...or--what?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXXXII)


Rain trips so lightly in the hallowed sense
Of keener silence listning to that frail
Step traffic rushes heedless through.  Birds hail
With merry notes and fragile, as from hence
Lo, crickets murmer like for all intents
The solemn ghost of patience walks here, pale
As Sunday's dimmer eye.  Clouds' masque the veil
Oer all, an airplane's voice sifts through, and whence?
Oh! how the maples' boughs rock, tinged as twere
By orange' first warnings of that rendezvous
With Death.  Winds caller as they whisper through
This calm, wool, tights, and tweed now, are not poor.
And if I mourn that I've ne lover fer
Whatever, somehow even that's not new.

07Oct18a

...want M&M's right now!


(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXIX)


Out where a fragile silence listens, pale
Sweet minutes on their honour as suspense
Hangs like the rick'ty signboard of what hence
Shall cough ere giving voice, yes, in that frail
Calm rain does not quite tiptoe through t'avail,
The voiceless naught is keenly for intents
Half harking to what we don't hear from thence
In all our haste to be, I search for bail.
Old pools of water, silver-faced, don't stir,
And crickets gently fiddle; cars pass through,
Truck sans a care, weeds look too yellow to
Be ransomed, and the eaves drip.  Oh, what were
We thinking, really?  Death knocks 'gain in tour
Yet we feign not to notice.  Ah, what's new?

30Sep18a

Italeau...Fiamma--my brother wishes likewise that they'd fit.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDX)


Boots.  Suede, Italian, and too small fr'intents,
My toes half bruised from jist one two-hour's scale
As twere of wearing, and lo, for the sale
Which netted me this lux'ry I've naught hence
Save yearning for that glor'ous pair which thence
Must be returned, prayrs for a pair t'avail
Me like these should have, with none in a frail
Excuse 'cept made-in-China boots' defense.
I only text YOU 'bout the size as t'were,
Nor know what YOUR opinion is, if YOU
Care two bits whether I've this pair in tour
Or that, just that Italian boots anew
"Run small."  And um, "I wear size ten." But's poor,
Cuz I must foot the bill, with pennies too.

25Sep18b

I wanna just sleep all night out here.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCCXLIV)


Out where the bullfrogs loudly chorus, dense
Night cut by lightning flashes' silent tale
Above the North, an airplane's voice in frail
Excuse at intervals 'non slicing thence
Through deeper calm as crickets' throbbing sense
Of playing at second fiddle in the pale
Chill keeps time, where ne winds pass through t'avail,
Yet as the moist air smells like summer, whence?
I wonder.  It's like camping as it were
Upon the city's edge, where trucks sift through
The intersection, cars now too, but fer
All that none speaks.  Clouds are worn fragments blue
E'en watches melt away.  And ne soul'd stir.
I hug my knees and wish YOU were here too.

20Aug18b

...oh, I dunno, a variety of intros could suffice, whence, none might as well, no?

(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCCXLIII)


I caught the ghost of mists likeas a veil
Down in the valley where trees clustered thence
'Hind shifting white's detail, rain waltzing hence
Without a voice as't tiptoes 'cross the tale
Of weedy blacktop; firs mair silent, frail
Calm hanging 'til winds ply the Maples' dense
Green, and the distance lost to that suspense,
Whiles I chid rain for being light; to exhale.
You listen to--is't my complaints? and YOUR
Response of "you're amazing" fails me too.
So I wish to just kiss and tease you fer
All that to...chase me--which you say you'll do.
Right now seems but a pipe dream, mists in poor
'Scuse on what lies 'fore:  I belong to YOU.

20Aug18a

...he asked to see this...like he so often does.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCCXIII)


O how mists clothe the valley like a veil
Which swallows aught in dawn's first light! trees hence
Peer vaguely through that ghostly whiteness, whence
My soul thrills to its haunting touch' detail
In waking; nary voice to stir, winds stale
As Maple leaves hang limply in suspense
Mair keen cuz yonder is quite buried, dense
Naught owns an eye we feel in sheer betrayl.
Did I search out the distant hours as twere,
Or grapple for a vision past this view,
We cannot but acknowledge, lo in tour
Tis hid from our mair "owly eyes" anew.
Fog on the heels of night as darkness stir
To light's tread, how I long anon for YOU.

03Aug18a

(sonnet #MMMMMMMCCXLIII)


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.

24Jun18