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Jenny Gordon May 2019
There IS a reason we're told to beware of what we...everything, really.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVIII)


Swear off the pleasures I knew ere cuz thence
I'm too, what, eh? beleaguered to avail
Me of indulgence, yes.  No choc'late, pale
As loving oft to nibble it fr'intents
Home in my father's house.  And thus, what hence?
The id'ot box passe, I'd in betrayl
Now clean forgot the litrature's detail
Which shaped my thoughts and manners, yea, my sense.
Take oh, the lux'ry of an essay fer
Lo, minutes on familiar turf I knew
Weeks, months, so many years ago as twere
Likeas my other "food," and what ah, to
Effect?  As if my thinking clears in poor
'Scuse for brief seconds, oh how sweet tis too!

24May19d
There's nothing quite like whom you associate with...eh?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVII)


Vogue begs to know what "entertains" me.  They'll
Be certain I indulge in that cuz thence
By sheer default, who does not, eh?  My sense
Of that is either quite perverse sans bail,
Or mebbe true:  naught but distracts me, pale
As sich assertions that's my case from hence.
I'll laugh for this or that, watch for intents
Both movies, and the id'ot box t'avail.
Yet all's for mere DISTRACTION.  Joy is poor,
Quite frankly.  I am broken, smile as due,
And swear it's all a game of sheer, as twere:
Pretending.  Christians say that is not true.
So what am I?  My heart died whenas her
Heart did, and I'm a shadow, fading through.

24May19c
Oh dear!  I think I put down recently that I'm not depressed.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
..add to that, "sleeping is a luxury; eating a privilege"...by MY definition.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVI)  


Does coffee ever wake aught soul fr'intents?
Or do we merely welcome in betrayl
Caffeine's ole kick-start to the morning's hale
Note it is time to put off sleep?  Dad's sense
Of it I canna say, 'cept he'd swear thence
Twas to be lo, "enjoyed." not quaffed t'avail
The soul like medicine, no.  That detail
Could praps suffice, yet I'm confused still.  Whence?
And oh, tea does not mix with joe.  Tis poor
On both sides if you drink them both, each brew
No complement to th'other, as it were.
Yes, laugh at me.  Now "independent" two
Weeks running--sip tea first, to savour fer
All that what'd ope mine eyes; then joe's weak.  You?

24May19b
I don't care how many of you swear that coffee wakes you up.  Until you've had MY cuppa tea, you don't know what it is to be wakened.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Forty-five...the number of years her parents were married.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXV)


So many things, I spose, beg to avail
Themselvs of lo, a voice now I've fr'intents
Taen up the page and pencil in defense
Of aught.  Tis Mum and Dad's erm, in betrayl,
Yes:  wedding annivers'ry, as sans bail
Now it was ere and e'er shall be, for sense.
Which other items wanted space from hence
Pale in the light of that note's keen detail.
I yearn to call Dad for that reason, too.
Yet how my pride is shown up as what'd stir
Me, is it eh?  Whence ****** ere I (as twere)
Begin, what's left?  Pride caused our rift, as to
Effect tis ever what the Scriptures fer
All that 'non prove:  oh LORD, save me, won't You?

24May19a
L's 4-6--May 24th until further notice can only be (to me) my parent's wedding anniversary.  So there.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
If only, if only...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXIII)


Read Jeremiah twelve, and lo, in pale
Excuse how William Drummond's lines come thence
Unto the 'fore with that old question dense
Wi' import we've asked oer and oer to scale:
"...Is THIS how all goes?  Is it thus?!"  Detail
Jist what the Scriptures beg an answer hence
To, and, oh me! is that auld query's sense
Of wrong the reason we do not find bail?
Thou dost not seem to tell Thy prophet fer
All that a wherefore, jist as lo, unto
Thy servent Job, um, rather how as twere
We aught to be.  Why don't we follow to
Effect?  Why am I here?  Have I in tour
'Non turned aside as if such things would do?

23May19a
To think at dinner he discussed it with me, the upshot of it being not so much an answer per se, as the point that we're to be conformed to His image.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Can I plead that I don't know how...as poor as that excuse?



(sonnet  #MMMMMMMCMLXXXII)


****** up the tea cups Dad gave me, to thence
Drop all to get a hold of him, t'avail--
His dear initials on those twa cups hale
Reminders of my father, in defense
Of all he's givn me, 'spite my follies, whence
O how we talk in lieu of breakfast's scale
Of nour'shment!  Likeas when we could detail
Each other's eye and face--talk--for intents.
I knew he'd love the Calhoun County tour--
Twas all both he and Mum had cherished through
The years:  secluded, off the grid as twere,
Nor with the city's echo, quite poor too.
It's just the money.  What drove me to stir
Up independence was that cursed thing's cue.

22May19b
Stinks I'm not back home with Dad...
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...straight and narrow, too.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXX)


Wash table, countertop I used fr'intents,
And brush past lo, her flat screen...in 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.

21May19d
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?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXVI)


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 nigh...so new.

20May19b
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.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXIV)


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?

19May19b
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?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXIII)


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.


19May19a
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.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXII)


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?

18May19d
The mental image which culled this particular title was jesters' silky clown suit divided by two opposing colours....like purple and yellow or something.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Is it "funny" how miniscule my writing is when's done from the back seat?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXI)


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.

18May19c
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.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXLVIII)


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?

11May19d
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.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
If only my ears weren't so damnably deaf.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXLVII)


And now a breath bestirs the leaves t'avail.
Boughs rock sae gently as the whisper hence
Flirts through, whileas I strain to see fr'intents,
Then dies away when I 'gin writing frail
Hope's fragile tread, planes' voices all to scale
As trees stand clustered far as eye frae thence
Can see.  Twigs nod sae lightly wi' a sense
Of yonder jist in tow, beyond this veil.
I'm here because we've said too long now fer
All that lo, "Mum and Dad's dream will not do.
We MUST join step with whom we thought too poor
In their path through this world, and follow too,
What I deplored."  The LORD God, what as twere
Did I blieve 'bout His Word?  The Scriptures knew.

11May19c
Interesting, eh?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Not love as previously wont.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXLVI)


Lo, how the woods are silent! whiles from hence
The leaves all hang in soft chartreuse, th'exhale
Fast slumbring in its den, this calm to scale
Half breathless while all waits with half a sense
Of utter expectation I 'non finger thence,
No voice to break this patient null's detail.
And la, the clock just ticks, each second frail
As all the rest.  A Blue Jay'd scold, and whence?
Work nags at me but canna tug in poor
'Scuse at my sleeve as erst wont, cuz I'm to
Effect...cut off.  The rift is huge in tour,
Likeas a canyon whose steep walls loom through
That freighted, creeping mist I can't bestir
To find a glimpse of light for how to do.

11May19b
Welcome to tea time with, me, myself, and I.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
YES.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXLV)


I fled that dream long cherished, if t'avail
Me of what?  Life.  Yet find that mists sae dense
Enshroud the path ahead whileas I thence
Trip, stumbling through the thicket's bramble, pale
As aught excuse; yea, canna find to scale
Where next to place my foot in sheer defense,
Likeas I'd flown the castle dungeon, hence
Tae learn the forest's horrors eat souls sans bail.
O LORD, what HAVE I done 'gainst Thee as twere?
Or is't what Thou ordained:  that I be to
Effect 'non swallowed whole, the mire in tour
Now closing oer my head though I cry through
This fog to Thee to ransom me?  Is't poor
I left my father's house to live, nor true?

11May19a
Ahem.  What were you wanting to know, exactly?  Not like I'll satisfy you anyway, at least not intentionally.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ya, that's the naked truth.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXL1)


In case ye wondered: it is true...in pale
'Scuse deepest streams are almost silent hence.
The small do chatter--petty griefs howl thence
Most loudly.  And if "**** or be killed" hail
Yer soul, decide right now if ye to scale
Want THEIR blood on yer hands for aught intents,
In lieu of yours on theirs.  There's no defense,
Whatever folk claimed, there is not aught bail.
O yes, my soul.  Weep sore in silence fer
What you do not resist, or what you do.
You thought tea sans your dad (who would in tour
Tear you to pieces as his wont)--that brew
Was gonna satisfy?!  I swear, tis poor
I'm sich a ****** fool.  Love and hate both woo.

10May19a
...I pondered it, oer lunch May 9th, and realized dimly that you honestly can't write a single thing unless your heart is lighter.  Pity all that follows since when it was heaviest I couldn't even speak...just blubber.  Laugh at me.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...I lose.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXX)


Lo:  men.  Do NOT tell him, "I don't care hence
About you--" for whatever cause.  In pale
Excuse it's back on track and we're to scale
What, eh?  Forget the little things fr'intents:
Th'espressos Dad enjoyed with me; that sense
Of ah, delicious rain! The sweet detail
Of coffee with a dear friend--you prevail.
It does not matter what I try.  Now whence?
I messaged YOU on Instagram.  What fer?!
I'd comment on YOUR YouTube vids, and too,
Left one on Twitter.  YOU ignore all, poor
As trying to uh, communicate with YOU.
It's face to face:  that's all.  YOU win.  Ya, stir
Me to those "nutty smiles" oer...YOU.  What's...new?

02May19b
I, I, don't know what to say.  Besides, what don't you know already?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Do you know how weak you make me?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXIX)


What? as rolls bake at last, and to avail
One sparrow calls...until I yield up thence
To texting and erm, scribbling?  Traffic hence
'Non rushes by with rain's dear puddles' scale
Of shushing just in tow.  A cardnal'd hail
Too, and what's left?  I've drunk for aught intents
Enough erm, coffee to keep me for sense
Awake, and oh! my nylons are sans bail.
Yes, full of runs.  I've not one pair left fer
Aught, just because my stupid nails would *****
My haste in readying for that date with her.
And you.  I swear.  I said, "It's done, I do
Not care now anymore."  Then YOU'd bestir,
Tae prove that I do care indeed...for...YOU.

02May19a
What's left to add?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Oh yes.  You ARE jealous--



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXVIII)


Thou and thy hangdog airs!  In sheer betrayl,
You started it.  My brother told me thence
Who left?  and I said "...I don't care from hence
Cuz--(nevermind)."  So who is now to scale
'Non showing off that, erm, I do?!  In frail
Excuse for all this foolishness, whose sense
Has fueled this madness?!  Yours, for all intents.
Yet wherefore do we thus go on sans bail?
I swear, no sooner do I throw as twere
The towel in on this game, but lo, twon't do.
You're back in gear to circumvent my poor
Attempts at moving on.  You like me too?
No, that can't be.  But oh!  Tomorrow.  You're
What, eh?  Not jealous of my smiles, are you?

01May19b
Okay.  *slams his door to let me know he begs to differ with my bravado that "I don't care about--" and: YOU win.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Pretending, feigning.  I said that was the rule of the day.  cough,cough  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXVII)


If we forgot the merry dance erst thence
Wont to ring in this month which Shakespeare's scale
Of notice put down as not lo, t'avail
As perfect as whom he thus cherished, whence?
The winds are ghostly with a teasing sense
In tour of fragile warmth as sparrows hail.
Then ah, the Goldfinch seems to laugh, th'exhale
Likeas a whisper who maunt love from hence?
Did I swear I was "done pretending" fer
Which moment?  Yet who shall not smile now through
Th'effect of these sweet songsters?  I am blue
And would far rather weep, but tears as twere
Won't come.  A robin scolds and scents astir
Upon the wind's suggestion say twon't do.

01May19a
Because I told myself I'd NOT write to, nor about...you.  Because you know good and well that I care so much about you that it makes me want to weep.  Or didn't you know that?  
*NOTE:  I began the following sonnet first, but couldn't bear to finish it.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...for real?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXVI)


I wish he'd dream of me tonight.  Like's thence
Not so imposs'ble that we'd meet t'avail
Ourselve of fun.  O me!  How many (pale
As lo, a crush is't?) times have I fr'intents
Liked one guy or another?  All's pretense.
I canna win.  He's tall.  He did not fail
To notice that I liked him, and for bail
Walk thus with me.  But I tripped...sans defense.
Why am I never good enough, 'cept fer
The scoundrels?  Or how fix me til I do
Not trip when you draw closer?  Flirt?!  In poor
'Scuse I liked him before, alas, I knew
What I was doing.  One look, yes'd, bestir
My heart in just a blink.  I wish he'd woo.

30Apr19d
Answer:  look who actually cares about you, and who can prove in a trice that he owns your affections.  ****.  I wish...you did care more than I realize and that...oh, you know.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
So...pretend I don't care about you, you, you:  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXV)


They advertise white dresses now, t'avail
Was it the thought of virgins, in a sense?
Cuz lo, "tomorrow's May! What shall you thence
Wear?--" and what of that--was't a fair detail?
I chanced to pick it out, and's perfect, frail
As every soul's half question, for intents.
His parting comment was, "A white dress...?" Whence
Eh?  And I said "Ya," and wherefore (like's bail).
Cuz when I wondered "what to wear?" That fer
Ne cause seemed sheer perfection.  I ne'er knew,
Save that twas light for Spring, and twas in tour.
I'm sick of Janry's darker tones.  I do
Not want aught Winter shades.  What spirit, poor
As that suggestion, whispered 'non white's hue?

30Apr19c
...and write about a momentary distraction--as if you did intend to let me go so easily.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Tuesday in a nutshell, the week, for that matter.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXIV)


Rain dances on vast puddles with a sense
Of that delicious wetness, where in pale
Excuse I maunt find one spare minute's bail
To steal a chance out where it'd whisper thence
Fair secrets to the listning few.  Note hence
That lightning flashes, thunder's deep exhale
In tow, and how my schedule shan't avail
Me of a chance to breathe for aught intents.
No, run, run, run, mair thankful thus in poor
Reply that lo, Thy mercies are e'er new.
And further, that "man does not live [in tour]
By bread alone--" but by Thy Word, while too
Besieged by what would drown me, 'cept for Your
Great lovingkindness...cept, LORD, cuz of You.

30Apr19b
As if it's not been insanely busy and upside-down, trying to shrug off you is pointless when you realize that's what I'm trying to do.  O thou distraction!
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ahem. *cue Dido's "...I wanna see you again--!"



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXIII)


He's from Algiers.  What of that fair detail?
Dunno.  But I do realize he knew thence
I liked him...and my short dress, tall boots whence
He might have thought me cheap--did not (in pale
Excuse) mean I was out for one night's scale
Of flings with girls you just met, no.  He'd sense
My shyness in a blink, and fell fr'intents
...Behind, cuz--well, I don't know either.  Bail?
I spose it can't exist.  So, take as twere
Some long sigh and...forget him.  That must do.
No date some other night this summer, fer
A chance to know each other.  I can't to
Effect chase guys that well--don't want to--poor
As being "too fresh" was it?  And what is new?

30Apr19a
*cough, cough*  I scornfully said, early Tuesday evening when my brother noted "he" was leaving that, "---, I don't care."  These 4 sonnets are an attempt to prove what he's proceeded Wednesday onward to disprove to everyone.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...the sages taught.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXII)


Tis all a paltry jest whose sweet pretense
I cherished more than due, although sans bail
Thy Scriptures oer and oer instruct t'avail
My soul to not love aught here; all I'd thence
Laugh 'bout and think t'extole as being fr'intents
Tops, waxing thin in retrospect's detail,
And to the moment's shining face, til frail
Joys mock "...their own presage--" is't lo,from hence?
She wants to go out for um, coffee.  Her
Idea, not mine, when it comes down unto
The point of which cafe.  And that's good too.
But most joe is not worth the price, in poor
'Scuse.  She does not care.  'Nother friend in tour
Will hook me with her cousin, when?  He'll woo?!

29Apr19b
NOTE: by Thursday PM, I am heartily ashamed of THIS.  Her husband is dying of cancer.  I want to weep inconsolably.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...and I, yes, I cherish rain.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXI)


O sweetest rain!  Delicious hours the pale
Eye of this wetness owns!  I note fr'intents
How puddles gaily dance as if a sense
Of that wet kiss half nuzzles me t'avail,
Bounce cuz the sparrows happ'ly cry "all hail!"
Breathe fresh-ground coffee's wafting odours hence
Like just the scent is good enough, and thence
Erm, chatter 'non to Dad, like that owns bail.
...As if I'm still his little girl, yes, her
He took so many pictures of, ere to
Effect sons 'gan to fill the scene in tour--
I talk like jabbring gaily might well do.
And lo, Thy mercies new each morning stir
Our souls to praise Thee.  Rain...and coffee too.

29Apr19a
Well, I'll confess now that I was trying to prove to "him" my new-found nonchalance.  And he was trying to make sense of me, I guess.  ****.  NOTE:  and write late Monday evening, AFTER our final rehearsal for the following night's recital.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...cuz I miss YOU--but I'm certainly NOT gonna say so.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXX)


Blue heavns wink from thin puddles snaking thence
Across the naked blacktop, til a veil
Of clouds spread oer such seas, and warmth too frail,
How snow lies whitely on green lawns, a sense
Of what, exactly? in that note, fr'intents?
For e'en a **** grown through the cracks looks pale,
The hope of pink-tinged satin petals' tale
Upon erm, the Magnolia tree asks whence?
May will be here in April's wake, ere we're
Adjusted to the thought that Winter's through.
Why did I ever think twas not so, poor
As feeling des'late now?  Are your eyes blue?
Will I e'er know?  Or was it* all as twere
Some freighted dream I tried to realize 'new?

28Apr19b
*NOTE:  yes, it was ******.  Um, so don't dream.  Just figure out later what on earth DID happen.  Cuz trying for an online connection doesn't fix "it."
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ye never need the finer details so here are a few for mystique.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIX)


Dad's vacuum coffee *** stands in the frail
And ghastly eye of Sunday's wee hours, dense
Calm not at all asleep, but poised from hence
Likeas a tiger waiting in betrayl
To spring upon the first noise breaching pale
Erm, silence' freighted null.  We don't breathe thence,
Nor shift within our beds...til dawn's bright sense
Of "it's a new day!" draws the curtains, hale.
I slept through his alarm and maunt bestir
Til late, cuz slumber was a thing chased through
Sae many hours, I mourned sleep would not cure
My soul of aught.  And Dad's now grinding, true
To form, espresso beans, tae pull shots per
Our Sunday wont.  What of the dream I knew?

28Apr19a
And now, whomever will may watch the wild unravelling of Jennifer's attempts to...what, again?  First day of the week, and I didn't sonneteer about everything.  But read the diary pages and it's hardly a secret by Thursday night...
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
It's certainly a roller-coaster ride.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXVIII)


O wherefore's Death stalk every hope or sense
As twere of life?  I meant to ink the frail
Note of thet fragile rain which'd moisten pale
Morn's calm til puddles owned the blacktop's dense
Blank, yet how fat, white flakes grew til all's hence
Lost to the bitter touch of Winter's stale
Stretch of a graveyard.  Sparrows warmly hail,
But I miss you (though romance lacked defense).
If I swear that the weather is in tour
Bald ev'dence of how you "like" me, what's new?
Hope on that score died yesterday.  Twas poor
And could not access food, so starved.  I do
Thus kid myself if I b'lieve love'd bestir
Itself.  And even April kills that cue.

27Apr19d
Looks like mid-March or February right now.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
cough, cough*



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXVII)


Say twas an "appetizer" to avail
Keen hunger:  poor man's tea and biscuit thence
Sae dry and old, whiles I half shiver hence
In dawn's sheer absence, silence poised in frail
Morn's weary eye we need lights fer, to scale,
My bouncy cheer squelched in a blink cuz sense
Pulls me up short to quarrel like joy's pretense,
And I'll not serve the rye bread yet--sans bail.
How fresh-ground coffee's scent wafts, teasing poor
Desires to nearly swoon on that note's cue.
I'll stretch the butter for six toast in tour,
As well as soft-boiled eggs, if Thou'lt grant to
Me such.  And listen to the Scriptures fer
Just whither, cuz aught we have is of You.

27Apr19c
I forget what else to add here.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Um, ya, trains again.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXVI)


The train lo, half past midnight, whistles thence
In passing through dead silence none else hail,
Its rumble seeming muffled in betrayl,
As all lie wrapt in slumber for intents,
My sleepy notice--what is't?  Why's from hence
Sae poignant to hear that?  Am I in frail
Excuse long on the empty platform's stale
Reminder dreams have fled, where hope's pretense?
O wherefore does the train's voice 'non bestir
Is that...my soul?  like I aught hearken to
Its call as if I want a ticket--fer
Which landing is it hence?  Or does it cue
Cuz all's a journey--I've ne place here, poor
Though trying e'er to "fit in," enroute to You?

27Apr19b
I forgot what my original note was sposed to be.  Haha.  Something to the effect of how trains seem so--dunno what--after dark, a metaphor I can't shake.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Well, I must thank Mark S. for his piece this AM...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXV)


Where dawn just tinges blackness with the frail
Note of first blushes on the East for sense,
I wake within the clutches of what thence?
O wherefore does my throat half whisper bail
Is gone as't burns?!  A cold?!  Again?!  Detail
Pink's softest murmurs on this grey suspense,
And promise me it's all a joke from hence,
Or grant my soul such mercies as avail.
So sparrows gaily cry when I deter
The tug which begs I write what'd roll 'non through
Those freighted minutes as I cleaned in tour
Twa bathrooms--while aught slept.  Now hungry to
Effect, what of the cruel suggestion?  Poor?
Is hope a thing with anchors?  Is it true?

27Apr19a
...since it prodded me to scribble down this here, whose first line had been tugging on my sleeve begging to be written for an hour at least.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Ha, I neglected (despite my intentions when I began writing this) to spell out why exactly I ever took up my pen/cil to write.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIV)


He asked if I've a book out (cuz tis sense),
And when I said "no," like in sheer betrayl
I did not care much, he knew that detail
Was not much to me, eh?  And thinking hence,
O wherefore did I ever write?  Why thence
Work over-time to fund a book t'avail
Ha! not the world cuz they don't care, in pale
Scuse--vanity?  when glory is pretense?
He's got a chapbook published is't?  In poor
Scuse I've a pile of mouldered dreams all do
But mock.  Yes, marriage and a book in tour
Of MY work; stanzas in the thousands too,
Done up to suit my taste--none'd buy as twere
'Cept one or two friends.  Laugh at me, will you?

26Apr19d
The "he" in L1 and etc is Ken Jackson, a fellow in our local poetry "club."
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, let's us sigh and swoon, shall we?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIII)


I swear these blue heavns look like June's detail
Back when we'd ***** through grassy trails, a sense
Of lazy hours in tow; pluck mullb'rries dense
With juicy sweetness til our lips to scale
Were purple as our tell-tale fingers, hale
Warmth like a pass'nate kiss we'd revel thence
In, naked arms free as the birds fr'intents,
Hearts as our limbs cavorting down aught trail.
But he pulls me up short to note how poor
The shadows are for such a thought.  These blue
Skies are expansive, that is true; winds stir
Wee Maple leaves to whispring on that cue,
Yet ah, tis nary as warm as our tour
Of forest glades once knew.  I feel what'd woo?

26Apr19c
*cough, cough*
The "he" in L9 is my brother.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
[the Japanese' term for women over 40 was it?]



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXII)


We're "friends," and so I penned of him fr'intents.
And likewise we discussed in sheer betrayl
Just how he liked erm, *******, to scale,
Til I found by degrees how it will thence
Go:  he's a man.  THAT said a mouthful.  Hence
It's NOT what I want, nor believe.  In frail
Excuse for girlish dreams, it's what he'll hail,
Despite all my um, protests.  It's his sense.
Sigh.  Thus we draw apart, cuz I won't do.
O if I'm as a fragile violet you're
Quite heedless of in passing, trampling fer
All that my petals, ah, tis nothing new.
I'm not a siren who is brazen, poor
As your hot passions.  Therefore none now woo?

26Apr19b
Oh, but to his credit, he kept telling me it was all about "choice," and "freedom,"--men like to say the opposite of what they mean, don't they?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Guess the sage ones will nod their heads.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXI)


You were a dream of late nights whose detail
Of rock-n-roll, rap, and a silence dense
Wi' import, of sheer craziness (you thence
Could not abide was it?) are lost.  These hale
Blue skies own nary cloud nor blot to scale;
And how the minutes don't acknowledge hence
Such visions, as lo, baby leaves fr'intents
Now whisper secrets on the wind's exhale.
I burned my fingers oer the tea as twere,
Til oh! they hurt.  Let's say you never knew.
Tea with the toast I dropped ere toasting (poor
As fumbling is) was fraught as wont, yet to
Effect that bracing cuppa I'd yearned fer.
Yes, I should not, erm, sleepwalk is't think you?

26Apr19a
...I've run flat out of popcorn for laughing whiles I watch this show called my sorry existence.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...or Once Upon A Saturday Night



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXCVII)


With fingers cold as Death, arms naked, pale
In lamplight's ghastly note for aught intents,
Watch as the golden moon 'non rises hence
Huge and sae round as't slowly climbs t'avail
These darkened scapes whose silence maunt exhale,
Half breathless, nary voice to answer thence
Save lo, these men who work late in defense
Of deadlines is't? where I love which detail?
I'd planned to watch that movie 'gain in tour,
Yet oh! how bits and bytes have ceased tae woo,
As if there was at all excuse to stir
Was't simpler joys where even frogs don't cue?
If's lonely, guess I maunt escape in poor
Reply this hungry fate which swears I knew.

21Apr19a
This piece is a veritable beauty, dontcha think?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Um, I blamed it on having read my friend's dark piece.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXCVI)


Likeas a small child standing naked thence
Within the charred bits of a doorway, frail
As lo, thin wisps of smoke 'non drifting, pale
And silent twards grey heavns, where no voice hence
Replies but tis the shrieking call fr'intents
Of nary hawk nor gull, but whom avail
Them of burnt wreckage--lost upon that scale
Wi' but a des'late wilderness 'fore, whence?
They talk of some "new start."  I laugh in tour,
Yea, smile as if I'm ver'ly happy too,
Can fool myself like such is true, yet's poor.
I'm that wee child left 'fore this desert view,
Pretending all's sae fine as Death stalks fer
All that whate'er I'd cherished.  And what's new?

20Apr19b
Come, come, were ye really so surprised?  This is my reality.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
or Notes From, erm, Sunday [AFTER MIDNIGHT]

(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXXII)


So boot up, grab a coat, red scarf, and thence
Wade out to breathe afresh (like to inhale
Ole Winter is refreshing) and none hail
Save lo, the cardnal from a distant hence,
Erm, corner.  Ha, pretend in sheer defense
I don't care, though to roll upon that scale
Yes, "lonely" 'cross my tongue as each detail
Hangs frozen in keen silence haunts that sense.
The lake is as erst wont and still, grey fer
How very white all is!  Wee snowflakes to
Effect land in my hair I 'non in tour
Unloose and shake out whilst a robin, too,
Sans voice half stumbles to the Maple.  Poor
As talking when none answer, what's to do?

15Apr19a
Yo.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Smile, or?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXX)


White.  Snow.  Sae del'cate that we feel it hence
Within our souls:  that hallowed silence they'll
Assure ye is what Sunday's due.  T'inhale
Is what we do, half stifled, til I thence
Am lo, some heathen, breaking in fr'intents
And shattring that fine calm as I exhale
My raptures with sheer glee words maught avail
Aught else, Dad chiding me like's sans defense.
So I pass through to breakfast:  late.  Yes, stir
Him 'spite all that to later say it too,
Whenas the dainty white is heavy--we're
Agreed tis verra wet, and will melt to
Effect ere we're aware, nor linger.  Pure
Sweet silence calls unto my soul as't woo.

14Apr19b
The "him" in L10 is my dad.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Like my name tag?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVIII)


Lo, all you see is lies.  I blink, fr'intents,
O ya, pretend I know and see t'avail
Past aught detail unto the truth, to scale,
But it's a nightmare, waking, sleeping--sense
Though half aware sees but this wasteland hence--
I laugh and jest with friends, yet joys are frail:
All's empty; hopes here corpses, and in pale
Excuse I keep on like it's not pretense.
Cling to the Scriptures as I drown in poor
Reply; forget, forget so I can smile on cue
And feign I'm not a shadow, not in tour
So empty.  Pray for dear love, failing to
See what I have.  LORD, if I weep, will't cure
What?  All I have is You, cuz Thou art true.

13Apr19d
There.
Now, having read these, there's nothing more I actually need to post of this month's work, despite all the pages and pages of it.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, to be certain, she* was dead serious.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVII)


Quoth she, "...THIS fashion plate." to, smiling, scale
Me lo, from pink headband to tall boots' dense
Black, like the comment she was stylish thence
Was--what? to MY attire?!  and whither?  pale
As friends and kindness, poor attempts t'avail
Myself of being half stylish, all's pretense?
So guys stop talking when I pass, a sense
Of turning heads mine for too long sans bail.
I'm "never good enough." Or what is't, fer
All that?  What am I chasing?  Wherefore do
NonChristians seem...is't kinder?  Why in poor
'Scuse did the church um, ladies, tell me two
Times that:  "your outfits are [for aught as twere]
E'er intresting."?!  Laugh.  Tell me what is true?

13Apr19c
I've been turning men's heads for 20 years, to no avail.
*Church ladies from another church concurred with her assessment, ergo, what's with the ladies I did hobnob with, eh?!  Envy?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
So get used to it.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVI)


"They" swear you should write at all hours, fr'intents,
But oh! what swore it wanted voice t'avail
At nearly midnight left me with, to scale,
Its acrid taste upon my tongue for sense
Ere dawn could settle on just whither hence,
The memry's chalkboard smudged, but NOT in pale
Excuse at all erased, alas.  Go hail
Some taxi to the edge of town, and whence?
I pick 'non through the rubble of as twere
Now oer a decade of romance I rue
Attempts at, sighing.  Dredge up hopes I'd bestir
Oer whom, was't? back then, cuz it all fell through.
Those kisses, dates--all soured.  I'm left in tour
Lo, an olde maid, where dawn won't even woo.

13Apr19b
I swear truly:  NOBODY comprehends what the term "******" signifies.  Every last man thinks, "Oh, you must be dying to be ******, my girl!" When that's not the case.  And I'm sick of being used by scoundrels.  That means you.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
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
Don't waste your time lecturing me:  I prefer being laughed at directly in my face, as the ghastly facts prove ever and anon.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...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
*See sonnet "b" for April 26th for more about this particular "friend."
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...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
NOTE:  these sonnets I am posting finally--these first few, are literally the theme you'll see repeated as the hours and days scroll by.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
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
NOTE:  pretending is the theme for April 2019, if you read MY work.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...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
Ha.  Ye canna contradict me.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
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
Sheesh, if only I could write like this all the danged time.
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