12th April 2014

Sonnet 127


Death robbed my prerogative "It's Not Fair!",

Mum, you left no more than a  father's name,

Still strangers think me the politic heir,

But incidental fame bred offspring shame:

It was crap hiding from exposure's power

Behind forced rhubarb rhubarb smiling face,

Anon anon: the nameless hokey's bower,

Fifteen minutes: all it takes to disgrace.

For her life's celebration - wear no black,

Not what she wanted.  Cry - let mourners seem

To reflect her colours (what they now lack),

 Teardrop'd rainbow: covenanted  esteem.

A daughter left, becoming in her woe

Just like her mother.  I can't fight it, so...






  

10th April 2014

Sonnet 126

...even The End seems to be in her power,

Timed from my leaving, it's within the hour;

She's  here yet in absentia and show'st

A conundrum - since she died my love grow'st.

Watching Nature recycle ruin (wrack)

From bud to deadhead and seasonally back

(To spot her in  cankerless bud takes skill):

This reversion: a promise death can't kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minnion of her pleasure,

Thinking you've bypassed grief, gone straight to treasure?

     Her Audite* (though delayed) answer'd must be,

     And her Quietus** is to render thee.


* final account

**quietus est - i)she is quit   ii)discharge from life, peace.

9th April 2014

Sonnet 125

I'll make her a handpainted canopy -

And deliver the last speech honouring

A life lightly rouged for eternity,

No mourners with their memories ruining,

I've  heard the dwellers on form and favour

Pay their dull respects of inflated rent,

Lip defence against death's rattling savour:

When I left just as her breathing was spent

I could not find obsequious in my heart;

Old photographs that belie I was ever free

Not to make dutiful daughter my art -

Our mutuall render:  one way me for thee.

    Laid out in white: stubborn, stubborn soul;

    I scribbled a  mask*, she gave up control .


*Refers to practice of applying cosmetics to deceased persons.

8th April, 2014

Sonnet 124

No, I don't want to see you laid out in state,

Proof of me now  unmothered and unfathered,

I love not feeling daughter kind of hate

Or like a weed left once the flower's been gathered.

Birth is better thought as Fate's accident -

Let stars decide what day your birthday falls;

Difficult now not to voice discontent:

 "She's the spit of me!" ( I still hear the  calls )

What's wrong with her?  Ungrateful Heriticke

Who willed away her mum's last breathing hours

Kissing my head ( body's too politic).

Weeds to flowers : re-use of old April showers:

    To this I witness call the fools of time,*

    Shared DNA's more infinite than crime.**

*  All of us, given that according to Shakespeare (and Einstein), time is subjective
** Prebiotic compounds may have extraterrestrial origin. NASA findings in 2011, based on studies with meteorites found on Earth, suggest DNA and RNA components (adenine, guanine and related organic molecules) may be formed in outer space.^{[91][92][93][94]}

7th April, 2014

Sonnet 123


Yes! What's in me's same but what's out will change,

You were built like a pyramid of might,

The daughter in thrall to mummy, not strange

When  cameras were her chosen lines of sight:

A public property's tough to admire

Up close all her life  -  not publically old

Even when dead to costume jewel desire:

Still more precious than the dull rest, we're told.

Thy registers and thee I both defie

Without trying, now I've outlived your past:

Mouth kind elegies not minding some lie

Made more or less by thy continuall hast:

    This I doe vow and this shall ever be,

     Now I can be true to what's left of thee.

April 2nd, 2014

Sonnet 122

 Ruffs, stuff he wore, breathed with scent of his braine,

Recycled to rag, then paper memory,*

Burnt or buried, there's elements remain:

Will's carbon's still writing eternity.

Motes of an hysteric erotic heart

Air pumped still atmospherically subsist -

Breathed into A4 leaves, I blow to part

Rhymes of his; I steal breathing space of mist.

Tran substantive piece of you I can hold,

Write on. I'm a dog barking Mozart's score,

(What are you doing? Please stop making bold

When even Larry O.** didn't add more).

I write these adjuncts to remember thee,

Just to feel your breath breathe inside of me.

*Clothes in Elizabethan England were recycled because fabric was so expensive - from hand-me-downs to rags and, eventually, paper.
**Sir Lawrence Olivier

1st April 2014

Sonnet 120

I forgive you!  It's all forgiven now

I've felt all the bitterness I can feel,

Jealousy's taken her final bow,

Got back my nerves of brasse and hammered steele.

Despite the core of me being shaken

I still believe in Once Upon a Time

And not blaming me for choices taken:

Loving the sinner just hating his crime.

We came through our night of woe, remembered

How it feels to take all those vicious hits;

Get thrown back what kindness you tender'd,

With the knowledge your face no longer fits.

Fillies you're dating - they're No Win No Fee,

        April Fool!  (Not the one you played on me.)


Sonnet 121

Millions of Followers, yet not esteemed

Until foibles obliterate being,

Ridiculed; judged; dissected; not deemed

To have equivalence of self-seeing.

What eyes those eyes this small world has, what eyes

To hunt down celebs and scent their blood

Easily by drones - the moral mass spies

Dedicated to Ugly, Bad and Good.

Hounds bringing down white harts to levell

What's consumed for pleasure with who we owne:

This world's axis is in fact a bevel:

Sanity depends on what kids get shown.*

     Disgrace is meeja's birthright, we maintain

     (It's free-to-heir) this global platform's reign.


*"Smartphones risk turning children into criminals"

Daily Telegraph, Tuesday, April 1, 2014