luck. And yet – Invite
her in, she thought. We women live too much on others’ whims.

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?