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 CCCXXXVI

The glance is yours: do with it what you will.
To injure or inspire, love or kill –
the eyes speak volumes more than little lies.

I ponder this while looking at your eyes,
those pools of mercury, so cruel and cold.
Why leave such enmity untold?
Because the very animosity
would strike me dead with sorrow, instantly.

If loathing did not permeate your soul,
perhaps my eyes would not reflect your own.
Perhaps my eyes would not be lethal knives,
which pierce the heart with bitterness and spite
and read like Hate’s encyclopedia,
containing endless words, but not enough.

Sonnet CCCXXXV

Though dead for centuries and centuries,

you never cease to fascinate and please.

Collective grievances and heartfelt joy

of choirs in their polyphonic play;

Cantatas, mystic in their piousness,

yet human in their rich emotiveness;

Concerti, full of outward brilliance,

and meditative pensiveness within;

The worldliest of dances, slow and fast,

hypnotic rhythms merged with style and class;

A contrapuntal grace and mastery

in heavenly and haunting fugal themes.

Why does your music captivate me so?

I love it all, the little that I know.