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Jenny Gordon May 2019
...straight and narrow, too.


Wash table, countertop I used fr'intents,
And brush past lo, her flat betrayl
The id'ot box now comes to life!  T'avail
Grab up the big remote and turn it thence
Off--like I could.  How it goes silent hence
But glares at me with "no connection," pale
Yet deadly on its face.  I yield up.  They'll
Know how to fix that, right?  What's not pretense?
If only I were as the sparrows, fer
All that!  How shall I "get there," eh?  What do
We in our mad haste for the dollar?  Were
Such efforts godly, why's so diff'cult too?
Lo, sell my time?  My body too?  What's poor
Is how I know, yet swear sich lies are true.

Where's the other sonnet I wrote on this topic?!  hidden back in my notebook's earlier pages, stink.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Or do you simply wade in a fog through both sith the idiot box leaves souls in a perpetual trance?


I've heard of whipporwills ere now, a sense
Of romance in the mention, that detail
Which Wordsworth spelled out plainly in betrayl
False as it ever was, eh?  Or what thence?
Perhaps.  Where tall woods hem us in fr'intents,
Fire dancing as orange licks at logs t'avail,
Gnats, either by the spray or dusk, gone, they'll
Begin, a call I learn to hear from hence.
Tis nary dream.  The lone deer I glimpsed fer
Effect in that field of alfalfa dew
Was settling on near twilight (seems) in tour
So perfect.  Where dusk's blueish veil fell through
That lively calm, hark to what as it were
Calls from the distance, as't draws new.

Whipporwills...I can't be thankful enough they in particular intro'd me to those fabled birds since the twist he made of their call fit too perfectly.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Note how the title comes directly from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.


As hunter's wont, the deer's skull hangs fr'intents
Upon the wooden porch, eye sockets' stale
And empty hollows staring in betrayl
Without a blink, forever, with a sense
Of Death behind their deeper look, pretense
Half shivring down to nothing, bones dried, frail
What? shrinking at the ghastly sight, birds hail
From greenest trees where life sings in defense.
And I...observe in silence, like as twere
Some child.  This womanhood I never knew,
Which crept on me ere I was 'ware, in tour
A joke which laughs 'non in my face.  Skies blue
With whiter cloud battalions, winds bestir
These Maples to soft whispers in what, too?

I wanted to detail the dried bones' appearance, to no avail.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ha, all the little details my daddy worried over me about is it?


O how the dove coos softly in dawn's pale
Eye!  Warmth a light caress as songs trill thence
Through Sunday's hallowed peace, a ghostly sense
Of silence hovers as none else t'avail
Breathe here except the wind whose cool exhale
'Non whispers through tall grass and leaves fr'intents,
Morn's golden shafts upon the mowed lawn hence
Like fragile notes playing hide-n-seek, to fail.
Showrd, dressed, start that machine for coffee, poor
As using canned joe after I've penned through
The years so many lines on beans as twere
FRESH-ground; boil water for my porridge too--
That "instant" stuff I oft deplored--and fer
Aught see how last night's rain winks as the dew.

NOTE:  That closing note is the answer I failed to acknowledge, else I never should have written this naughty complaint.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Well, in discussions since, I'm torn only because I cherish socializing, though I abhor the city.


Out where twa rivers meet, or rather thence
Lo, at the top of that peninsla's tail,
In Calhoun County where farm houses hail
At scattered intervals, with half a sense
Of sheer depression hard in tow fr'intents,
They show me where folk lived sans plumbing's scale
As twere of "civ'lized," cell phone service frail,
Point out the pump:  an outhouse their defense.
I ask how long they lived thus, and that's poor,
Cuz "all their lives!" (the answer) sez what? to
Me in effect?  I canna say.  We tour
Their property by A.T.V., the view
Romantic in its backwoods' fashion.  Were
I thinking what, that all half seems tae woo?

The mental image which culled this particular title was jesters' silky clown suit divided by two opposing purple and yellow or something.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Is it "funny" how miniscule my writing is when's done from the back seat?


Up north, blue smiles at intervals (to scale)
Frae stubbled fields' expanse, 'non rolling thence
From one side of the view to th'other, dense
Half greyish region clouds, south, where signs hail
With "Quincy in so many miles;" how pale,
Long minutes draw up navy to gird sense
Framed to a modern "christian" novel, whence
I spell out "bored" to academya's tale.
Does rain cull ghostly mists to romance fer
All that green woods off in the distance?  Do
We drive straight to their farm? can't now as twere,
The Illinois and Mississippi too
Far swollen, roads closed.  What I've known, is't poor?
Suffice it, "city" boots swear "rural" is new.

Oh, four hours there and the same back, it was worth it.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Y'know, New Year's Eve 2015/2016 set my course for the unknown ever since, and guess this last one did also, now I begin to see.


O New Year's Eve, and Day!  I, stranded thence,
And all forlorn, saw what lay through the veil,
Mists parting for a glimpse of yonder's tale,
Where home was distant, strangers for intents
My compny as I stumbled through a sense
Of being cast on my own, whiles aught detail
Was frazzled, cheap, and I forced to, though pale,
Be erm, a grown-up like's not vain pretense.
I wanted to just die at first.  But's poor.
For lo, when gi'en the chance to keep still through
Great danger what I cherished, what as twere
Drove me to wander from my nest?  I knew
Those grey, cold hours of lonely silence' tour
That THIS road lay ahead.  I knew.  Why, too?

Haha, having given up on making new year's resolutions, now I find they simply and subtly give me half a window on my future.
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