Jenny Gordon Aug 26
I wanna just sleep all night out here.


Out where the bullfrogs loudly chorus, dense
Night cut by lightning flashes' silent tale
Above the North, an airplane's voice in frail
Excuse at intervals 'non slicing thence
Through deeper calm as crickets' throbbing sense
Of playing at second fiddle in the pale
Chill keeps time, where ne winds pass through t'avail,
Yet as the moist air smells like summer, whence?
I wonder.  It's like camping as it were
Upon the city's edge, where trucks sift through
The intersection, cars now too, but fer
All that none speaks.  Clouds are worn fragments blue
E'en watches melt away.  And ne soul'd stir.
I hug my knees and wish YOU were here too.

Just a couple years ago I'd sit nestled under our red Maple tree, hugging my knees, howling silently at the moon, listening.  Now those are stript I sit on the front stoop and find the effects not significantly altered after all.  Laugh at me?
Jenny Gordon Aug 26
...oh, I dunno, a variety of intros could suffice, whence, none might as well, no?


I caught the ghost of mists likeas a veil
Down in the valley where trees clustered thence
'Hind shifting white's detail, rain waltzing hence
Without a voice as't tiptoes 'cross the tale
Of weedy blacktop; firs mair silent, frail
Calm hanging 'til winds ply the Maples' dense
Green, and the distance lost to that suspense,
Whiles I chid rain for being light; to exhale.
You listen to--is't my complaints? and YOUR
Response of "you're amazing" fails me too.
So I wish to just kiss and tease you fer
All that me--which you say you'll do.
Right now seems but a pipe dream, mists in poor
'Scuse on what lies 'fore:  I belong to YOU.

A pretty number, eh?  I'll confess me too pinked with this and the one that followed, albeit I also thought them rather damning.  So...have mercy on me, pretty please.
Jenny Gordon Aug 7
...he asked to see he so often does.


O how mists clothe the valley like a veil
Which swallows aught in dawn's first light! trees hence
Peer vaguely through that ghostly whiteness, whence
My soul thrills to its haunting touch' detail
In waking; nary voice to stir, winds stale
As Maple leaves hang limply in suspense
Mair keen cuz yonder is quite buried, dense
Naught owns an eye we feel in sheer betrayl.
Did I search out the distant hours as twere,
Or grapple for a vision past this view,
We cannot but acknowledge, lo in tour
Tis hid from our mair "owly eyes" anew.
Fog on the heels of night as darkness stir
To light's tread, how I long anon for YOU.

I've seriously been meaning to post all he's asked me to send him, but haven't gotten around to doing so...yet.  Mebbe someday, who knows?  Haha, who cares?!
Jenny Gordon Jun 26

So, if I wait until the morrow, pale
As aught excuse, we might continue thence
This theme:  I meant to scribble--for intents.
Espresso.  With sweet conversation, bail
For many years, passe, lost in betrayl
Since April was't?  This morning likeas hence
We'd never ceased, I sip with Dad, a sense
Of sweeter hours in tow as if t'avail.
And Wordsworth oer last bits of coffee, to
Effect where Sunday afternoon in tour
Could don a sense of happier years we knew
When Mum was still with us.  O tis a poor
Suggestion.  I cooked lunch with mishaps fer
Reminders of the LORD's great mercies:  new.

My boyfriend saying he'd like to see this, now ally'alls can too.
Jenny Gordon May 28
Yes, I am prolly the only fan of old, cold, coffee.  Over antique sonnets, too.


Soft blue heavn's arid eye ne clouds 'non fence
Though ah, how ghostly shadows haunt and trail
Across the rippling fields of grass detail
Below! look sweetly as in years gone--sense
Of all we'd known within their cast, til hence
The soul yields to is't childhood's carefree scale
As twere of hope? vain dreams' perspective hale
If we'd but 'llow ourselves to breathe, fr'intents.
And Maples' shaggy boughs nod; leaves astir
To aerie whispers, as the voice of who?
Some distant motorcyclist passing through
Upon these emptyer country roads in tour,
Lends 'scuse for placid calm, where Sunday fer
All that's excuse, the hol'day 'pon us too.

*NOTE:  my la! I literally NEVER edit my sonnets, but this one was riddled with a hexametre line and is shoddy altogether despite editing, kick me.
Jenny Gordon May 28
See the previous sonnet:


I meant to put down shadows 'cross the hale
Face of these sun-washed green lawns blue skies fence
With nary cloud but tis a white puff hence,
How that September'd wink in tow t'avail,
Our hopes of was't vacations? in betrayl
Capped ere yet realized with a haunting sense
Of sheer conclusion, kneading rye dough thence,
Tae whip a sheet cake up like joy's not frail.
Poke myr'ad holes and trickle as it were
The strawb'rry juice in for dessert, and to
A fault I'm drained 'fore sundown in a poor
'Scuse.  So I washed my hair at midnight's cue,
And showered after, to drift off, til fer
All that how Sunday nudges me anew.

...I managed two sonnets ere breakfast, intending on this after dinner dishes, but making bread characteristically fatigues me, and what is new?
Jenny Gordon May 28
I am certain they DID bury me with Mum.  


Memor'al weekend's here, and summer thence
In tow as wont:  my stockings in betrayl
Hang limply, needing to be washed, and stale
Cuz warmth is now a constant, with those scents
I had forgot:  that sour note haunting sense,
As to perspire is what we'll do sans bail
The next four months, erm straight, t'exhale
Nor think of sweaters, chill our sweet defense.
Watch golden shafts, while Maple leaves half stir
To fragile whispers, tricking shadows to
Shift vaguely 'cross grass' carpet, skies deep blue
And moody, clouds mair grey, light ghastly, poor
As listning to the kitchen sounds in tour,
The music gone, how static mocks which cue?

Also, from everyone else's (father and brothers) happy tendency to dream, making plans of travelling the world, where I literally have NO place in all the world I care to be than only with my loved ones, [intro]
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