He said I'm a good kisser.  ducks head



(sonnet #MMMMMMDI)


His.  O, I wanted Joe to call me his, in pale
Excuse, and yes, to call him MINE.  What hence?
But lo, I am.  He's like a dream come true, a sense
Of all a girl wants in his sweetness, frail
As fancies ever were.  Why, in betrayl?
To top it off, yes...what?  but kissing thence
Is nat'ral, being in his arms like ah, whence?
Two puzzle pieces fitting in detail.
If I said "he is home to me as twere,"
Would all I've tasted then dissolve unto
Some naked shore the waves crash into fer
An endless washing of all that we knew?
He sez that love (in all caps) is too poor.
My legs and lips are what he wants.  What's new?

16Jul17a

Haha, it's funny looking at this now.  L8:  that little email, oh my.


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXCVIII)


Where midnight'd feign a silence 'til I'd thence
Roll back the covers to at last avail
Me of lying down for good, ah how the pale
Eye of that moon rose twixt those treetops' dense
Black lacework, shivring in a keener sense.
Although we knew twas folly to detail
Aught, how I sent my Joey, like to scale,
Notes on whatever, to shrink from it hence.
Or, no.  I squinted as it peered as twere
At me, the ghastly calm fit for sweet dew,
And rose when dawn's first shafts began to stir.
What are the dreams long since forgot as due?
For if I shrink from building castles your
Sweet intrest culls, will that make all come true?

15Jul17a

Now that this is merely the winking first piece of a heady whatever....



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXCVI)


Let's put it down for who cares what:  as thence
A folded piece of notebook paper'd hail--
Joe left that in my door's erm, handle, frail
As aught excuse, signed "always your--" and hence
I've wrestled with...is't "friend" or "Joey"? sense
Knots up itself and he knows how t'avail
Himself of my heart, that is what.  Detail
How last week when he'd--ah, he has defense.
Two fun'rals in one week's enough, nor poor.
Say I'm not worthy notice 'gainst that, who
Shall cut whom slack?  Just when I'd give up fer
All that, he does not let me go.  I do
Not want to let go, but be Joey's, were
My prayrs heard.  Say's too early?  Say we knew?

13Jul17b

....mebbe cuz I have no lover.  [Wait, Dad oddly did too.]


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXC)


Soft mists down in the valley ere dawn thence
But twinkle oer these massy treetops, pale
White's fragile ghost waits thinly like a veil
Which masks the greener figures waiting hence,
Whileas we shovel on our ways, that sense
Of romance waltzing off ere I avail
Me of more than sheer notice on that scale,
And ah, who listens for those songs? or whence?
How maple boughs wait sans aught whisper too,
Leaves shifting or half murmring as it were.
You're not allowed to say the flowrs look poor,
Cuz daffodils yet nod where planted to
Be sunshine through July.  I'm losing fer
All that what was it? what few joys I knew?

11Jul17a

My brothers were remarking I've had more beaus than most...  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVIII)


La, how Vivaldi trills and capers thence
When I am on the run, like to avail
Me is a chancy thing for all he'd hail
In, erm, my absence.  And oh! these skies wear hence
Long faces since rain swore off dawn, a sense
Of sheer foreboding in racks' blue detail,
The scanner crackling with a weary tale
My brother knew would be, and "jail" fr'intents.
Dad swears I am "subjective" as it were,
That list of boyfriends I once tripped on through
(Whereof I say "I don't know how to stir
Aught man, but I kin sure ditch lovers") to
A fault against my dearest hopes, a poor
Reminder of I can't say what.  Why, too?

10Jul17b

No, we certainly shall not.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVII)


O Wordsworth!  La, but how his spirit's hale
Pride sifts anon twixt every stanza, whence
My soul congeals, as left like bones from hence
To dry and bleach in heavn's bald eye; joys fail
Whileas he waxes eloquent, to hail
Aught note of twinkling life with that cold sense
Which calculates the breath out of all thence
Caught in his lines, til I can't breathe t'avail.
He takes up passion like's unknown as twere,
Despite the fact he is just that, yet to
A fault upon a bloodless scale, who'd stir
The whitened ashes of aught fire to do
It up as if's a specimen:  dead.  Poor
As all that, he extolled much...sans life's dew.

10Jul17a

Being fatigued has its benefits: I don't give a hoot.


(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVI)


Talk to the silence as a train growls thence
Through wooded stretches, 'neath the bridge detail,
Sans more than rumbling deeply on that scale,
And think of how wee cricket voices fence
These ghastly plains with fiddling oer suspense,
Nor listen cuz--those days are gone and fail,
At least my solace in their joys does, pale
Expanses washed in moonlight not mine hence.
Or not the maple's knobby roots as twere,
Its canopy of shadow lace I knew
Last year, that freedom of the lake in tour
Gone, I remember, as tinnitus to
Effect half waltzes with the clock's demure
Tread, ticking, whilst...what is't that no man woo?

09Jul17b