Sonnet
A Cloud of Ragged Butterflies (new sonnet)
Sometimes when weariness of world takes hold,
I cry out, “Why should I remain on earth?
What point in watching tragedy unfold?”
(Forgetting just how much one’s life is worth).
Married to All Nature [new sonnet]
Now, once there was a time on this strange earth
when women loved a man for his fine words —
a time when poets’ hearts were viewed as worth
as much as gold. But now they favour herds.
The Blasted Face of Darkness [new sonnet]
Down deep within the cesspit pool of Hell
(by “Hell” I mean the world where demons lurk;
one which we cannot see – it’s parallel),
Beelzebub had on his face a smirk.
Sonnet to Solitudinarianism
Further into obscurity he goes;
far from the madding crowd he never knew.
The mystery of this life’s arpeggios
has cauterized his earthly field of view.
Those Days Will Soon Be Gone [new sonnet]
You thought you could enjoy a quiet life
where no one whinged or got into your face.
You had forgotten global barbs are rife
and how this world’s well-nigh bereft of grace.
The Torn Cardigan [double-sonnet]
Sonnet I
So, Summer starts to end, as birds can tell:
The pinnacle of majesty’s been reached.
When Autumn sounds with its clandestine bell,
the gate between the seasons has been breached.
Out of my Box [new sonnet]
There comes a point one sees life as a speck
of fabricated time in ballet shoes.
Thus, poised in arabesque, I stick my neck
out gently, seeking other avenues.
Recurring Dream [new sonnet]
“What pleases you?”, she said, her voice aglow.
(Her arms were smiling, and her eyes were too).
ME: “Gentleness and quiet strength which flow
my way, and warmth, are what I love from you”.
A Flag is a Rag – 3 Sonnets in the Aftermath of Independence Day
SONNET I
You speak of “independence” on this day
as if you live a life of freedom won,
then fly your flag — a mere rag on display.
(You’re only “brave” when crouched behind your gun).
A Sonnet for All Soldier Boys (& Girls)
Dear soldier boy, there’s nothing to defend.
Your masters have decided what has worth.
(Dear soldier girl, what irony to send
lives to their death. The womb’s for giving birth!).
The Naked Troubadour 