Or what?  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXXXIV)


White answers on all sides as twere, til hence
My purple kilt and pink checked skirt's detail
Look just as wont for Winter:  what'd avail
This bleaker lack of colour we feel thence
Within our very bones, or as fr'intents
The Boden slogan was in sheer betrayl,
An ex'llent motto "squeeze the day!"  Light pale
With more snow in the wings, shall we ask whence?
Come, how soup's warming on the stove as fer
All that the grinder's voice means flour anew
For biscuits.  Where did darker colours' tour
Become too deep of late?  Why does that hue
Seem dismal is't?  Do I want Spring to stir
More than I realize that soft shades 'non woo?

08Feb18c

"...as scarlet they shall be as white as snow--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXXX)


Snow-frosted boughs reply to dawn's clean sense
Of newness as how diamonds in betrayl
Half mesmerize upon thet canvas' hale
White 'neath the heavens' purer blue eye, whence
We drive upon these wetter lanes, glad hence
For cloudless skies and golden kisses' hail,
Cuz last night twas a bad dream sans avail,
The chatter of erm, happier ladies dense.
She cuts into my rev'ries with as twere
Is't half a note I should not really do
This now? her questions and discussion's tour
Fit to derail thin efforts, cuz we knew.
Some actor feigns he's Christ with lies in poor
'Scuse for the Scriptures, and snow winks at who?

06Feb18

Yes, if any enquire, there's blood upon the page--



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXXIX)


So what of...love? the fevered pulse' detail
And how I'm yours in just a wink, to fence
Is't twinkling hours with you in every sense
Upon my tongue, and throbbing in betrayl
Through all my veins:  I have forgotten, pale
As aught excuse, what it meant to be thence
All yours, because to be is dead from hence
Cuz you are not, a memry without bail.
Yet Valentines is coming round in tour,
Though I've ne'er had a man tae sweetly woo
Or say "Be MINE" 'til after all in poor
Excuse was oer.  I'd suitors months 'go who
Pledged love and called me theirs.  But now?  Lo, we're
Fresh out of that, my dear.  Ah, what is new?

05Feb18c

"...and Death to me subscribes--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXX)


How fragile light draws shadows up to fence
Our passage to and fro, ne groundhog's scale
Of is't author'ty? as blue heavns avail
Long naked boughs where last Fall leaves' brown sense
Half shivers or just waits in dead suspense.
This eye of April whose bulbs know th'exhale
Is but a whisper of frore breath own bail
And, buried, shift now to the hours' intents.
If I had inked how gloaming 'gan to stir
As rosy blushes warmed the vacant blue
'Lone on the West ah, what?  I could not, fer
All that, yet wondered as I sifted through
The flour and leavning if dawn would be poor
Or sans a blot as lo, tis for that cue.

02Feb18a

[Sonnet #107 to SouthHampton:  "...thy monument/When tyrents' crests and tombs of brass are spent./"]




(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXIX)


What **!  Write of the violets like t'avail
My soul of cherished hours gone far, far hence
Upon the crueler rending of joys thence,
And Life's dear fabric as it were, and pale
As aught excuse, read Shakespeare--in betrayl
Wisked off, as how those lines rouse for intents
Sweet minutes lingring oer the violets, whence
I lisped "...and Death to me subscribes--"(sans bail).
Lo, I can see all now as twas (in poor
'Scuse, eh?):  blue skies sae warm, and silver dew
Just melted off the shadowed clover, fer
Those minutes I bent down and mused, while too
Thus fingring purple dainties winds would stir
Across sans kissing...and why now anew?

01Feb18c

Alas, is there truly no excuse for me?


(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXVIII)


Take icy cloth's embroidered linen's sense
Of April's warmth to task for darts, as hale
Pink butterflies weave paths to yonder's bail,
And what is stylish now is red, deep hence
With snappy blue in patterns I've tossed thence
Aside as "not my taste," and oh! t'avail
How Valentines' tricks out most ads' detail
With hearts in tow, where I've none in defense.
Remember how our heavy kissing's tour
Of things I'd never tasted, left me too
Far Dis-illusioned in betrayl, as poor
As all that, and I miss the violets dew
In silver droplets used to kiss as twere.
So flowrs are knit on linen while none woo.

01Feb18b

Or?



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXVII)


O! How these clear blue heavns urge on the frail
Hope flowrs are just in tow, as April thence
With darling violets in the wings!  Clouds hence
Low on the golden hours' far edge, mists veil
My window pane as if to show ne bail
Exists, though how I feel it 'non fr'intents
Now in my very bones, my blood with sense
Enow to rouse a fever in betrayl.
You wish.  Yet what is't culls my soul as twere
From aught lit corner, like erst wont to do?
Yes, wherefore does the sunny vista stir
Sich dreams?  For lo's but Groundhog Day a few
Hours hence, nor shall his shadow make in poor
'Scuse any diff'rence.  Ah, what does now woo?

01Feb18a