Or better yet, splash frigid h2o in my face.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXV)


Dawn was a question in the warming, pale
Light of sheer gloaming as I glanced from thence
In passing, nary maiden blushes' sense
Of pink, or it was fragile, as to scale
The curtains I'd drawn hours ago t'avail
At twilight (cuz lights blinked on) were fr'intents
As if I'd just done so, a thin suspense
Hung in the balance; was't, erm, asking bail?
If noon resolves that query with as twere
Battalions of white clouds upon deep blue
Seas no black Jolly Roger flutters through,
What's left for pickins?  I am restless, poor
Though aught excuse.  The birds are silent fer
Whatever cause, sweet love a dream nor true.

13Apr19a

...or did, as I madly scribbled this hotly down.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXIV)


Dear Friday night, could you arrange fr'intents
Some date for souls that draw the short straw?  Bail
Is sleep cuz I've no better cue t'avail
Me of, not even stars in black depths' sense
Of that which Abraham saw maunt be thence
E'en counted, cuz it's TOO COLD.  Wake in pale
Excuse to oh, the dregs of that wine they'll
Grant might have made me drunk, and whither hence?
My friend was too sweet, and aught hope was poor.
I'm sick of being the **** of jokes, yet to
Nobody's credit, dawn finds me as twere:
Ambiv'lent.  Yes, I realize that won't do.
What's left when I've spent all?  What, to bestir
More than this bitter taste of all I rue?

12Apr19d

...but here I am:  Miss Oscar the Grouch.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXIII)


So pull your cat out of your bag to scale,
And I'll watch "*****" foot it, for a sense
Of all the tricks you like to show off thence,
Disgust you culled mine likewise in betrayl,
Cuz that's 'most what is left.  Her blonde detail
Crimped to effect, (and girls know girls from hence)
This sordid game two play sans tickets, whence
Let's play it to the hilt, swords drawn, t'avail.
If only I could listen to frogs' cure
For fevered brows, but it's TOO COLD.  Did you
Call in the weather to draw up as twere
What I should feel, playing me the fool anew
For love; or come, what gives?  Meow Mix poor,
I'm barking up no trees--um, are we through?

12Apr19c

Nah.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXX)


Charles (Tennyson) um, Turner wrote for sense
Of April's playful hours, but who t'avail
Set down those languished moments chill'd exhale
Through til we hugged that cuppa in defense,
And looked out on the misty hours pretense
Tricked out to suit our fancy, sweaters bail,
Nor thought it but delightful as the pale
Eye of these region clouds forswore what hence?
Perchance the fragile warmth we cherished too
Much, was it?  Em'ly Dickinson in poor
Scuse was not thankful of soft joys, cuz her
Dear longing for--was't romance far more true
Than zephyr whispers? chilled her soul as twere.
I can't decide if she was right 'non, too.

11Apr19c

...those who could and were watching me knew by halves



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXIX)


Tis all about pretending, in betrayl.
O yes, a thousand things, for aught intents.
Until that fateful hour when all pretense
Is stripped off, where th empror's clothes t'avail
Are seen for what they truly are to scale:
In other words, are NOT, and galling sense
(Which has been leering at us in defense
Of wisdom all this time) reigns sans aught bail.
Quoth Shakespeare "...all the world's a stage--" and, poor
As our excuses, twas forsooth THAT to
Effect.  Don't let me, please, forget in tour
My lines.  We socialize as trained, on cue
Recite the proper speeches, smile and fer
Brief moments...fool ourselves.  Dear me, what's new?

11Apr19b

I can't find the words to translate this.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLVI)


Frogs chorus from the hollows, moist earth' scents
'Non wafting on winds' softest kiss, th'exhale
So lightly fragile 'cross my cheek t'avail
As I hark, lips half oped to hear from hence
In sweet surprise their voices, wondring thence
If crickets also fiddle?  Robins'd hail
At gloaming, to yield notes of Mavis' scale
Of ancient lullabies I'd list to, whence?
Forsooth.  As if my soul's restored in tour,
Likeas a sleeper whose long nightmares to
Effect are broken, nor but dreams and poor,
I feel now I can breathe, yea see anew?
Perhaps...who knows what shall be?  Love'd bestir
As in the wings is't? now that Summer'd woo.

05Apr19b

Or, the kind of page which you find buried out of sight cuz it wasn't fit to be seen.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLV)


O let me roll his name in sheer betrayl
Across my tongue and savour that fr'intents.
"He" turns my storms to sunshine with a sense
Of happy songs in every step, t'avail--
With just that note "he" cares is't?  Swear I've bail.
I yearned to crawl off somewhere to weep thence,
But "he" stepped out to smoke, and all cleared, whence
Dear me!  I've nary tear to shed, to scale.
Don't tell me tis a dream I'll rue in tour--
Note how "he" called "his" fellow--was it to
See that "he'd" culled a smile by that as twere?
Go laugh at me, and give your lectures through
Experience and etcetra.  Though tis poor,
Nor sense:  I'm banking on "his" caring too.

05Apr19a