Sonnet CLXXXII

Outside, crusaders in the blowing breeze
have battled everyday on walks to school.
They chatter frozen mouths and teeth in cool,
inviting wind and shiver icy knees.
Though chilled, the warriors still persevere
and brawl against the wind, so cold and cruel.
Although without a colour or a hue,
invisibly thus hides that enemy.

But armed are they, with mittens and with gloves,
with cherries on their backs that hold their books,
and knitted hats that flaunt their strengthened might,
While staunchly shielded by a mother’s love.
they sail their seas, still fighting as we look
and like two kites they sail beyond our sight.

Sonnet CLXXXI

They claw the sky with fingers, black and long.
They fly across the sea like ink on white.
They screech and yell with maddened, wicked might
and cackle like the demons in a throng.

With twelve Valkyries rightly they belong,
proceeding on their journey through the night.
Obsessive over such a wicked flight,
unwavering, determined, never wrong.

What lovely beasts are these? Whence do they fly?
Perhaps eternity is where they fly,
but never reaching it, they never die.
What cleverness they must possess to fly
from death! So simply death they have defied,
demise they have absolved and fear defied.

Sonnet CLXXX

Satiric knife, as biting as the wind,
which cuts into my paper leaves like ice.
And bleeding blood, as blue and bright as bice,
my paper sheds behind its cryptic hints,
such cryptic hints within such other means
as strange, complex rhetoric, metaphors,
the pulsing veins of such I’ve said and more.
But dripping with the blood of revelry
the message is but stark and obvious.
To me at least. To you, it’s just the blood
that streaked the page in violent angriness,
a haunting epitaph that spreads its kiss
and paints your face with dark and heavy mud,
forever stained upon your soul’s abyss.

Sonnet CLXXIX

Too quick the insolence had left my mouth
and groping, watched it lay its wicked tracks,
imprinting anger, red and rude, then black
into my teacher’s face, which wished me south.

The other day my friend had screamed aloud,
frustration burning in their flaming back,
in tow a flaming dagger, set to kill,
their nails, so long and wicked, death avowed.

As tactfulness evades me like the Plague,
the anger mounts the steeple of a shrine
to vengeance, pointed as a poison dart,
an arrow waiting, wicked as a hag,
directed at my mouth, so sadly mine,
which cannot learn diplomacy, an art.

Sonnet CLXXVIII

Of course I’m back for more. I have more vids.
I’ve polished them to near perfection’s grace.
Athena, goddess ruling over trades
like art and weaving, war, intelligence
would be so jealous, having not the means
to reach such crafted, perfect, magic skill.
For mortal flair, she’d hunt and crudely kill…
but here I go, endangering my peace…

Mein Gott! Der hölle rache is burning now!
My opera videos will never load!
These cursèd sites I’ll one day kill!
I smash and bash the mouse, with rage endowed,
and rip the keyboard up to shreds in woe…
and then the IT guy shall bring the bill…!

Sonnet CLXXVII

“10-4,” he says. “All clear,” he clarifies.
The mystery of codes has captured me.
The radio keeps buzzing like a bee
and sends out messages that dance and fly,
a dream so commonplace yet free,
dismembered voices sharing secret things,
encoded, cryptic in great secrecy,
in magic code, decoded only by
the bus chauffeur. He separates the maze
of numbers, dashes, strange and mystical.
I’m curious. I bend beyond my seat.
I wonder what he’s saying, what are his ways.
Then everything seems less phenomenal
when noticing his orange answer sheet.

Sonnet CLXXVI

Whose home is this, which gladly I destroy?
It’s mine I think; I recognise the place:
so messy, falling out of ordered grace –
I’ve failed to keep it running like a toy,
although I’ve tried a multitude of ploys
to save its limbs and legs and fallen face.
But still it shatters at a growing pace;
its moaning racket starts to thus annoy.

Collapse and death are threatening but near.
This home has not been kept for very long,
but doctors say there’s nothing they can do.
We only wait, regret, and wipe our tears
as bodies rot and live where they belong –
in earth, corrupt, and serving plants as food.

Sonnet CLXXV

And in the microwave my cancer goes,
the wrapped-up packages of frozen food.
A lack of time destroys my happy mood,
a lack of time creates my wasteful woe.

Day in, day out, my breakfast flurry grows
as time constricts, and chokes me with its noose.
Each morning, sickening, disgusting, crude
I wolf down chemicals and trash that glows.

However, on the weekends, slow and good
the meals are cooked, and time is freer too.
The vegetables and fruits, all bright and clean
delight my tongue as wholesome munchies should.
However, hiding in the depths of fruits
and veggies too – the DNA of bees.

Sonnet CLXXIV

The farmer’s field behind my backyard nest
is gold and vast and flows to forest’s green
so far away. There stood the greyish geese,
Canadian and proud. And from the west
there blew almighty winds that caused unrest
and sent the geese, amidst the howling breeze,
to form a line, a fence, to fight the freeze
of wind attacking them. And all the best
they tried, protecting young, embracing death,
a noble flock of geese, a flustered bunch.
But passing with a flutter, that cruel gale
had passed and turned Chinook-like as a breath,
Zephyr as gentle as a passing sun,
as weak as farmers feeding geese their sales.

Sonnet CLXXIII

When sleeping, eyes are tightly closed and shut
and vision only comes through dreaming scenes,
which twist the world from kind to crudely mean
or else from crude to good – so truth is dust.

With goggles, eyes are open, vision weird.
We see the world in clouded pieces thus,
and what we see is what we hear and trust
and feel from water’s touch, but more than dreams.

With normal vision, eyes are not obscured,
unhindered, clear, au naturel, and free.
And what we view with them is true to see.

With glasses though, our eyes are more than pure –
they’re better, abler, truer – best indeed!
Perhaps technology is what we need?

Sonnet CLXXVII

It’s been ten years since last I swam that pool.
The last I came, I ate my fill at lunch
but then I barfed my fill as low I hunched.
And sometimes scabs would fall into that pool
and mingle with chlorine that stung so cruel
as water trashed me with its heavy punch.
And still I recollect the belly crunch
of those I laughed at, known as diving fools.

So now the pool looks small and favourable,
perhaps because I’ve seen much larger pools and depths,
but still the murals line the walls like friends.
And though my skill in swimming has since dulled,
it’s nice to see the water’s gentle breadth
although the memories have seemed to bend.

Sonnet CLXXI

A month ago my visitors had come:
the bugs and moths and lovely little flies
in morning, shivering their fragile thighs
as cold and crispy fall began its numb
and ended summer’s happy reign of sun.
However, after noon the sun would shine
a lovely sheen of swarthy, sallow lime
and warmed my freezing friends of darkish dun.

But autumn carries through and scrubs the game
of false, pretending summer’s warming rays.
The growing chill of morn shall soon encase
my helpless insects, frozen on the panes.
And bearing autumn chill along the way,
I swear my vengeance as the heat abates.

Sonnet CLXX

Alone at home, when silence plays its game,
I rest in peace. The only sounds that mar
are humming tunes of fridges, passing cars,
the naughty winds against the house’s frame,
the nightly taps on panes by insect dames,
and restless barks of canine pets afar.
These sounds are barely audible, like stars
above my gentle window, light and tame,
perceptible, but almost hidden by
the mane of night, a lofty little cloak;
its other trade the noiseless, quiet Mute,
which dims the squalor all around and sighs;
its silent breath that shakes the sleeping oaks
and strums them mutely, branches like a lute.

Sonnet CLXIX

So Mozart’s for the rich and old some say
and has a haughty air of grace demure.
One thinks of “classical” as haute couture –
I beg to differ greatly. Hear my tale:

The many times I’ve sat a sullen day,
abandoned by some friends who needed cures
as they were drained and aurally so hurt
because I played them Bach and Chopin’s ways.

The many times I drained my parent’s cash
for classical CD’s and lessons too
and books and such. Is that what splendour is?

But many teenage friends of mine think trash
of modern junk. So leave that waste with you;
I’ll keep my ever-youthful, luscious Liszt.

Sonnet CLXVIII

At times the kids who sit up at the front
are kinder, less annoying – more like kids.
I hear their games and happy laughs amidst
the roaring of the bus, a churning gun.
And wondering, when I had had that fun
if I appreciated it. I miss
that joy and carefree, careless happiness.

Nostalgic, missing all those things a ton.

I want to join their games of puns and rhymes.
I want to sit, belong to something too.
I want to search the world for hints and clues...

But now I’m older, not just youthful nine.

I’m independent now because I grew

and never to return to what I knew

Sonnet CLXVII

Across my bus stop, twenty steps away
there sat a store that seemed a restaurant,
which formed a happy, homely, rustic haunt
where passing motorists would spend the day.

However, doomed to die with lack of pay –
reward for starting in a small-town lawn –
it closed one day, its assets quickly pawned,
and then repainted blue to brownish-grey.

A month or two before the winter came
a brand new business sprang to life with ease,
a shining beacon, sullen grey and new.

But now I see ambition, growing fame,
a sign, a menu, posters on the trees -
and all for money, rude and quick and crude.

Sonnet CLXVI

The leaves are cut-outs in the wind today,
forgotten crafts of children far away.
And just as playful, dancing in the wind,
they cause a racket, loud and careless din.

And racing in the wind they gaily play,
so quickly chasing cars along the way.
And swirling in a gale with gleeful grins,
they fall and laugh and twirl about again.

And like the flowers in a blooming qualm
they grow in pillars of the rising breeze.
And falling on the ground when all is done,
I pick one up and hold it in my palm.
And just as so reckless, fallen from the trees,
it twirls within my fingers, still so young.

Sonnet CLXV

The days of catching up unfinished work –
so much to finish, bits from everything...
if only catching up on needed sleep
were just as simple, but it’s not, of course –
for sleep is just a waste of time, no more,
required nonetheless, but time for sleep
is great in quantity though time’s not free,
and thus, for sleep we sacrifice our chores -
we could have done more work within that time;
we could have used it better than just rest...
and yet we need to rest, we need to sleep...
but so much work to do – and where’s the time -
alas - we need our beauty sleep and rest –
so then, it’s just a cycle, circling.

Sonnet CLXIV

Her name was Mary Jones, I think.
And though my school was private, pious, old –
she never filled the Virgin Mary role
and just was wicked, female, crudely mean.

She drove the bus I rode each day to school,
arriving early to my house at times but then
arriving late at times. In bitter wind
I perished, cursing her as vile, cruel.

But then she gave me candy canes at times
like Christmas, Easter, days before March Break.
But still I loathed her – sloppy, late, and glum.
She thought she’d win us over with her lies?
Her sad excuses covering her fake
and sad, disgusting life? We kids weren’t dumb.

Sonnet CLXIII

A body rounded in the black of night,
the whitened moon within a darkened sky,
illuminated roads as I passed by
by way of its pristine and glowing light.
It seems as lovely as an evening pearl,
perhaps the home of cultured deities.
I wondered then if only humans dream;
that only we succumb to night’s allure.

But then I recollected how wolves praise –
their joyous howls to the lunar rays;
the crashing frenzy of the smitten waves;
the celebrations of the stars ‘til day –
and realizing I was not at bay
had warmed me in the chill of night like day.

Sonnet CLXII

A Death. Significant and Ominous.
As powerful as life but permanent.
Some say it’s rising to the Firmament
- to Heaven, everlasting happiness.

Some say that Death’s a barrier to love
or rather, strengthens it as time dies down.
Some say a Death reminds us not to frown,
infirming us of courage from above.

And then there’s death. The crude, real deaths:
the flies that drop and die so suddenly,
the spiders crushed upon the walls in rage,
the flowers in the frost that lose their breath,
the thoughts that flitter, fly, and swiftly cease...
And quickly fears of death thus dissipate.

Sonnet CLXI

Determined as the autumn wind I fight,
ambition strikes me, turning me more fierce
as hot resolve inflames my maddened tears
and drives me still against the chilling bite.

And colder winds blow, driving me to fright
and almost beat, I lose all of my cheer.
But then, reminded of the mounting jeers,
resolve shall tighten, courage just as tight.

And onward, struggling, I clear the way,
not weak, but lethal, in my potent rage.
And flying through the wind I quickly race,
a bit advanced each coming subtle day.
And breaking from my wicked, wintry cage,
I spare no pity, only faulty grace.

Sonnet CLX

The flying fingers of a melody
drift on the breeze from wind chimes thusly sent
and dance amidst the leaves, the evidence
of wind, for fallen leaves shall prove the breeze
by showing where it treads, like in the sea,
the sea of sky, the birds tread air and fly
while flying in the wind the petals die,
the petals, dead from flowers and from trees,
like wings of birds without a feathered mane,
but still so fleeting, fickle as a dream,
which dance on leaves of time and space and air
like touching sounds that never light disdain,
but spurn it, dancing yet away, it seems,
to perch on dying fingers everywhere.

Sonnet CLIX

When young, I read and read mythology:
Athena, Zeus, Demeter, Artemis;
their namely Romanized equivalents,
and other gods and other deities.

When young, I read and read the Tudor age:
the Kings and Queens – Elizabeth the first,
the wives her father had, the hate and hurt,
and intrigues of the court, like battles waged.

So why do I remain without a God?
I’ve read so many others; should I find
one there? And aren’t religious texts like tales
and histories? But still I’ll stay so fraught
with wondering, regret, and wasted time;
so obstinate, rejecting holy ways.

Sonnet CXLVIII

Confused. And nearly blinded. Dumbstruck fly
amidst the yellow, hardwood floor and shelves,
commotion caused by shuffling feet and yells,
which swirled about in dizziness and fright.

And buzzing to another way close by,
it seems, to books of noble history,
the sullen fly begins to walk to see,
to comprehend what is that messy sty.

And magazines stared down nearby like bears
with giant scribbles, faces like above.
Then squashed, the fly would never find out where
this strange place was - a bookstore far from bare -
as someone’s shoe had squandered him with love
and Anne Boleyn stared from a novel’s head.

Sonnet CLVII

So much to do, so little precious time.
Is this not what the modern mantra is?
Inciting what we would have done from lists
of schedules and future worried signs.

Alas, this stress is what we have in life.
When everything’s so fast, there’s nothing missed,
but everything’s a mess and thus, amiss.
What’s time but apprehension’s law sublimed?

Alas, I bite my tongue and work away,
for in the past, archaic peoples died
with toil in their blood and heated souls,
but now my only enemy each day
is time and where to fit the parts of life
into this widening and gaping whole.

Sonnet CLVI

A tree in autumn, shedding yellow leaves
those butterflies that tumble, flying down
like snow of shining gold and tawny brown
a scene of stars as threads still interweave.
While winds do blow, the tree will bend and heave
and leaves will fall like flaxen sparks of light
as shimmering and glorious and bright
as if those leaves were electronic dreams.

A scene as if it came from summer’s days:
the streams of sunshine made of drifting leaves
while on the ground, the leaves that pause, remain,
a pointillistic picture where they lay -
as if Seurat had come within the breeze
and scattered ochre on the grass that day.

Sonnet CLV

I’ve just wrung out my hundred-fifty-fourth.
As much as Shakespeare wrote. How proud I feel!
Persistence, stubbornness – these got me here.
And now – I wonder – dare I write some more?

Perhaps I’ll stop tomorrow. End this war.
I’ll end this war of strange ideas and greed.
I’ve written tons. I’ve got that great Bard beat.
But still I write. I write until I’m sore.

Why do I write? Specifically, why these?
Why sonnets - difficult, and bratty too?
And why so many? What’s the urgent need?

I wish I knew. When answers come to be,
I’ll know the very first I’ll tell is you:
when finished, both of us need remedies!

Sonnet CLIV

I’m glad. I live in times of joy and peace.
I wake up, dress; I eat and brush my teeth.
I take a bus to school; no need to walk.
I have worry for my life: no fear.
I live with electricity and warmth.
There is no strife or arbitrary war.
I do not toil under slavery.

Stability is solid as a rock.

And yet complaints. Day in, day out they come,
like flying monsters, tarnishing the world.
I hear them from my mouth, the selfish things...
dissatisfaction raging like a gnome...
ingratitude from mouths of terror hurled...
what else can constant, tarnished spoilage bring?

Sonnet CLIII

Of Aragon, fat Catherine was replaced
by Anne Boleyn, who lost her head one day
to Seymour Jane who, by her son, was saved
but killed, succeeded then by Anne the Mare
(of Cleves), supplanted next by Kathryn, laid
by all; last, Parr survived – because she prayed!

And so six wives King Henry thusly had.
He scared his children, never to have kids.
No wonder poor Elizabeth was glad
to stay a Virgin Queen, although amidst
a swarm of suitors – rich, ambitious lads.
But then again, King Henry’s eldest kid -
that Bloody Mary married Phillip, eh?
But then, hence stressed, she burnt those heretics...