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]
Jenny Gordon May 28
...the bride."


My parents said their vows with stardust thence
In their too happy eyes, years 'go in pale
Excuse:  today.  Put cake in each mouth:  bail
For forty-one years 'til Mum died, and whence?
I should be thankful that I perish hence?!
Likeas the violets which own June's exhale
As cruel, whileas their smiling faces fail
Before the summer's breath without defense.
So, la, a p'liceman stopped them this night, fer
All that cuz of Dad's license plates, to do
Was it a bow when he saw Mum's dress?  Poor
As memries, how we cherish all we knew.
And why am I forgotten, LORD?  What were
My faults?  Forgive me, please? and hear me too?

That's nice, I think, that I managed to actually ink a tribute to my parents' anniversary, complete with a few of the details.
Jenny Gordon May 28
Oh, I think I've figured it out:  I'm so bouncy and smiley simply because I am chronically depressed.  


Oh yes, please text me that "it's love's detail"
And promise marriage ere we've talked fr'intents
But hours, to ask how I earn money hence,
Whileas ye ditch me cuz I don't in pale
Excuse have sure employment, and t'avail
That's what I've feared:  love false, as each want cents
When they quip "sexy."  And I knew't.  Good sense.
True love, shan't care for her purse:  love is bail.
I stoop low for the purple violets, stir
Twixt taller grasses that wee morsel's cue
Of deepest sorrow:  cuz I am as twere
Myself a violet, lost and trodden through
The years, and full of grief, yet smiling too,
For that's our lot.  Ai!  Is love always poor?!

And for the octet:  my mother, and several of my brothers have assured me that IF a man truly loves a woman, he will not care at all that she's penniless.  I've known a few true lovers, then, been engaged once to one such, but for the most part am hit upon by fakes.
Jenny Gordon May 28
Reading Shakespeare over [old] coffee this (27May18PM) afternoon, he's right, I should be very thankful my brothers love me.


Ya, pensive as grey shadows lenthen hence
Across warm, sun-washed lanes, that thin detail
Lost to our keen pursuit of whither, pale
Erm figures of huge trees 'non fingring thence
Our thoughts or passage, while none ask fr'intents
Just where we're going in such haste, the tale
Of how enough, as I've ne heart t'avail,
Wont to feign smiles as if I'd their defense.
From diesel pick-ups to slick cars, we tour
With yonder at our soul, these cloudless blue
Skies so expansive, 'til I realize fer
All that how empty tis, sans soul, the view
No longer grand but galling in a poor
'Scuse, where ne lover but deceives anew.

Unfortunately this is lacking the reality of being on the road, the verbal snapshot as ever its wont merely communicating a morsel of what passed, despite the facts.
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