Sonnet CCCLXI

Interrogate the robins – ask them why –
some sudden sunshine peeks between the leaves.
Familiar laughter claims the startled ear
and torpid languor confiscates the eyes –


We spent such carefree days beneath the skies
and when the rain had interspersed between,
we hid like naughty children, impishly
and laughed and laughed and laughed away the sky –


Relinquish you –
                            beyond my feeble grasp,
released beyond my grandiose love at last,
such scenes we’ll see again our separate ways?
Rekindled in my solitary view
at all familiar turns I think of you –
do you remember me at all today?

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 CCCLIV

My geese – my ever-faithful geese – have left!
I watched the emptied autumn sky, bereft,
and watched them steal away to tropic lands…
oh how’ll they’ll love those toasty, sun-baked sands!


I cursed their infidelity that day
and bent upon my lonesome, grumpy way –
I’d find some other loyal friend to love!


But everyday I’d check the skies above
and find them vacant as my mournful heart.


Then suddenly – in shy, reluctant March
they squawked once more upon the melting moors!


And I – my injured self! – ignored their lure
(with great contempt) – and sauntered, haughty, off –
remarking how we’ve changed – and how they’ve not!

Sonnet CCCXXXIX

A thousand voices carolling,

Each shaded by the canopies of spring:

So often have I heard their charming song,

Not knowing where their tiny hearts belong!

I’ve sought the secret of the stony skies,

But never have I found that hidden prize.

Though dare I say they blush a brighter blue

Whenever their beloved trills a tune!

The grass has glowed with jealous emerald;

The sun has shone with gentler, warmer gold.

As if the world would bend toward their whims

At just one ringing note of songbird hymns!

There’s magic pouring from these feathered throats –

Have brighter seraphs ever sung such notes?

Sonnet CCCXVIII

You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.

Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.

There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –

And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.

Sonnet CCCXVII

By day, by night, she is a mother,
regardless of her viciousness.
At times, by day she’s also…vampire…
as wicked as a mini-witch.

Her wings are silver as a spirit,
her eyes, vermillion as carrot.
Her stealth is ninja-like – beware! –
her flight is silent through the air.

The prick she takes is practised, wary,
unfelt and quick, as if a word.
Oh villain, stealing precious blood!
Upon your vicious crime I’ll tarry:

you feed your monstrous little babes
at my expense! You’ll pay someday!

Sonnet CCCXVI

The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.

Sonnet CCCXV

She plucks the ground with claws of ochre,
and pecks it – daintily – for worms.
She thus maintains her girlish figure,
so careful how she keeps her form.

She’s watchful of her patch of sidewalk,
the passing shoes exalt her peril.
She flutters, only to return,
her brief escape so quickly spurned.

She hops right into golden sunshine,
her feathers cast in different light.
Her task continues, to the right,
resolve unshaken, almost feline.

She looks around – so watchfully! –
while shining with an umber sheen.

Sonnet CCCXIV

The trees, encased in pallid ices,
are groping at me dolefully.
I touch their limpid, frozen branches –
although my heart, as well, is bleak.

The snow has little hope for better,
and lights upon me, cold and tattered.
I melt each ashen, snowflake face,
and wish, at least, I had their grace.

But spring will come, I tell the frozen,
and thusly thinking, search for hope.
The rain will soon replace the snow;
returning warmth will soon embolden -

And cold despair shall dissipate,
as joy and bliss rejuvenate.

Sonnet CCCXII

The pinkish, french-fry earthworms wiggle,
their gossamer a sheerest shine.
I carefully avoid their squiggles
and quickly leap minutely by.
The ravens perch like jet-black devils,
their eyes like opal, heads all level.
From trees above, they wait with glee,
their stomachs churning, fed with greed.
The rain is sloshing by my shoulders
and all about my feet as well.
Do I tread worms? I cannot tell!
Alas, I look beyond my sneakers -
I’ve helped a bird digest his meal–
at the expense of worms at heel!

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 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 CCLXII

How green-eyed is the painter of the sunset’s hues!
He cannot capture them and put them in his pot
nor even copy them with dowdy paints he’s bought.
And yet, he loves the sunset, marvels in its blues!

How covetous the dancer is of sunset’s moves!
She cannot be as subtle by the way she’s taught
nor just as strong, capricious, eloquently raw.
And yet, she loves the sunset, worshipping its shoes!

How wishful is the singer of the sunset’s tones!
She cannot radiate the warmth beyond the West
nor speak her beauty only with a moment’s rest.
And yet, she loves the sunset, stores it in her bones!

How jealous are the arts against the sunset’s grace –
and yet, look how they love its flaxen face!

Sonnet CCXXVI

I wonder why I stare so often at the sky…
perhaps I am afloat in buoyant vanity,
a narcissus suspended in its shiny sea.
So distant in the mirror of reflective sky,
curvetting dreams and thoughts surround my sullen eye,
the pettifoggery of clouds enshrouding me.
Or if I seek my blazoned image in the sun,
I’m blinded by my folly, made to mutely sigh.

In patterns unbeknownst to me, I see a star,
or flower, dissonant in beauty, wise afar.

Reflective, do the skies reflect my pensive scheme?
Or do I only wish to see the world as clear?
I wish for comprehension, see the saltus near –
and lose it, plunging through oblivion, to dream.

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 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 CXLIV

In spring, the birds are chirping nervously
because the winter’s bite is icy still.

In summer, birds enchant the warmth with glee
with songs of celebration, runs and trills.

In autumn, many birds prepare to flee
and those remaining feel the mounting chill.

In winter, hidden all around their trees,
the birds are silent – frozen at their bills.

And even when their songs are shrill and short
because a touch of coldness gnaws their wings,
they cheer me, hanging from the high-up wire.
The blending of the many different sorts
of sound they blissfully and daily sing
relay a pure intent with bright desire.

Sonnet CXLIII

I think I must have moody SAD:
I’m happier in summer, less in spring,
depressed in autumn, looking at the trees
as quietly they die and cold they bring,
and almost suicidal when the freeze
of winter comes. When cold and wetness ring
my doorbell, then I know that grief, for me
has melancholy melodies to sing.

What shall I do but wait for warmth to come?
I’ll turn to music, art, and poetry
and other human joys and human bliss!
I’ll circle all the rounds of happy rum,
intoxicated with life’s saccharine.

And then again, what is true happiness?

Sonnet CXXXV

The seasons change so very rapidly.
At times they snow; at times they laugh and shine.
So young and fickle, always freshly free.
A friend the same, reliable, on time.
They never bore, but dance so gingerly.
They swirl around my calendar in lines,
and mark my life in intervals of ease.

The seasons entertain me so all day:
they organize my life and toy with it,
they run outside and with me gladly play,
they bite or tease or slap or prance or hit.
The seasons batter me in playful games,
until I laugh, admitting they are “it”.