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 CCCX

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Sonnet CCCIX

The hand that lives upon my left is virtuously good,
an advocate of chastity and humble purity.
My right hand dwells in boastful hubris – symbol of his greed!
My left hand sheds humility, of which my right hand should.

A pearl’s obtuse ambition stems from beauty in his plum.
Imaginings of greatness cloud his sphere – and like the sea,
ambition turns to laziness, and then to servantry –
accentuating other beauties, complimenting them.

The right hand wishes excellence; his talents justify.
In awe, we read his sentences, all crafted by his pen;
we hear his soaring melodies, and wear the clothes he mends –
And yet, his over-zealous flair is nothing but a joke.
In truth the virtue of the left is heightened by his friend –
the right’s distraught flamboyance causes need for humbleness.

Sonnet CCCVIII

The human race is ugliest of all and strange and odd:
our skins are limited to solid hues of neutral tones,
the shades of dark or light. Our ugly features cause us woe –
those eyes as small as sand, enlarged by crude mascara rods.

Oh look upon the birds with splendid wings, who fly to see their God –
how multicoloured are their feathers – gold and red as loam,
ignited by the sun. Oh look upon the fish below,
with scales of iridescent green and blue on every cod -

We long for spotted fur and shiny skin and lovely tails,
and everyday we looks at mirrors – not with vanity –
but with desire, wanting more than looking plain and ugly.

And yet we stare at magazines as if we’re something else –
but glossy pages can’t conceal – they only show our folly.
What good does fashion do but captivate our stupid need?

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 CCCVI

A shadow’s awfully useless – doesn’t do much else than wait.
Of course it’s nice to have a patient friend – but not some stain
that doesn’t help at all. I need a friend that has a brain –
that moves at least – decisively, not copying my fate.

Because my shadow tags along all day, he proves to be a pain.
If he were helpful, life would be much easier – and great!
He’d follow me attentively, ensuring I’m not late –
and never would his disposition be of cruel disdain.

But shadows are too careful, treading much too cautiously.
They only move when I do – making sure it’s safe –
and even clouds seem deadly, driving them to hide away.

Oh, even in the natural world there’s infidelity.
You don’t get service if you never tip the servitor –
it’s sad how life is made by money – never made by more!

Sonnet CCCV

I tumbled in a world of poetry, unknowing then
it planted many unborn seeds within my growing head.
When life became more cruel and difficult and more bereft,
I wrote. Those early seeds exploded, eating up the sad.
It turned to times I lost what little that I used to have –
and namely things like dignity and peace and happiness.
and even cherished poetry was causing buoyant debt;
the rhymes turned darker, weaker, pushing me toward the mad.

And how has poetry transfigured me? I’ve learnt to live,
and to express, of course. I steal the world a second time
to take in all its details differently and make them mine.

Now everything’s a poem and everything has sharpened since.
I can’t say phrases properly – they always tend to rhyme!
How much my life has changed – now poetry’s my way of life!

Sonnet CCCIV

There’s something I forgot – I dropped it on the way to school.
It’s lost now, covered by the snow, and never to be found.
The very thing I lost is buried in these whitish mounds
and stubbornly stays buried in its snowy tomb.

I look up at the blazing sky and feel like quite the fool.
I’ve known this thing before perhaps – perhaps it’s still around,
or left back at the house – perhaps it’s lost back at the town?
The thing confounds me with its game. Its riddle’s strange and cruel.

Perhaps you’ve lost a twin to mine – a spool of thought escaping.
When reckless, threads pop through your head and drift off to the snow.
And though you search and search, it’s somewhere else– that much you know.

But where, exactly? Was it critical, this thing?
Or something trivial? I walk away and hope my brain’s
intact, or other things will spill and make me more inane.

Sonnet CCCIII

Two singers – sisters maybe – frozen on a tapestry –
gaze back at me, emotions still unchanged, though years have flown.
Who knows how long ago their faces first were stitched and sewn –
my guess the Renaissance – their clothes exude its majesty.

One gown is crimson-red; her sister’s, blue-green like the sea.
Who knows who was the prettier – they looks as twins – or foes.
Or maybe neither lived – they’re dreams that no one living knows -
but either way, they’re shrouded in their girlish mystery.

Eternalized forever, in this lovely piece of art,
they set us pondering, with wooden instruments in hand;
their mouths sing unheard notes, which twist their graceful dance.

Dismembering from their tongues, complex harmonies depart,
unravelling in our minds, and waking creativity.
Their voices die, yet live again with grand imagining.

Sonnet CCCII

I gaze upon my precious fingertips as if they’re gold.
You’ve never looked upon your own? They swirl and dance like birds,
their curlicues like hieroglyphs – some foreign future’s words?
I marvel at their shapely curves, a wonder to behold.

Each cell was crafted wonderfully – each doing as it’s told.
I gasp when moving all of them – cohesively – they work,
all lumped together on my thumb, the link up like a herd,
reacting similarly, swift. What suppleness unfolds!

I’m never bored on looking at our digits’ old refrain.
The handiwork is more than fine – it’s masterful and grand.
The shape is pleasing – so’s the grain! A finger’s never bland.

I marvel at our wondrous hands, and digits on their plane,
supreme in craftsmanship and form, unmatched in eminence –
our bodies still defy the change of tastes with excellence!

Sonnet CCCI

I think – at times – I cannot live without my poetry.
I’d die without a haunting verse - some mirror of the world;
some puzzle clarifying life where other methods err –
and yet, I’ve lived a week with naught a poem by my seat.

But have lived? And have I truly breathed? And have I seen?
There’s never breath without a poem’s chilling murmur under,
and never sight without a poem’s complex face to ponder.
Is life a life without my strange, beloved poetry?

It’s better never understanding odd, poetic hints;
to never know a poem’s cunning power more than ink;
to never read a line until the mind begins to shrink –

than knowing how elliptical it is, and radiant:
how scarce and well-placed crystals shear the heart like swords of steel,
disrupting dull routine with contemplation’s seal.