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...or--what?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXXXII)


Rain trips so lightly in the hallowed sense
Of keener silence listning to that frail
Step traffic rushes heedless through.  Birds hail
With merry notes and fragile, as from hence
Lo, crickets murmer like for all intents
The solemn ghost of patience walks here, pale
As Sunday's dimmer eye.  Clouds' masque the veil
Oer all, an airplane's voice sifts through, and whence?
Oh! how the maples' boughs rock, tinged as twere
By orange' first warnings of that rendezvous
With Death.  Winds caller as they whisper through
This calm, wool, tights, and tweed now, are not poor.
And if I mourn that I've ne lover fer
Whatever, somehow even that's not new.

07Oct18a
Titles, as all know, are rather tricky things.  And when I finished this particular stanza I drew a blank, then...presto?
I’m alone.
My future, deceiving.
Longing for a grip.
I’m crying for help,
but everyone seems to have their headphones in.
 Dec 2017 David Bremner
kim
It’s chaos, sweetness
Some kind of confusion that
Unravels one’s mind
A  group  of  maples
stand  proudly  in  the  village.

A  vivid  deep  scarlet  in  color
truly  magnificent  trees.

Very  pleasing  to  the  eye.
You  have  to  catch  the  moment  though
Sadly  the  beauty  soon  fades.

As  seen  in  October.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.
Her home was clean, immaculate
summed the place,  like  washed china

pearl polished, Estelle’s maple floors
smelled of good soap & right

after Sunday lunch, before dessert
she would saunter

to the bathroom
& throw-up.
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