...might as well be?


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXV)


Lo, now the moon peers in to splash a pale
Glance 'cross Mum's carpet, up my legs and thence
Upon these silent hands sans voice, a sense
Thet silver eye just watches, what'd avail?
The Scriptures.  As tree silhouettes detail
Nigh ghastly clouds with blackened figures, hence
Recall "...one glory of the sun--" fr'intents:
"...Another of the moon--" what, in betrayl?
Forsooth.  I am not Mum, nor shall in poor
Scuse ever match up.  Yet what should I do?
My aunt sez God has me still here as twere
To do His will.  I can't but own tis true.
Dreams, prayrs, half mock what is.  Whatever, fer
All that is my work?  Someday swear I knew?

09Jul17a

Whateffer.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXIV)


Smoke like a haunting veil the greener sense
Of trees now sifts through, what are blue skies' hale
Note as how fire licks up the trimmings' tale
Whiles maple boughs just nod, leaves whispring thence
In concert to winds' playful touch as hence
What traffic is speeds past like that'd avail?
Should I dream of gone camping in betrayl?
I'm sold to Joe, where fishing chases whence.
Don't tell me twas a sorry joke he'd stir,
This whiter smoke at intervals some cue
Or screen I should consider as it were.
His eyes lost their mystique when I'd yield to
Those overtures.  Tell me that patience'd cure
The fishy sense whose ghost belies he'd woo.

08Jul17c

The perhaps freaky thing is from the first occasion to the last, the affair leaves me disillusioned.


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXIIII)


They pulled shots on more fancy presses' scale
Of lo, espresso, than we know, tae thence
Pass 'round the little porc'lain mug for sense
And comment.  Bells and whistles to avail
Whomever of sheer grandeur was't? would hail
Their newr machines as ultmate for intents,
Dad sez.  And we rolled 'cross our tongues th'intense
Black tazos, sip by sip, til such'd wax stale.
Fire up the grill, next:  play the epicure,
As now mein host two diffrent cuts put to
Our palates and good taste.  Wine to assure
Souls twas the height of whocareswhat, we knew
Such conversations, laughter, and for sure:
Philosphy.  Problem's:  I can't think what's new.

08Jul17b

08Jun17:  probably Joe is done with me, Adrian assessed; my brother sez it is too fishy: "just forget it/him."



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXII)


How piquant notes of car'mel waft thin scents
Across this hollow silence like t'avail,
'Cept there's none to be had in sheer betrayl;
And blue skies wear soft white clouds with a sense
Of lazy calm winds flirt 'non through from hence,
Boughs nodding lightly as leaves whisper frail
Auld secrets to the listning ear, as pale
Light eyes these shadows which cavort, and whence?
Forsooth.  They talk of la, the wedding, fer
Our questions:  groom was "bro-force."  Hope th'ado
Lasts until death, though couples think that poor
These days.  And I cannot be sick of who
Just toy with me, cuz I'm forever your
Fool who oft use me thus.  Yes, what is new?

08Jul17a

L14:  No, *****, but...enjoy the moment.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVIII)


The mourning dove ere twilight yield calls, whence
Orange winks upon thet waking thought's detail,
And lo, I hear it softly coo.  Grey mists in frail
Nigh ghostly touch a thin suggestion, thence
Do maples faintly shiver in suspense?
I thank the LORD for that voice on the pale
First notes of whither, erst wont to avail
My soul, and dawn sifts through to crown that sense.
How Joey worked "each day this week," yet fer
All that's forever on my mind.    What, to
Effect, now does the culver's song as twere
Mean?  How I used to know.  Or thought I knew.
Now like a memry of sweet days lost, poor
Though what be?  Does it bless our hopeful dew?

05Jul17b

Barnabe Barnes--right up my alley, man.


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVI)


How Barnes sings of my--what? til I see thence
Tis folly to writhe on this dainty scale,
Love's net a golden one, I might avail
Me of content if I forget this hence.
These weary heavns, fatigued as I, wear sense
In blank white's ***** racks, the hours to pale
Light givn, how maples own vague silence, frail
Winds tickling 'non the leaves to whisper.  Whence?
I have begged Joe for more.  He listened fer
All that.  I've emailed, called him twice, and do
Ya know, e'en texted him.  But that was poor.
It's "see you Thursday."  That is all.  Go to.
The minutes wasting, dunno what he'd stir.
Nor have I yet another to think'd woo.

04Jul17b

Reference Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXV)


What days are these that lo, we just avail
Us of a look or two, handshake, for sense
You kiss my hand, yet no more, like tis thence
Too rich to be...what, eh?  O! in betrayl
I'm sorely tempted to leave off this frail
Charade and kiss you too, in sheer defense,
To waltz off like it does not matter hence,
Yes, mebbe that will do.  Think you tis bail?
None, darling, now exists.  These games are poor.
I'm sick of playing around like that will do.
There is no upper hand to take.  You stir
Hot coals as if their whiteness meant Death knew
No fires could rouse a light.  No.  You as twere
Half tiptoe, daring me to be more too.

04Jul17a