...if nothing else.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXC)


Turns out I shoulda said lo, "shamrock" hence
Was it?  Aw, dearest me, how that detail
Called "leprechauns" had far more 'ppeal; and stale
As donning green to match me ein's green sense
Of hazel, la dee dah! the Duchess thence
Defined all in a darker pine tone's scale
'Til guess I lose for all I've Irish.  They'll
Not even care twas Barry's Tea fr'intents.
And I wore purple too, and blue, as poor
From thereon out that I donned green's fine hue.
O laugh at me!  I wanted violets too--
Tae go a huntin' fer them damsels we're
Sae sure to miss, hid e'er in shadows.  You're
Not pinked I tried to curtsy now, are you?

19Mar19c

Ha, and THIS while "Dance of the Blessed Spirits" lilts*





(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXIX)


How sparrows cry in sweetest notes, t'avail
Me of such happy smiles! As if we thence
Might laugh instead of being, is't sober hence?
And blue heavns look so clean in sheer all hail,
Like feeling in our bones thet time of hale
Songs is upon us is not false, the sense
Of baited breath loosed whiles these blue skies fence
The hours in more expansive notes' detail.
I wrestle with that spirit which'd bestir
My soul to singing and 'non tripping through
These golden minutes all seems welcomes fer
Is't oh, the millionth time as wont?  I do
Not know which way to turn, am as it were
Now stifled on the threshold as all woo.

19Mar19b

...and they're STILL giggling.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXVIII)


Men quip lo, "Giggly girls...completely clueless [thence]--"
To say,  "No,..." and I wish there was t'avail
This manual titled "How To Vex Him," pale
As aught excuse, cuz to appease from hence
His wrath I've accident'ly roused (where sense
Had been a child on holiday, in frail
Reply for being a girl and prone to hail
Dawn's pure blue skies with smiles)...owns ne defense.
I tiptoe where just minutes ere in tour
Being like some carefree butterfly anew
Seemed it could be forgivn.  Like twas not:  poor.
Yes, muse in sipping coffee first, in lieu
Of cherished tea, yes, poor man's tea, if fer
Such joys I must be chastised?  Swear I knew?!

19Mar19a

...how I miss all we erst knew.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXVII)


Ask, while the kettle boils wherefore, in pale
'Scuse, brew morn's *** of tea again?  And thence,
As whitish tendrils waft up, up--why hence
Jot down the soothing dance of steam's detail?
If tis yet worth the effort in betrayl?
This cuppa I have yearned to sip, defense
Enow when oh, my fainting heart's suspense
Cried for its bracing note likeas'd avail?
Tis gone ere I've a chance to notice fer
All that the minute to half breathe anew.
Work nags and tugs upon my sleeve as twere,
While "conversation" drives aught peace unto
Another planet, til all I'd bestir,
Held in dawn's cuppa, is not.  Ah, what's new?

18Mar19

THIS: see note below



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXVI)


Salve, then, thy wounded disposition's sense
Of loss, where hitherto what joys' detail
I'd thought to know! in music first, t'avail:
Bach's lute piece I've long cherished; and from thence
Lo, Medelssohn's fourth Symphny for intents,
While reading up on Tristram Shandy's tale,
And then an essay on um, friendship they'll
Assure us is a lost art, like...pretense?
The funniest thing is how old tis as twere:
...From my last year of highschool.  That should do?
Next, that first summer lo, in college' tour
Of guy/girl friendships and romance, cuz two
Can't long be simply friends.  Or what?  Is't poor?
I still have guy friends, with no lover too.

17Mar19d

I don't know what's left to do, if not that.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXV)


He was enamoured of her poems, to hail
My friend with highest praise lo, after thence
The Elgin Lit Fest's public reading, whence,
Next catching her behind him in betrayl
Upon the stairs in leaving, stopt t'avail
Her of his card and open invite hence
To read at their gigs each third Sunday's sense
Of joys, at some Batavia bookshop.  Bail?
I was too giddy oer the chance, not her.
She was quite stunned.  And now tis "that" day too,
Watch as blue skies half whisper I come tour
The naked forest in vain search flowrs cue.
We'd planned to go today, but that was poor.
I can't decide if wandring 'lone would do.

17Mar19c

Ya, finding yourself more naked than you ever fathomed possible...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXIV)


So, showr just AFTER midnight, with a sense
Of eerie things as lo, the verse' detail
Which warns, "curse not the king..." nor in betrayl
"...The rich--" ah, whither oh my soul, fr'intents?!
Not e'en "...in thy bedchamber:..." wherefore hence?
Lo, how "...a bird of [yes!] the air shall [pale
Now, dearest me, as] carry [what?! bewail]
The voice, and that which hath wings tell--" what hence?
"...The matter."  O thy secrets!  Did I stir
Myself to stoop so low, did I?  No.  Do
Not tremble?  How a Blue Jay's call as twere
Wakes me at dawn.  Why did that Scripture cue
Me thus so many hours ago in tour?
I am not guilty, am I?  Or...who knew?

17Mar19b

Haha,



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXIII)


Of leprechauns and clover, yes...t'avail
I've neither, am in green to match fr'intents
Mine hazel eyes, and how blue heavns wear thence
Such fresh-washed golden light in sweet all hail
O me!  I'd feign go down which wooded trail
To hunt the early violets?  Mushrooms dense
Wi' import are sought out and sold for sense
Or lurid dreams, but I want that detail.
Wee white-striped, purple faces none bestir
'Cept wildest breezes, whitest virgins too,
With purple stripes across their miens in tour--
I'd love to bend and finger them anew!
Sip twa espressos, joking of, in poor
'Scuse, "faux" things we oft cherish, as all woo.

17Mar19a

Well, last night I just had to read Vogue's little piece on Taylor Swift in a cutesy romper--in pastel blues and pinks of course.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXI)


Pastels were lo, the order of these frail
Hours of new life was it?  So, wherefore thence
Do my thoughts swear red would be, for intents,
The thing to wear?  No tulip flaunts to scale
Such shades quite yet, Saint Patrick's Day in pale
Excuse what makes Chicago's river hence
Um, green as leprechauns or clover, whence
I've been in green to match my eyes' detail.
Yes, I've been wearing Irish green as twere
Since Febry gave up last the ghost, but threw
The towel in on that cause ere time in poor
Scuse, yesterday, and now am mixt up too.
No corned beef with green cabbage to assure
My ancestors I have been faithful.  You?

16Mar19c

Yo.  Or, what am I supposed to put here, again?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXX)


O!  I could swear May yawns at me from hence,
Now that snow's curse is gone, as if the tale
Of slaughtered yards 'non waking to th'all hail
As twere of sweet Favon'us are but thence
Slain in that heat dear Shakespeare knew fr'intents,
Likeas to murmur that the violets pale
Ere I've had chance to finger them t'avail,
And laughs now in my face like hope's pretense.
Where are the dandelions nodding through
That oven breath if such things are so true?
Why do the windows fog up still in tour
Before the day is old?  And wherefore, fer
All that, is evry bough yet naked?  Poor
As blue skies' teases, I'm mixt up now too.

16Mar19b

...I still imagine there is.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXIX)


Lo, how a robin scolded me in pale
Dawn's eye, as if what 'zactly for intents?
And sang how sweetly as I'd toast for sense
Um, sourdough slices, raisin bread, t'avail--
Until I took the darling then to scale
In hand t'explain (cuz they are jealous, whence
I've had such grief oer Mavis' song) from hence
I'll love all birds, not just him, in betrayl.
Now blue skies so expansive warm in tour
'Cross afternoon's half lazy sense tis new,
Snow like a curse swept far off as it were,
The memry of morn's early minutes too,
My noggin full of all since then in poor
'Scuse, sparrows tease my smiles at lunch, and woo.

16Mar19a

You know whence that statement is, don't you?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVIII)


Watch Instagram for flavour, will ya hence?
They'll talk of how their day was, and t'avail
Which styles they purchase, Starbucks like to scale
In hands well-manicured, for all good sense.
I won't remember to take photos whence
Lo, "cheeky missy" could prove she in pale
Excuse might have a life too, no.  Detail
Whatever in these sonnets none read thence.
Talk to my friends and fam'ly in a tour
Of living, NOT my phone.  NO vid'oes to
Show, um, the world I have good dishes fer
Consumption, that my style is grand and "you
Should follow me."  No.  I just live, in poor
'Scuse.  Dream of yonder, and fade slowly through.

15Mar19e

sigh* as evidenced by which pieces "trend" being depressed is tops, while beauty is left to rot.  Whateffer.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVII)


Blue skies.  And golden light with shadows' pale
Forms on the yellowed lawns and blacktop hence,
Sweet minutes whose eye seems tis April's, whence
My heart yearns 'gain to walk free and avail
Me of which blossom?  Daffodils to scale
Shall send green nubbins up til for intents
Their frilly golden heads can nod from thence
To playful breezes while wee violets hail.
Yea, soon Magnolia petals shall bestir
'Gain to soft winds, and pink-tinged satin woo
Thoughts of a bride upon the aisle as twere.
For now we'll have our refried beans and do
Dessert in birthday style with cake in tour
And ice cream for the Ides of March' ado.

15Mar19d

Or...mebbe it does.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVI)


Tis Shostakovich.  As the trumpet thence
Seeps through my consciousness likeas t'would hail
With soothing strains I'd just as lief avail
Me of as not, in lieu of fretted sense,
What whispers to my soul to, "listen hence."?
I canna fix the nagging thought's detail
Which harps upon the ache naught salve in pale
Excuse; tis sweet to have that note fr'intents.
Men squirm if you talk babies, as it were.
I spose they want time in her *******, to
Effect whatever in themselves.  But her?
She wants to be a mother.  That won't do,
Now, lady.  So I shrug, feign like's not poor,
That I don't give a hoot.  But I do, too.

15Mar19c

...relieves stress.



(sonnet  #MMMMMMMDCCLXXV)


"Beware the Ides of March!" is't on the exhale
As lo, a silence hangs oer this calm sense
Of what? a null we never knew? suspense
Chews on its painted nails with eyes that hail
This fragile light likeas a rat's is't?! pale
And wan as Philip Sydney's moon fr'intents,
The notice that "it's Friday...--sans from hence
A date." not quite a knife, but THAT detail.
If fashion bloggers write of style and tour
Milan, etcet'ra, I'll look on, nor rue
No date tonight.  But let them have in poor
'Scuse lo, a baby, talk of their ado
With erm, "post-partum," how kids now as twere
"Change ME!" I eat my heart out.  Laugh, won't you?

15Mar19b

The sales caught me off guard with early cries of St. Patrick's Day, kick me.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXIV)


Lo, sparrows gaily chatter as I thence
Pass by the entry, and whiles rain t'avail
Is like some fragile yet persistent, hale
Sweet kiss that drives ole Winter's Death from hence
And rouses buds to pierce 'gain through those dense
Leaf mats knit months before and spread to scale
Across the sleeping flowrs last April'd hail
The world with once upon a time, ah whence?
I yearn to wander oer these wastes in tour,
If that I might now listen to the dew,
Hear all the little scurrying which'd bestir
As yellowed grasses shift to what? anew.
It is the Ides of March, the knife as twere
'Non twisting in dear Caesar's back from who?

15Mar19a

too much internal rhyming--oops! it was an accident, Sir Philip Sydney.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXX)


O! cloud brigades in white-tinged grey sail hence
With sluggish speed across blue heavns' detail,
As winds don't howl, yet batter by th'exhale
Aught fragile limb; and blue seas cleared fr'intents
Are full again with more such ships, as sense
Now wrestles with the thought war is, t'avail,
Both fearsome, and alas, romanced in pale
Excuse by this auld struggle in defense.
Death's icy clasp is loosed as puddles fer
Effect replace snow piles and don heavns' blue,
Winds battling is't sheer warmth? and roughly too,
Whiles oh! I look now oer the distance.  Were
The Maple's boughs untrimmed this late in tour,
I ask?  They'll soon flaunt crimson in debut.

14Mar19b

Spring's courting whom?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIX)


We've been in rain's soft clutches to avail
Sae minny hours now, wet with kisses dense
Wi' import as ole Winter's grasp slides thence
Nigh off by sure degrees, this game of pale
Uncertain minutes which yield to the frail
Note of lo, golden shafts, until pretense
Is like a wrestling match that drives good sense
Up evry wall, on Fred Astaire's grand scale.
Yes, dance on which hotel's um ceiling fer
Dramatic flair and giddy joy is't?  Do
It up in style as droplets likewise tour
Mad puddles, to slip off as sunshine'd woo.
If we feel breathless from this waltz as twere,
Sink down in warmth's embrace, and smile anew.

14Mar19a

cough, cough*


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVIII)


Where gloaming's blueish note of darkness thence
Culls oh, electric lights, I close the tale
Of drapes and we hang out in sheer betrayl--
All four of us--whiles I wash dishes, whence
Sweet conversation, or reproof for sense
When I drop lo, a spatula.  Detail
Whatever, but twas sweet to thus avail
Ourselves of time together for intents.
Now it's so dark, and I have played with her
Til aught before is lost in how the crew
Of dolls cavorted to her fancies, poor
As aught excuses, I am blank.  What, to
Effect, teased for a line hours ere?  What'd bestir
While I was working?  Nothing's left that'd woo.

13Mar19b

Kick me for feeling too smug over this pretty number which happened to write itself.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVII)



O! how I yearn to wander through the tale
Of naked woods likeas a nymph from hence!
As if I am the sister of, fr'intents,
The trees whose boughs like arms reach up, t'avail
Me of the light is't? or that sense of pale
Keen longing to just breathe, non listning thence
Unto the softest whispers passing whence
We canna say twixt all the leaves, t'exhale.
I want to search for violets, like they'd stir
Now that rain's melted half the snow anew,
Whiles lo, winds toss the firs whose voice as twere
Sounds hoarsely in this fragile warmth's debut.
Yes, I can feel it in my bones--that pure
Note of sweet life which calls buds as it'd woo.

13Mar19a

Eh?  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVI)


So laugh at me, cuz now I've chance to thence
Immerse myself in poetry's detail
Oer coffee break, I've plumb forgot t'avail
Me thus.  Three books, yes, printed pages dense
With antique lines, wait to be read is't, hence?
But I perused them on the night I'd hail
The chance to purchase cast-off books, and pale
As aught complaint th'auld poets stunk, where's sense?
Change is the order of the hour.  We were
Supposed to drink joe in good comp'ny, to
Talk to a living soul, not dead.  Bestir
Me to read lines and catch their spirit through
That seance was't?  I'm all mixt up in poor
'Scuse cuz the coffee's mine, all mine anew.

12Mar19b

...ARGH!  Hence the title...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXV)


Spent, ere the fragile chance to what? avail,
Look how blue skies warm in dawn's welcome, whence
Don't roll a single word for aught intents
Across my tongue, jist see, and wonder, pale
As howling oer grey heavns' sheer lack, nor scale
Lo, any bit of this or that cuz sense
Drowned late on Monday night where visions dense
With oh, Victorian airs stole off wee bail.
Yes, when I've but a minute to bestir
My pencil for ah, which detail passed through?
I'm swooning sans a voice yet over her--
That girl whom lit'rature FORGOT, cuz ooh!
She was his mistress; won the world as twere
Because of that keen secret:  I've naught cue.

12Mar19a

Shaken in a real sense by L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon/Mrs. Mclean's fate:  immensely popular



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIV)


I'd boyfriends, even kissed until that sense
Of ecstasy was buried sans avail
With gradeschool's innocence, but never'd scale
The actual height of love 'til Nigel thence
Took me in hand to teach my soul from whence
It sprung, though all in vain; where TyKlee'd hail
Me at my mother's tomb to steal in frail
Excuse my shattered heart betrayed fr'intents.
And now that Les taught me French kissing fer
Sheer moments of keen passion, none yet "knew"
Lo, me:  I'm still a ******.  Thieves in tour
Stole off, what? bits and pieces.  Naught e'er woo
But they are false, yea, scoundrels.  Love is poor.
I, as a violet, fade with silver dew.

11Mar19d

Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIII)


In lieu of aught we know:  blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights.  Cuz what we have won't do.

11Mar19c

[I bet you thought I did nothing all day.]



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXII)


Mourn in the greyish eye of dawn's void sense,
Those blue skies ere that darkness swallowed hale
Notes of sheer April.  Yes.  Ignore, t'avail
My soul again by memry, though's pretense.
Grab up the notebook, inking for intents
That thought which last night rolled as if to scale
Across my tongue, how "daylight savings'" bail
Is long since quite forsworn without defense.
Grey racks like Shakespeare knew oft could as twere
Yield heavn's eye chance to slip unknown all through
From East to West preside, and I demur
To catch aught languid note's detail.  Thus brew
Morn's *** of Barry's tea, with toast in tour
For taste.  And write of yesterday like'd do.

11Mar19b

(Intending to ink this early Sunday evening, twas useful I didn't....



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXI)


Think:  "they said twas a war-time measure..." pale
Skies washed of clouds as golden light from hence
Bathes these lost wastes with April's freighted sense
Of violets just in tow; as blue heavns hail
The dinner table set with plates t'avail
Our refried beans, cheese, yoghurt, chips fr'intents,
Where all have better things to do, pretense
Trimmed to half curtsy whiles I search for bail.
So I dined when the clock said "now." in tour,
And yearn to linger, watching those deep blue
Heavns which cull shadows to cavort as twere
In Sunday evning's calm.  Yet that won't do.
I wash the dishes; study all, then fer
Whatever, scamper off til gloaming'd woo.

11Mar19a

This is what can happen if you let the fragment of a suggestion play itself out.  Dangerous?  Perhaps.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLX)


One dead leaf that October left fr'intents
Behind for old time's sake, 'non dances, pale
And lonely 'cross the naked blacktop, frail
Or homeless where snow skulks in cold suspense,
(To hunker down like yielding is pretense)
Its fragile essence like ours as th'exhale
Drives it on forward, March' winds chill detail
As our iniquities til Death.  Ah, whence?
I had this notion there was more as twere.
Like, if we bide our time, Spring shall 'gain woo
As wont.  But if you hear the Scriptures fer
Lo, even this dead leaf, all pales.  The crew
Of happy souls on Instagram, and poor
Lil me none knows, will answer, LORD, to...You.

10Mar19b

I am.  So there.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIX)


What? as firs whisper hoarsely to th'exhale,
Winds howling down the chimney, sirens thence
Lo, chasing which or whom on Sunday?  Dense
Cloud racks are peach, grey-blue in tow, the pale
Eye of these empty hours with what detail
I feel now in my bones?  Don't ask me whence.
"*** off yer soapbox."  Silence culling sense
Unto the 'fore as I'd talk, where is bail?
She'd post th'espresso break with this note fer
That: "necessary." I said yes, I knew.
Post Raisin Bran for breakfast...I had two.
Ne fancy artwork on milk's foam in tour,
I'd savour that, and feel the boxes'd stir
My lecture 'til he...walked away.  What's new?

10Mar19a

What's left to add?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVIII)


How odd rain looks now! dancing madly hence
Upon new puddles as snow watches (hale
Yet shrinking e'er so slightly 'fore the tale
Of actual water coming down!) a sense
As wont of silver mists half winking thence
Within the eye of languid minutes frail
Light haunts.  What whispers likeas twould avail
The soul as I see now lo, rain?  and whence?
I 'gin to feel a captive as it'd stir
Across these long dead wastes...like, to walk through
The naked woods might shew me in that tour
Mayhap the first hints of ist violets?!  Do
We yearn so much for fragile life as twere,
That e'en this note of warmth stirs in me too?

09Mar19b

I suppose we never are.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVII)


As steam wafts up in whitish tendrils' pale
Dance, likeas figures which cavort from hence
In ghostly silence til the ether thence
Half swallows them--as spirits in betrayl
Taen into heaven ist?  Look past, t'avail
Me of the world beyond this window, whence
See how fir boughs nod to chill breaths for sense
While lo, the Maple's naked yet, calm frail.
This first cup black, we're being good Swedes I'm sure,
And savour all the more what Daddy'd brew
Upon that note.  Remember too as twere
My sister'n'law who'd drink joe like I knew
Old seasoned captains would:  black.  And in poor
Still voiceless naught, the radio chatters too.

09Mar19a

The camera's eye is perhaps more effective than words, or?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVI)


I've watched the velvet roses blush fr'intents,
To see how crimson darkly fades, the tale
Of daffodils and tulips sweetly hail
Each "...dew-empearled morn--" and bow with sense
Of age; mine own locks gathring silver thence
As months tripped by sans backward glance, and pale
Though keen chagrin now I'm as cheese t'avail
And ver'ly aged, I mourn which loss from hence?
The minutes that would tiptoe as rain'd stir
While frogs crooned love songs whenas gloaming'd woo
I relished, dreaming of this man in poor
Excuse, or that.  Lo, now I beg of You,
LORD, to please give me marriage and in tour
Mine own sweet children.  Death laughs oer the view.

08Mar19b

Mebbe later I'll understand.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLV)


Ploughs scrape through morning's sullen eye in hail,
As lo, white answers from the pavement hence,
Eaves dripping like it's not sae bitter thence,
Til oh! whose lines trip off my tongue to scale?
Is't William Caldwell Roscoe's? in betrayl:
"Lo, on the ground, white snow--" and ah, fr'intents
I know he said twas Febry daybreak, whence
He'd say her love raised him from Death, t'avail.
Love is a thing since buried with as twere,
My mother, as watch how snow melts anew
In slower fashion whiles a sense in tour
Of all erst wont to be familiar through
The years now rises to the 'fore.   We stir
Talk of old 'puter games oer breakfast, too.

08Mar19a

...LORD willing, that is.  After all, February was cancelled for other plans...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIV)


I said these stanzas are so full fr'intents
Of me, me, me that folk in sheer betrayl
Can't savour them, like ole Limburger's scale
Of cheese that's like a ***** toilet's scents;
But she was far too nice, and like friends thence,
Would contradict, to say I'm rather (frail
As aught excuse) lo, cream Havarti's bail:
"Deceptively [what?!] mild."  Is that pretense?
So we'll perhaps THIS month go check out fer
Good taste that bookshop's poe'try gig that who
Invited she'd submit her work unto?
Well, he gave her his card.  I'll go with her
To clap cuz that's what friends are for, in poor
Scuse for none liking MY work.  Fun for two.

07Mar19d

Alas.  Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIII)


Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain?  Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies.  What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?

07Mar19c

...I tried M&M's that evening, and I dunno, they were tasty.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLII)


If languid hours trick out these wastes til hence
I feel within my bones that April'd hail
Soon, what's the diffrence now in sheer betrayl,
That March looks cold and grey, as if suspense
Was buried in deep slumber like fr'intents
Last May's old tulip bulbs?  Snow's weary scale
Of white is aged; no icicles detail
The silent eaves, and I feel dull sans whence.
Yes, poor man's tea with breakfast was good, fer
All that, but not inspiring.  Sparrows, too,
Cried sweetly as I passed the window, poor
As never feeling like it should be to
Effect worth half a note.  And soup in tour
Now warming as rolls rise, what's left to woo?

07Mar19b

Hint:  if you can read between the lines this might make sense.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLI)


O to be again his baby! set to scale
Upon the countertop where lo, fr'intents
The blender shows how small I am as hence
They watch their little girl eat crackers; hail
That fun with oh, the camra's eye t'avail
Poster'ty (which ne'er came to be) and sense:
So quasi "innocent" and dumb, I thence
Wish, sipping that espresso pulled, t'exhale.
Ah, foolish thought!  No sooner do I stir
Fond visions, but to ope my lips--what to
Effect is?!  Laugh at me.  Yes, hold in tour
Your sides and guffaw:  I'm as dumb.  Dad knew,
And further, proves it.  I digest in poor
'Scuse that keen fact.  And really, what is new?

07Mar19a

Ya.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLVII)


Blue heavns with clouds as fiberfill gone stale
Jist floating lazly in morn's vague suspense,
Where coffee scents the air with half a sense
Of yonder whilst mine owly eyes in pale
Excuse take note of aught reply t'avail
As wont, sans words to roll oer fer intents
My tongue, and silence shifts as twere from hence
Without a voice as I leave that detail.
So later, from the kichen window fer
Mair than whatever, watch a wolf chase to
Effect some shapeless form, which as it were
Is caught just as his mouth decays in blue
Seas no, erm, Jolly Roger haunts in tour,
And wonder if that signifies aught too.

05Mar19a

Please.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLVI)


If only what, eh?  Close the drapes ere thence
Tis gloaming, nary soft pink blushes' tale
For romance as we turn on lights t'avail,
And lose ourselves to dinner for intents,
Where I dash out the door as if from hence
She'd just arrived, the fragile hope's detail
Lost in that race to be elsewhere to scale,
'Til I don't see, like others, twilight's sense.
Discuss how men are jerks as we wait to
Pass through this intersection, cuz tis poor
To think he'd act the gentleman.  What?!  Do
You really cherish chivalry in tour?
It's dead.  Just like I weep when as it were
None look, all I had thought decays now too.

04Mar19b

Well?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIV)


Blue skies lo, nary cloud blots for intents
Warm on these frozen wastes as trash' detail
Flirts 'cross the puddles like a bird in pale
Excuse who, washing up as wont, shakes thence
His wings, light flashing off them with a sense
Of summer's carefree minutes, whiles to scale
Ice glares more coldly from the corners frail
Ghosts of thin warmth ne'er touch but tis pretense.
Dad pulls espressos, foaming milk in tour
As all baristas, yet sans flourish, to
Leave that to sheer caprice I find as twere,
Whiles I feign then to ascertain a view
Of this or that, which he half tol'rates fer
The mystry is't? of all we sorta knew.

03Mar19b

(or, what I did 02Mar19PM)



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIII)


Crunch M&M's whilst listning to, t'avail,
Karl Lagerfeld on lo, his craft and thence
Why he scorned social media for intents:
Cuz artists need to keep the channels they'll
Use to inspire such feats as we'll in frail
Excuse half worship clear of aught else hence,
Which I have learned ere now in sheer defense
Of this mine own work, whence erm, nod, t'exhale.
Chanel and Fendi lost a master fer
Their grand success these decades, likeas to
Effect they'll never know again in tour,
Methinks.  Ah, Shakespeare, Shelley, long gone too,
Carl Philippe um, Emmanuel Bach--what were
We thinking was ahead?  Mars candy'd do.

03Mar19a

...well, I neglected to stir the refried beans as I wrote this...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLII)


Snow flurries past the window for a sense
Of what's beyond these bathroom tiles in pale
Morn's eye, where lo, in lieu of dawn, a veil
As twere of white tricks out the cracks from hence
Likeas some veins filled 'gainst um, surgry, whence
Aught thinnest fissure stands out in betrayl
Now I've a chance to take one look t'avail,
We'd see our breath if we exhale, fr'intents.
If cleaning house ere any rose as twere
Was worth the effort, we'll play dolls anew
"Fore breakfast, cuz a Saturday is fer
O, sleeping-in for her, and fun to do
This opportun'ty good.  And coffee.  Stir
Me to make toast while sipping Daddy's brew.

02Mar19

Ah:  how to begin a new month, specifically the one which sees the seasonal changing of the guard.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXL)


Folk preach this "starting over;" talk fr'intents
Of "liberation," and I'm deaf in pale
Reply.  If marriage was that too, bewail
My hapless case, nor find I've aught defense.
"The bride weeps at her marriage bell--" for sense
Lo, Missus Browning wrote.  I cleave t'avail
To every bit I know, whileas "they" hail
Me wi' the call to erm, "let go."  Pretense.
"If any...be in Christ--" well, THAT is new.
I am just me.  Change is a horror, as poor
As aught good sense.  Years alter me in tour,
Not by my leave.  Oh no!  I yield unto
What I cannot resist, by halves, as twere.
And March culls Spring to 'gain:  renew.

01Mar19b

...every morning, great is Thy faithfulness."  (Lam 3:22-23)



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXXVII)


O hark now as the train's voice rumbles! Pale
Night else is dead asleep til ah, from hence
That warning whistle pierces through suspense;
And I just listen, rolling to avail
Those words across my silent tongue to scale,
Half seeing that mighty being which passes thence
As wont through woods none save the beasts fr'intents
Troll, wondring dimly over which detail?
Ha, I dunno.  Like, since I canna stir
Good slumber now, should I erm, rise and *****
That effort, to ink down this thought?  Tis poor.
Thus roll oer and exhale.  If morn debut
Sans fanfare, say a chance to write in tour
Shall yield that note a voice?  And what is new?

28Feb19a

...grasping water that sifts through my fingers.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXX)


I sip espresso Dad pulls, foaming thence
The milk to sheer perfection til t'avail,
While not adorned with artistry, the frail
Notes on that white crown look sweet for intents,
As he talks on--oh!  I forget what hence--
Til he's pulled his; and though winds howl, th'exhale
Chill like twould send warmth packing, how to scale
Our minutes are as erst...philosphy dense?
Not Shakespeare, nor sweet Shelley to demur
This feigned attempt at glory we'd accrue
By dint of "home barista" now as twere,
Or my half stylish gear the ladies do
But offer kind words for:  he lectures poor
Me as wont 'pon that scale to seek, LORD, You.

24Feb19b

Yo.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXVII)


Roll words across my tongue as fog trims thence
The distance and rain pours in sheer betrayl
Down every window, like choice phrases' scale
Of what is beats out sheer real'ty hence,
How evning culls perspective in a sense:
Mists shroud the thought of yonder with a veil,
The clustered houses silent as, t'avail
I look out on the ghostly naught's pretense.
And oh! What do I try for in a poor
Attempt which falls upon its face anew?
Scroll through pics of stylish ladies' tour
Of lux'ry boots, and they'll still call my view,
Yes, outfits:  "intresting."  Mist woo as twere
My soul, and violets know my name, else, who?

23Feb19b

Okay, okay.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXVI)


Ah, listen to the Scriptures as fr'intents
All that was day's gone to the dogs, in pale
Excuse for wanting now to write.  What'd hail
When I was working, had no time, and thence
Thought to ink later?  Blue skies cleared, a sense
Of April winked back through pine shadows, frail
Upon the melted snow's erm, puddles' tale,
And sparrows called for half a minute, whence?
How first John answers all that'd muddle fer
The umpteenth time what I erst thought I knew.
This vain dream I had thought was living, poor
As aught excuse, is only that:  dreams.  Do
We hear what Thou set'st 'fore us in this tour
Of breathing?  O that we'd walk, LORD, with You.

22Feb19b

Laugh at me.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXIV)


Soft blue skies put erst naked trees and thence
These yellowed lawns since dead, as if to scale,
In April's gentler light, though snow detail
The southern regions in that cold white sense
Of frozen Death, eaves dripping in suspense
While ice shrinks 'fore that ghostly breath's exhale
We once thought was Favonious', to avail
Hearts fainting on the threshold of sheer whence.
I canna think, although I sorr'ly do,
This world of mine a mess I wade through fer
So long now I've forgotten what it was as twere
To breathe.  Take notes of what we cherished to
Effect back when all half made sense, in poor
Scuse blind is't, LORD? whilst crying sans voice to You.

21Feb19b

It's so "fun" trying to fit these hugemongous Roman names into iambic pentametre.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXIII)


So, read an essay on erm, Virgil, frail
As thinking THAT meant aught, and for pretense
Is't lo, Thucydides, to spose I'd sense,
Petrarca's life in um, a nutshell's scale
Of knowledge, even la, Justinian's tale--
Since haunted by those cobbled streets, and hence,
If not the air of Roman days, fr'intents
Those columned cities sages knew t'avail.
And either that, or Valentines in tour
Have ta'en my spirit from me, til I view
All we had joyed in ere as from as twere
A colder distance, seeing, yet voiceless to
Effect, life upside-down, or mine in poor
Scuse, e'en as April haunts the thought life'd woo.

21Feb19a

Hint:  see his sonnet on his second wife Catherine, specifically the line--"...vested all in white--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXVII)


Snow.  Was last summer traipsing through a tale
Of mirey puddles?  Ah.  Tis wet fr'intents,
But with frore air presiding all's white hence
Or icy, like the curving claws that hail
From silent eaves, no scimiter--in pale
Excuse for fancied heights--but fringing thence
The void twixt roof and far below, a sense
Perchance of grasping in their scope's detail.
I look out half surprised all's buried fer
The umpteenth time, as flakes cavort now through
Unnumbered hours likeas soft mists in tour,
Sip that espresso foamed milk crowns anew
In thoughtful silence, not unlike that pure
Calm listning as snow falls in silence too.

17Feb19a

Ahem.    Well, here's breach of rigidity, shall we say?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXVI)


If I'm too busy as sheer gloaming thence
Draws lo, the curtains on these frore scapes' tale,
How darkness cozens ere that dinner hail,
This piecemeal chance for sustnance in a sense
Half lonely, til I wander off fr'intents,
To flip through People magazine t'avail
Me of a picture, and why friends ere'd scale
My sweaters and tweed skirts as what from hence?!
"You allus wear such intresting clothes." Were
My choices strange when all don black, and to
A fault wear skinny jeans and leggings through
The week, nor ever touch tall boots?  Is't poor?
Am I thus slated to be odd in tour
Cuz my tastes are not like theirs?  What'd I do?
We're "social creatures."  I've no lover too.

16Feb19b