Me and apple cidar vinegar well, let's just say it's a long story when a bout of the flu for literally a fortnight, and Shakespeare's lines came to the 'fore...


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXIII)


Where Shakespeare would drink, sans complaint, t'avail
Lo, "...potions of [yes!] eysel 'gainst--" what thence?
"...My strong infection--" nor think that defense
Too much, I'm churning still from in betrayl
Erm, taking just that--not cuz I regale
The world with naughty plays as he did, whence
His closest friends chid Will, whereat he'd sense
That slight of character and yield--my bail?
Tis as he said, but oh! in truth, not fer
Some metaphor played out t'effect to do
His penance good--"do ye with fortune [to
Be sure it's tongue in cheek] chide--" cuz in poor
'Scuse paying the bills meant theatre as twere.
Yet my case is this fortnight flu I rue.

15Feb19c

I will, seriously.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXII)


It musta been a west wind that curved thence
The dripping stream as lo, in sheer betrayl
An icicle likeas a dagger'd hail--
Some scimitar hung from the eaves for sense
Replies at blueish gloaming as I hence
Glance up to notice that cold thing's detail
Which arcs in layered fashion as the pale
Light dwindles on a Friday evning, whence?
Swear refried beans are NOT enough, as fer
Good measure we down Little Caesar's to
Effect, the pepperoni pizza cure
For fevered appetites, with play to do
That treat in style as I am dragged off, poor
Though my cries, "I have dishes--!" And what's new?

15Feb19b

And now, ....



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCX)


As if twere not enough that for intents
This valentines Dad gave me Starbucks' scale
Of romance:  cherry mocha to avail
Where I'd not dreamed of aught, how blue skies fence
These minutes I warm soup with pink for sense
Light golden with an eye late April's hale
Last hours know as I set the table, frail
Sweet gloaming when we should dine, like what hence?
I don't konw.  Caught in memries as it were,
Three years ere was it? Febry's cold as due,
And Valentines Day only halfway through,
Yet I feel in my bones that May'd bestir,
Ere violets have a chance to shift in tour
Mats of dead leaves, for what is't that'd um, woo?

14Feb19b

Ahem.  There truly is no excuse for me.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCIX)


O for the silver foil winged cupids, frail
With arrows on the string, and shooting thence
At blood-red hearts!  Erst wont to trick out hence
My pages thus, I miss them now!  In pale
Excuse, where is the box of hearts t'avail
Our foolish dreams of romance? Ah, fr'intents
How I wish to lay candy hearts out, whence
I'll trade their speeches with you like's sweet bail.
These whitish racks which put the light as twere
Out til day is a fragile thing--I do
Not mind their surly cast.  No choclate to
Assuage fond, erm, desires, no.  I in poor
'Scuse yearn for childish candies wont to stir
My heart with dreams crashed every year now too.

14Feb19a

...cuz I won't tell you IF you ask directly, my mind goes blank.  You hafta come at it sideways.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIX)


Quoth I, "while golden hours--" to find in pale
Excuse what?! Milton's sonnet answring thence:
"...lead on propitious May--" as blue skies hencxe
Yield not sae much kind warmth as on that scale
Urge 'non the soul to think of April's trail
Of violets through the budding woods leaves fence
With softest whispers, wherefore do I sense
Lo, summer ere that Febry's old, t'avail?
Yea further, why does my heart tremble fer
Favon'ous' merry hours' return as blue
Skies set that thought on fire as if it were
But weeks away?  I struggle now as't woo,
'Gain yearning to stroll through the pines in tour
And listen to their voices like t'would do.

09Feb19a

What my men lament, I suppose.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIV)


Lo, how mists shroud the world til aught fr'intents
Quite disappears!  The clustered houses tale
Lost to that fragile whiteness, firs detail
The edge of haunting yonder likeas thence
I knew high in the Rocky Mountains, whence
My soul takes off on that note, like the veil
Hides steeper ledges and ravines, this pale
Eye of thin warmth with puddles in suspense.
An essay on erm, Samuel Johnson fer
Is't thus another angle on just who?
I thought our lit'rature taught us in tour
His name at least.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  He knew
So much tis reckoned better he as twere
Was NOT a lawyer, brilliant.  Is't fog's cue?

06Feb19b

...cuz a nagging bladder isn't cool.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLXXX)


From Rimsky-Korskov's strains wi' half a sense
Of "magic" in Sheher'zade's fervid tale,
To Kenny Chesney's singing in betrayl
Was it of being kind to some soul fr'intents?
To class'cal notes which yield me lo, from thence
Fair visions of huge columned courts' detail,
To ah, the Scriptures--Romans to avail
Sense past all foolish thoughts and vain pretense.
So drift off on that, eh?  No.  Yes, tis poor,
But THIS wee stanza tugged at me, or to
Effect the first lines rolled across in tour
My silent tongue, til sleep feigned it would do.
Yet earbuds in, hard rock came blasting fer
Good taste in and, I'd rather sleep anew.

31Jan19a