Oh well.


(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXVIII)


Earl Grey and biscuit for a proper sense
Of yonder ist?  where blue skies fringe clouds' veil
Known as white racks that keener eye'd wax pale
Through as how orange paints bits and pieces hence
Whiles yellow flutters to the sidewalks whence
Tis trod whilst fills aught cracks in sheer betrayl;
La, bony limbs cast 'gainst these heavns look frail,
How vines run riot in deep reds' intents.
Hot soup for dinner, I wear plaid now fer
Ah kicks, a kilt to boot, as if being new
Might salve the galling void I can't endure,
Yet must.  Talk of espresso gadgets to
Think ya, the French Press grand.  And tea.  What's poor
Is blindness cuz the LORD's our life, ne brew.

19Oct16b

...the Word of God.



(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXII)


Oh yes.  I wimper still oer Mum.  Care thence
In silence as ne words assuage nor bail
My soul, except the LORD's in sheer betrayl.
Orange kisses treetops, yellow nestles hence
In sidewalk cracks and dips, vines paint a sense
Of scarlet through the copse no phlox detail
Now, and lo, I submit a sonnet they'll
Not choose, remembring Mum last year--and whence?
I swear, the Word of God my home as twere,
Replies as through a parched land we ensue.
Grey hours rain drips oer, deep blue heavns we were
So fond of seeing twixt yellow Maples--do
Not have my ticket anymore.  In poor
Scuse I watch Pride and Prejdice.  Where are you?

16Oct16b

Why I seem to be fair prey for men my father's age and his friends to boot, I cannot guess.  But how do you be friendly while hating their interest intensely?  He said, "I saw that look!" and I'm not really sorry he did, either.


(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXX)


Thin blue skies peer twixt greyish clouds a sense
Of bitter air wafts from, as if the pale
Eye of uncertain warmth's half golden scale
Of light is fragile and must tiptoe thence
In fear across these rasping fields 'til hence
Called off, whileas how leaves just whisper, frail
Breaths passing through oer naked boughs' detail,
The maples green yet as orange paints suspense.
He pops his head in at my bedroom door in tour,
And I assure him that, "Oh, I know you--"
While classcal music plays, rehearse in poor
'Scuse memries, 'til oer one say that we do
Not hafta lie:  "I'm not availble fer
Whomever--" and he bows...is that adieu?

15Oct16

Don't ask me why I conjured someplace in Chicago, I think by Gene and Judes.



(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXIX)


Was't thickets naked trees within the pale
Eye of November guarded with a sense
Of dreary naught, their skeletons black thence
And with such bony fingers grasping frail
Mists' ghostly shadows winds' nigh cruel exhale
Passed through in eerie whispers, that suspense
Culls from auld memries to rehearse from hence,
Which rise before me, haunting which detail?
The question of what's real.  Shake me as twere,
And say I've built cloud castles none shall do
Aught justice to, and bid me look now fer
Brave minutes at what's allus in my view.
Tell me our games were fun but won't endure.
Then take my hand and teach me to love you.

14Oct16c

It's interesting being argued with to your face regarding getting your work on the market and published.  They are too kindly in my local poetry group at the library.



(sonnet #MMMMMCMXLIX)


La, to my face, ere from a distance' pale
Voice bits and bytes denote, some worry hence
I'll be like mousy Dickinson, as whence
They urge me publish these fraught lines' detail,
Lest after Death seals that font in betrayl,
What **! but shall these perish sans defense?!
Come, let us now observe a winking sense
Of hallowed silence, shall we?  Have I bail?
Where Shakespeare trusted he'd be loved ah, fer
Was that until this earth be done? He knew
Him cherished face to face.  Besides, in poor
'Scuse we but parse his lines or lisp the crew
Of them sans knowing Will.  I'm not loved.  You're
Appreci'tive, and my loves:  I  love y'all too.

05Oct16

Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.



(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)


Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.

31Aug13b

Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)

I


Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.



II


Lo, ******. Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.

24Dec15c,d