Dunno why, but I've wanted to write this for days...the first lines, that is.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCVII)


Macbeth's wife wrung her hands, to then bewail
The blood which nary washing could fr'intents
Clean of that stain.  I've wondered lately whence?
That's all.  The coven's three hags' shrill detail
In howling incantations like to scale,
Erst wont to ring thus in mine ears for sense
And eerie visions of wild spectres thence
Too ghastly for my taste, could haunt sans bail.
Tis just her cries naught can assuage which stir
Vague questions I maunt pin down.  If I do,
Where will they end?  Her failure as it were
To cleanse the clinging bloodstains, if we knew,
Could we find aught forgivness?  If in tour
I do not preach the Scriptures, I'll e'er rue?

21Mar19c

Nope.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCVI)


I lick my finger slowly, with a sense
In closing as of stealing frosting, pale
As aught compare, th'espresso's foam detail
Tinged subtly with milk's sweetness for intents,
Like that finale suited for it hence,
The rainy blacktop half dried in betrayl,
While minutes tiptoe by on wings more frail
Than insects' glassy touch we note from thence.
Prepare their lunch with baggies for as twere
Thin cleanliness, cuz honey's sticky to
A fault; cube our potato like in tour
What, eh?  I tossed my brother's typed note, knew
Not that twas worth aught, and discuss how poor
Tis that all's typed, not writ by hand.  And you?

21Mar19b

Let's not pin down WHY I've cherished rain and somber oboe concertos, shall we?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCV)


There are ne puddles, just that drooling trail
Left by the gutter's mouth as I look hence
For any small detail to augur thence
E'en half a note of whither in this pale
Eye of forgotten dawn, moist on that scale
With fragile rain.  Naught quivers in suspense,
No, not my soul now either.  All fr'intents
Is quite foresworn as I feign what, t'avail?
If nonchalance is pretty, let's bestir
It to cavort across the stage anew.
I'd feign lose me to rain's soft calm as twere,
Yea, fly away upon those wings we knew
By instinct, though we could not see them, poor
As saying.  No sparrow calls, and what would woo?

21Mar19a

...couldn't arrive at a decent title, sorry.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCIV)


While lo, the eaves drip with a fragile sense
As of a leaky faucet, sparrows hail
With sweetest cries, and oh! now which detail?
Tis frore, yet with the dishes washed fr'intents
I'm warm enow for half a minute's dense
Chance of mere seconds just to breathe, as pale
Hours trim their painted nails to traffic's scale
As twere of passage ere we've dinner hence.
Too soon flown, even as the birds in tour,
Just overhead whiles I am scribbling, blue
Is not so much heavn's glance but clouds as twere,
Though how that piercing eye burns hotly through
Where we are settling down to soup.  Was't poor
I'd only minutes on the stoop?  What's new?

20Mar19d

Ya, I'll say everything, except all I know about...him.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCIII)


Dear rain whose mincing footfalls but avail
The fellow working in thy moist kiss hence,
High in the scaffold where that silence thence
Does not quite cozen him, as he could hail
Each little noise if he desires, the pale
Eye of this first new day of Spring fr'intents
Is tender in its frore note, with a sense
Of all we cherished just in tow, to scale.
And like this season of auld loves we were
Taught was keen on romance, I wish he knew,
Nor was as now a fragile dream roused fer
My sheer distraction cuz chance thought to do
Me in by circumstance.  I pray in tour,
Yet am afraid to ask if he does...woo.

20Mar19c

...anything?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCII)


So, blue heavns hid 'non by a veil fr'intents
Of stringy clouds, I rolled that to avail
Across my tongue thus:  "cirrus clouds to scale--
Lo, change of weather scheduled..." like twas sense,
And checked the forecast to see what from thence;
Watched how the golden light cast firs' detail
Upon the blacktop likeas doilies' tale,
Yet plumb forgot to ink whate'er was.  Whence?
Sip tea in morning's weepy note as twere,
While rain just tiptoes 'cross the silent view;
Hark yet in vain for sparrows' playful cure;
Want cream to no avail as if that'd do,
'Til oh!  What's left to jot down?  All's not poor,
But I'm half tongue-tied, like's not vain.  What's new?

20Mar19b

I have no excuse for myself, I know [ducks head]*  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCI)


Oh! I'd forgotten wherefore aught that'd hail
Was never inked, why Tristram Shandy thence
Seemed cure enow, and why I slept fr'intents
In lieu of posting la, my work t'avail.
Yes, sleep was that fine drug which in betrayl
Washed clean the mental chalkboard in defense
Of some remote attempt at fragile sense,
Until he chose to be where--what?! tis stale.
I 'fessed at one weak moment, "I've in poor
'Scuse lo, a crush on...him."  Alas.  That'd do
Me in for keeps, left swooning as it were
When night 'gain cozened all, and whispring to
Myself, "I wish he missed me too!"  Rain's tour
Is sweet, but I'm a mess because of who?

20Mar19a