Jenny Gordon Apr 9
Prolly will too, judging from afternoon's frore air.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMLXXVIII)


Blue skies are but a memry now fr'intents,
And is black even littered with stars' tale?
I canna look.  Twas frore when we'd avail
Our selves of talk where afternoon was thence
Chance for rehearsal, late as we'd for sense
Put cafe tables side by side, light pale
With greyish region clouds nor blue's detail
But gone ere dinner was put on, and whence?
Ah, how all we'd enjoyed is lost as twere
To wasting hours which never but sift through
Sweet minutes spent with brothers, and in tour
Dear friends.  I had espresso with Dad too,
Spent two bucks on a cuppa coffee fer
The chance wi' friends, and did I, LORD, seek You?

08Apr18b
Yes, I really did elide a syllable in the original title...cuz my page was fresh outta room.
Jenny Gordon Apr 7
...unspeakable gift." (II Cor 9:15)



(sonnet #MMMMMMMLXXIV)


"They buried me with Mum."   That haunting sense
I'm just a pilgrim wandring in betrayl
These des'late wastes all else call home, sans bail
Despite new clothes, accessries for pretense,
And dearest friends to joy with me from hence
Or weep or who-cares-what, this world to scale
Some dish that wants salt, lacking flavour--they'll
Assure me tis grand--mocks life sans defense.
If Hollywood laughs in the face as twere
Of good and righteous, where designers too
Are filthy past all words and smiling fer
Applause, I'm sans a home sans her.  Then You
Remind me "one thing's needful---" to bestir
Hope that my home, LORD's:  You.  Life.  O!  Who knew?

06Apr18b
Dunno why the verse in my title pulled the carpet out from under my feet, but there you go.  (If you want to see it originally posted I guess 4 hours earlier on AP--[https://allpoetry.com/poem/13825794-Cuz-Thanks-Be-To-God-For-His-by-Cheeky-Missy]
Jenny Gordon Apr 2
Yes?


(sonnet #MMMMMMMXLVIII)


White gloves, a new dress lace and ruffles thence
Adorned, white stockings too, and that detail
Of patent leather Mary-janes to scale--
I was in grade-school, but for all intents
Felt grown-up cuz I'd bought those shoes, a sense
Was't? of erm, choosing 'non my wardobe hale
Proof being not yet a teen could yet avail
O, children of that feature was't? and hence?
Tis Easter Sunday 'gain, and not sae poor
At that cuz lo, it's April Fools now too.
So laugh at me since I kin still bestir
Vague memries of that childish grandeur's view
On life, safe in my parents' care, t'assure
You now that Easter's heathen, tis.  And you?

01Apr18a  (posted on allpoetry.com for their one-a-day thingy)
Seriously.  I could swear aka Kevin wanted us to tell how or whatever about writing this poem for the month-long venture, and therefore mulled.  I wanted to begin with easter being april fools, but rolling the wording across my tongue, could not find a fit until I recalled that one warm Easter Sunday when I felt too proud over those white gloves and my patent leather mary-janes which still fit (musta bought them with my birthday money 5 months earlier), and there you have it.  I guess.
Jenny Gordon Mar 18
and walk in it.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMXV)


O wherefore do I echo Job? to hail
"My soul is weary of my life--" from hence
As ver'ly true and what dogs me fr'intents
Now Mum is not, nor any lover?  They'll
Arraign me for it, doubtless, cuz t'avail
I still have joys, smile for the sparrows, fence
These posting hour with prayrs He'd give me thence
Unto a husband, aye to bear kids' tale.
And come, why does my path dissolve as twere
Each step I take? aught moments passed gone to
Obliv'on whilst my fingers grapple for (in puir
'Scuse) all I seemed to have?  March skies are blue
Sans clouds, the caller breath mild as it'd stir
Trees' naked boughs to trembling, and where to?

15Mar18a
And why did they press me over being so cheery?  Mebbe chronically depressed people know how to be ambivalent.  Huh? Huh? Huh?  Ya.
Jenny Gordon Mar 18
...'non'd solace broken me, no lover 'round to give a hoot.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMXIII)


Me.  Say t'invoke the violets' wonted tale
As if twould be what my soul'd cherish hence
To vaunted heights, aye breathless for intents
Could I but revel in that auld detail
Whose white and purple-striped wee faces' scale
Of sorrow drew me ere I could from thence
Acknowledge th'import's by all counts pretense.
Yea, trounce my songs, and whither to avail?
Should I don overshoes and search as twere
The forest's muddy trails like pilgrims who
Own heavn on earth, we'll call it far too poor.
My sonnets three years 'go belie what'd woo,
Cuz I damned all joys where Death 'gan to tour,
And wrote to whom is not, that:  I need you.

14Mar18b
Yo.
Jenny Gordon Mar 18
...that is invisible.



(sonnet #MMMMMMXII)


So...we'll feign's not sae bitter as snow thence
Is gone with yesterday and skies t'avail
Are softly blue, like April waltzes, hale
Green nubbins of both tulips and ah hence
What Wordsworth knew as jonquils was't? now fence
These warmly golden hours with hopes' detail.
For daffodils' bright yellow shall soon hail
Again and purple violets wink fr'intents.
I do not long for summer's heat girls stir
Blog posts and comment for, because they do.
Yet O!  to wander in the shadows fer
Sweet virgin white-and-purple violets dew
Half lingers on in silver droplets were
What I could gasp to own 'til I see You.

14Mar13a
Yes, it's...March after all.  What's left to say?
Jenny Gordon Mar 18
So there.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMVI)


Yes, fire.  We plunked down on the fur rug thence
Afore her fireplace, and I in betrayl
Neglected to erm, lose me on its hale
And licking flames, e'en that romance' pretense
Was blind to--wherefore? Sandwiched for intents
Twixt two guy friends, I was too dull t'avail
Me even there, yea lost myself in pale
'Scuse in auld lines to Nigel, like's good sense.
Now Sunday watches diesel trucks roar fer
Sweet hours through lonesome country roads 'neath blue
Skies nary cloud is but a ghost in, poor
As saying.  I told a friend I'm as a melon you
Cleaned out, sans Mum, and what as twere
Is left?  LORD, give me Thy fruit.  And kids too?

11Mar18b
*bangs table like a kiddo:  I want marriage and to have babies!* funny how that hits a brick wall and I must look like some danged bulldog at this rate.
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