Sonnet CLII

They dream their art is posted on the fridge:
collages made for class and other crafts,
the pictures of a castle, moat, and bridge,
the portraits made of Mom she thought were drafts,
a “book” or two of shocking sacrilege,
crude buildings made of cardboard roofs and shafts,
endearing picture frames with frilly fringe,
and scribbles covered over boring math.

We all imagined artists we would be:
but ah – there come those cruel realities!
Our parents see just junk - more wasted trees;
a hassle - just more trash to blandly see.
So out it goes. There go our foolish dreams.
And there goes youthfulness – how life proceeds.

Sonnet CLI

What is the wind? Is that which blows the clouds?
And moves them, carefully across in fleets?
Is that the wind? The leaves which dance about?
Or are they just controlled by passing breeze?

What is the wind? The beast that roars aloud?
The strength that sways the steadfastness of trees?
The whisk that slaps the rain upon the brow?
The fan that blows and comforts me in heat?

What is the wind? Is that what chills my heart
and moves me carefully, without a cause?
Is that what blows my life around like leaves
and scatters it and breaks it all apart?

Is that what chills me, freezing me in frost
while inside, sets me writhing in its heat?

Sonnet CL

She’s beastly thin and needs to eat more food.
Her living - paintings on the ground - a farce.
She’s dressed in clothes of bright and tacky hues.
She’s balding on the top; her hair’s so sparse.

She’s worn and tired, spent and often used.
Her skin is tight, from hardship worn so hard,
Her nails on outstreched fingers bright and lewd -
and always crying, crying from afar.

Remembering her summers, proud and free,
so green - environmental deity -
a beacon shining youthful energy -
and now all that is gone and cloacked it seems
in dimming darkness of the autumn breeze,
so brown, so dark and wooden, as a tree.