Sonnet on January
Bejeweled with snowflakes fresh as heaven’s eye
to herald in the coming of the earth
comes candidly the month ever so shy
to offer neoteric swells of mirth.
Pulchritudinous with frosted firs
and saturnine with ice and bitter rain,
the perihelion does much to stir
a sleeping, frigid earth from chilled disdain.
Bright flurries blanket cobblestone and roof,
whilst open hearths soothe tender, algid hands;
slim icicles cling everywhere, aloof:
how wondrous is the new, enchanted land!
Delight says I to winter’s whitened whims
as January jubilates herein!
How must it feel to know that your own kin
who once held you in promised high esteem
preferred one off the street to those within?
and even apres-morte you have no gleem?
Your wife’s dear heart is somber as the moors;
sweet Catherine prefers my company.
In age you gamble foolish as a boor
whilst I turn tables: you succumb to me!
Sweet vengeance is my pattern in this life–
to watch you crumble calms my wretched soul.
The gladder that I be, the more your strife;
Your family’s demise I make proud goal.
So say that you have found a life of naught;
your beating heart stopped sooner than you thought.
Sonnet of Solitude
So often is the time when plans disturb
themselves to make some undue, drifting haste
and jealous remedies are often curbed,
and language of profanity not chaste.
The plans of mine are wholly secretive
if for no sake but for its comfort true.
And people stop to ask, “Who like such lives?”
but I reply with grammar quite unmoved.
And should one not oblige to stare the dank,
said subject muddled with such solitude,
then should one answer not, rather than frank-
or, if not, keep mind in such questioned moods?
those who are kept alone by will of mind,
in solitude creative allure find.
Sonnets of the Fates
The youngest was this sister of the night
who fortune bade, such wiles and distress,
and with her charms weavèd a fate of might,
sat merry on the moon with sisters blest.
And carried she a spool of yarn, said cursed
for mortals should a finger touch it bare.
In spinning silver thread was she immersed,
to assign mortal souls each fate their share.
The spinner had indeed a second gift,
which to her third-fold sight was of the past.
Sang she hypnotically of life adrift,
of all events which in her thread were cast.
Thus be her name, trifecta of the souls,
as Clotho, who man’s destiny unfolds.
This Sister of the death-bed, who with black
abhorrent blades doth end the beating heart,
does nothing of endowment purely lack,
and powers of the cosmos surely thwart.
Near is she as turn red to blue live veins,
which Time shall stop at only her command.
Hark! should ill favour with she mortals wane,
then in the depths of hell reside those damned.
Albeit she beholds all axioms:
that ev’rything must toward cold Hades wade,
sweetly sings she the future in her songs,
the will which Lachesis and Clotho bade.
The fate demise which we do solely speak
comes hitherto, Aïsa, whom we seek.
The rod of thee doth mark and measure life.
For cruelest is the second sister night.
It is her vestment not the wiles nor knife,
but only length of thread the hand to slight.
Control she does which destiny to face,
and oft does she with prideful heart attain
which mortals should come sooner to the vase
called solemnly the river of the slain.
But not all morbid do her actions prove;
for upon modern times does she create
such cadence with her voice, and therefore move
the present histories and tales great.
And Lachesis is keeper of the curse,
the thread of life, and memories diverse.