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Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
...for love.

He jested that he'd write a book whose tale
Was "I forgot to cry" as twas mine thence
For his love drying the endless tears' vain sense
Oer losing Mum, my best friend, and prevail
As bashert where I've never known to hail
Aught soulmate; loved me more than life, to fence
The twinkling hours with him in sheer defense,
And aye, eclipsed my grief oer her, t'avail.
Thus where Death called his lease, or ours as twere,
His last speech mine, he prayed another'd do
That for his Baby.  Yet aught else is poor.
I weep sans comfort, maddened while I rue
Whatever sin brought our demise, or fer
What took his life.  Cuz I'll e'er love him too.

He said in closing [giving his full name]that he is mine affectionately forever in love for eternity.
[]...for love.
Jenny Gordon Nov 2018
II Pet 1:9 coming to mind as I finished, lo, the complexity of this piece, and this:  "...lacketh these things is blind and cannot see afar off--"


How Shakespeare's lines 'non haunt the flag's detail
As't waves to bitter winds' capricious sense
Of play, with memries of late rallies thence
In tow, as all we'd grandly strut through'd pale
Before the empty eye of hours that scale
Down what we said was living, as pretense
Leers through the smoky limelight fading hence
Where leaves pile up too thickly for aught bail.
Is't cuz I've tried 'gain to be stylish fer
What fashion and say Vogue mag swore was due,
Tae learn my peers yet scorn attempts in tour?
Cuz even when I did succeed and do
All that "they" said should be, or called too poor
What we thought tops, Death mocks as ere we knew?

Should I have divided up the rather lengthy intro for this portion, or?
3.4k · Mar 2016
Why Did You Hafta DIE?
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016

Now moonlight glances in to splash from hence
My silent comforter, then floor, its pale
Eye keener than aught voiceless notice, frail
Calm frozen in reply with snow's pretense
Beyond these darkened hours, as if the sense
Ere waltzing through a pegged load on th'exhale
Which fingered jonquil nubbins like green's bail
Is gone as swiftly as our love's defense.
Oh Tyler!  I could never dream as twere
Of all you held in soulmate, bashert to
A breathless fault, whom none compare to, poor
As saying is.  You were all and more, aye knew
Me better than I dared to think, and your
Love in my veins, though dead, I love you too.

[]...and weep sans comfort or be stoic.  Aha!  But lo, now, 22Apr18 we are happy to report to the world that he did not at all give up the ghost, rather some close, close "friend" of his lied to me, severing us both effectively, torturing me these past two years he's spent searching for me.  The only man who's ever been A Dream Come True.  The LORD be thanked, he is both alive, and I am MY Tyler's.  I cannot be happy enough.
2.3k · May 2017
Yours Truly
Jenny Gordon May 2017
Try this!  Another site I rarely visit [long since extinct by 2017], had that weekly challenge and this time it read as follows:

Using the poetic style of your choice, answer the question “Who am I?”, without using the pronoun “I”. Instead, write your “poetic biography” in 3rd person.

Here was my submission....does it make sense?

Yours Truly

(sonnet # CCCCXLVII)

No butterfly, perhaps a moth? just lent
Some precious time to try to fly while night
Reigns, ere the morning dawns.   A reckless wight
E'er chasing carefree; mayhap too, half bent
Unwitting on a troubled course, intent
On fun and happiness whilst grief its plight
Imbues with sob'ring grey, as if t'indict?
Where time's misspent in tracing romance' scent?
"Forgiven" as a blessing daily sought,
Its nameplate hangs for all the world to see.
And if Truth's lessons seeming dearly bought
May mercif'ly be granted taught, 'twill be
A better ending than this vain life's wrought,
If when time's up, it flies, O LORD, to Thee.

By Jennifer S. Gordon aka Cheeky Missy
Jennifer supposedly means "forgiven" and my la! do I ever need that every stinkin' hour.
2.0k · Apr 2017
Yes. Never Call Me A Luddite
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Some of my friends swear they are, but I'm not.

(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXL)

Rain.  Just a whisper as how twilight thence
Steals thinly 'cross the ist more fragile scale
Of wet?  I caught that note in sweet all hail
To say "it can't be--!" puddles' ghostly sense
Now winking lightly from the blacktop, whence
That subtler voice of traffic hissing, pale
In deeper shadows' lonely wake, t'avail
Was't true, and phone recharging, what from hence?
I'm sleepy.  Blackened silhouettes hulk fer
Good measure in the darkness, like a crew
Upon some ghastly mission as it were,
But I'm too tired for aught now, lying down to
Effect right in this stuffed chair.  Call it poor,
And one espresso long gone, kiss me too?

Stop staring.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
I think it was pop....yes, the Hinoi Team, among others.  []

(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLI)  

Rain.  Streetlights hemmed by ghostly mists' detail
Watch cars line up to scatter in a sense
Upon their ways, and it is late, for hence
We do not listen to beat music's scale
Of "happy" thet I'd smile for ere, the pale
Eye of these sent'nels blacker night'd fringe thence
Our silent what? as he talks of defense
In sheer forgetting, like I knew'd avail.
None knew quite why my cellphone's covrage poor,
And I suppose in retrospect, laughed to
Themselves for how I'd sit there so demure
Without my ride, the libry's bench wet too,
Me wrestling with that slim device sans cure.
I oiled my boots for sloshing puddles' crew.

YEAH.  Do you like it?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Or is it?


Yes, anime as from a distance' frail
Note comes to hail me on my own phone hence--
Which brother's taste cavorting gaily thence
Like to a happy air I cherish? pale
As liking by mere halves what plays for bail
Now in the background.  Lo, and for intents
Sis can make calls, whilst oh! don't ask me whence,
But add the p'lice erm, scanner too, to scale.
If only oh, the LORD would e'er and fer
All time take care of little me.  I do
Not know how to whatever, though tis poor,
Ye say, to fess't?  My brother's old phone too,
They set it up for me, and how we tour
Their favrite stuff thereon.  Fun like few knew.

Line up if you think you have questions.  Brothers, who said I didn't have the greatest men in the world as mine, all mine?
1.5k · Mar 2019
Not Powdered Sugar THIS Time
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019


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?

Interesting thought, eh?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears.


What's happened to--me?  Rainy hours detail
Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence
The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense
With softest carpets rolled out to avail,
And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl;
Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense
Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence,
Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale.
One comment like my wont five days ere, poor
As what?  now he distracts aught hours 'til through
Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour
His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?!
Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer
All that.  Let purple wink low, saying we knew.

Hyacinths, violets are classically known along with purple as signifying sorrow, the former I've seen rendered as "hyacinth/ai/ai--" like wailing.  And I love them, to be certain, or is that to say the least?
1.5k · May 2017
In Retrospect?
Jenny Gordon May 2017
As we very reluctantly parted, he queried whether he was just another of my whims.  Ignorantly, I replied I guessed so, provided we never saw each other again.  Erm.  Months later the fire is still burning brightly in the absence of any good reason.  Interesting eh?  Needing a topic as usual, and weary of nature tributes (hahaha, can you believe it?!) I tackled this beloved thread, writing it in the present tense as if from our first days then altering to the present in the second (linked) sonnet.


You play my heartstrings like a puppeteer
Methinks.  Quite deftly pluck and gently twang
To immelod'ous strains whilst I half hang
'Twixt hope and fear, life's balance near
Precar'ous in that cur'ous dance.  By mere
Sweet words or grim I'm tossed, a boomerang
That can't be lost to you though ev'ry pang
Estranges reason in this game too dear.
All yours because those unseen chords have caught
My heart that like a harp you seem to use,
As sans my will, in strumming half distraught
Or with such ecstasies, howe'er you choose
You ply, in your winds varied whims 'non fraught,
This hapless leaf.  To what end?  Just t'amuse?

# II

To what end?  Just t'amuse, we tried romance?
Who fell in love?  I did.  Did you?  In vain?
Oh, why'd we play that game?  What now remains?
Behold:  a live coal, frosted black, whose stance
Seems quite the opposite; wherein the dance
Of Love's hot passion plays anon, aye reigns
Sans you, and any reason.  Its refrain
Nigh hopeless, sings your name where none supplants.
Because you knew it would.  You told me so.
And while I scoffed, that's how it goes, I see.
Who ******* that hopeful thread, oh sweetness Beau?
'Twas "love at first sight," a rare golden key.
That never quite died but e'er seems to glow.
At least that's how it 'pears in Love's debris.

Haha, obviously a VERY olde set of (linked) sonnets, and *he alone will recognize it as to himself, though I doubt he'll ever pop his head in and see it.  Now it merely stands as a rueful reflection on all my online romantic liasons since.  Ah love, when wilt thou cease to be a bad joke I play on myself for kicks?  *Oh, and...I still honestly tell him I love you.  But "in-love"....not with any man now.  Friends, yes, all friends, even though Shaun was brought up last week by some new fellow just to elicit a response....I think I'll try to be sensible.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2018
Oh! the title is--oh my! Vaguely reminiscent of Keat's sonnet...."O solitude, if I must with thee dwell/"[]


Watch yellow rags just flutter on boughs thence
Sae black with rain; the naked trees' detail
Now haunted by sheer mists look ghastly, pale
White's shroud their coverlet, Death's kiss from hence
Upon the massy groves as reds tinge whence;
As if some painter's brush splashed aught t'avail
In careless fashion, orange glares through the veil,
And my soul'd cherish that mystique's vague sense.
I'd love to wander through this fog as twere,
Just where none else dare tread, as if what'd woo
Is ghostly spirits I'd commune with, poor
Though that suggestion is.  But that won't do,
Of course.  Ergo, I watch, nor have a minute fer
All that, to dream or be, just pass on through.

NOTE:  the challenge in this sonnet which also impeded my ability to write period, was an old one, namely: how put into words what your eyes see?  Oh, try, forever try, and fail by definition.
Jenny Gordon Sep 2016
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.

(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)

Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.

Yes, yes, ye that join Barry Cornwall in revelling in fantasies do leave me scanter means to ascertain you...
Jenny Gordon Aug 2016
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.


Lo, ******. Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.

*Does "he" call himself "Nateive Son" here?  Either way, chancing across his post I guess that night these were penned, his video clip of Bukowski intro'd me to the devil and inspired this.  Not the best sonnets, but whatever, it's Charles' fault, shall we say?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2017
If you're really good I might let you see them, that is, if I can find the pointy-toed knitted pink preemie booties some coworker's wife gave my parents....

(sonnet #MMMMMMCXX)

Suppose I'm but a nymph whose sprite in frail
Excuse wars, tangled by long cherished thence
Auld loves, and sorrows which I canna hence
Shrug off.  My father aye, and brothers hail
Me as so oddly wont to in betrayl
Don effervescence, whiles griefs own my sense
Of whither, glad to see this warm eye whence
These yellowed fields bask, dead, as if'd avail.
I dabble in the thought of Death as twere,
Like twould thus ransom me from here, though blue
Skies whisper to my soul of yonder fer
All that.  Yea, I hate aught, but love each too.
Or praps I hate myself cuz joy is poor
And crimnal, left a prisner, whence I rue.

You know I WAS born with these elf ears?  Yes.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2016
Happily he deals very gently and understandingly with me.  I love him.


Not mists.  Thet ghostly whiteness as a veil
Down where the valley shivers in suspense,
Flirtatious winds' moist breath stale in the sense
Tis muggy ere dawn cast off Sunday's pale
Thought of more hallowed things, and in a frail
Excuse I button that blouse Mum gave thence
To me, to die as seeing her worn face hence,
Those precious eyes, and hate me in betrayl.
Oh Robert!  How I want to scream as twere
Until the universe is shattered to
Sheer nothingness.  But then as now in poor
'Scuse, no sound can come out. And I tell you
Cuz only you seem understand.  Mists tour
Forsooth, and I still breathe, pray, love you too.

Not like I ever want to "get over" Mum's death.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
I'd show you the black and white photographs of this allegedly cherubic 1 yr-old....

(sonnet #MMMMMCMXC)

Oh me!  How diamonds sparkle in th'exhale
As winds flirt on the lake's clear *****, whence
Blue skies thus mirrored  as erst wont, a sense
Of what? half wrestles in me on that scale
Cuz why aren't we together now, to hail
This bounty in each other's arms?  Leaves thence
All whispring as their boughs rock, yellow hence
Mocks joy as I see Mum in sheer betrayl.
We used to walk down to the valley, tour
The yard lost in whatever, and I knew
Our time was short.  But I don't weep for her
Today as yet, cuz who's distracted to
Effect is also quite obliv'ous.  Poor
As saying is:  I could wish you were here too.

...sitting quietly on a kitchen chair in her Sunday dress, with powdered sugar on her face and fingers, one hand holding a half eaten mini doughnut, and the other the lid of that dozen doughnuts box open halfway, and why did my parents just dote on that?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017 early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.


Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me!  The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk.  Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what?  I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum:  all we knew.

Taking for granted so much, scares the fun we had over dinner and after tonight, me and my brothers...
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016

How rain's nigh ghastly light haunts vague suspense
Ere darkness yield to after.  In the pale
Note follwing, whiter morsels chase th'exhale
Which moves atwixt these firs as if pretense
Could not decide oer snowbanks' worn intents
And newer puddles thinking of betrayl,
This fragile romance in surreal tones' bail
Lost in the flurry of just whither hence.
I want to ask you what you're doing fer
All we have overnight made me and you
Erm, us and we.  And scared but driving, you're
Not one bit daunted either.  What'd we do?
I've heard of whirlwind stories.  Aren't such poor?
You'd kiss my tear-washed face, and say we knew?

[]Mebbe when we can do it tangled up in each other.  *needless to say, he likes this one.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2018
I have no idea why that first line came to mind while I was indeed cleaning.  I've not read Austen in years, nor watched movies in months.


Jane Austen's drawing rooms I'd feign avail
Me of, whose wainscot's polished oak is dense
With import as the papered walls from hence
Look smug; yes, take a turn in sheer betrayl
Across those gleaming floors, dressed ah, to scale
In empire-waist' floor-length is it pretense?
And for the *** of tea I'll sip for sense,
The dainty patterns on those walls' sweet bail.
Don't ask me why.  In scrubbing bathrooms' tour,
I could not settle on just whither to
Until that note piqued languid thoughts as twere.
I've been there so oft for discussions through
Each novel, t'would be quite refreshing, poor
As fiction's vain suggestion, if'd could do.

What's left to add?
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
Maybe I'll clean up my act, just to be good.  It did give Shaun the chance to look deeply and most mournfully (nicely empathetic) into my eyes once upon a time ages ago...


I'll wear my heart upon this sleeve in pale
Excuse as oft as suits my fancy, whence
Ye all kin chide to no avail from hence,
Whiles I rebuff aught notions in betrayl
Of better sense, cuz nothing here is bail.
Or if some fragile thought seems vague defense,
Tis vanquished ere I've managed to gain thence
A foothold, and I'll be thus stripped and frail.
Ah, love.  Do thou but tempt me with the poor
Suggestion, ye kin laugh 'til ye are blue,
I'm prey, tears dried until tis proven fer
Whatever that twas aye, a jest.  I'll rue
Me folly, cherry-cheeked, and pray whiles your
Much wiser sense erm, coughs.  And yes, I knew.

Nobody, last I checked.  And yes, I'll work the harder on being more polite, was that?
1.1k · May 2016
I'd Miss My Friends
Jenny Gordon May 2016
Contemplating commenting on Susan Jarvis' latest verbal bouquet inspired this. Oh my! I never thought I could write a tribute to PF!

(sonnet #MMCXCII)

Applause o'er, money pocketed, we'll miss
The souls who happ'ly joyed in telling oh
Just what they liked of what they read. Or no?
O yes. And where's the fun? Is fan mail bliss?
We want the fawning blather stooped to kiss
Our priceless feet, the limelight's tinsel show
Of glory what we truly seek? Think so.
But I will wager all such is remiss.
Your name and self in Poet's Corner yet
Enshrined seems consolation, true. But pay
Me e'en a fortune and what I'll regret
Is all the fun of playing with folk from day
To day as nobodies who in love's debt
Shared friendship o'er our musings, yea.

Wowee, this is three years old by now, and a pretty reminder of why PF is the only site I've ever called "home" online.  You know what they say, there's no place like home.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
...and I'll give you half an ear.  
[L9:  Robert.  And sent a pic when returned.  And yes, I loved him, shame to say.]

(sonnet #MMMMMCMXCI)

Where gloaming filters out in greyish thence
And fading halflight, children's voices trail
Some barking canine as no birds detail
Calm whispers whose soft breath tugs at me hence
Likeas to stay my footfalls with that sense
Tis now, and here.  Ne stars yet in blue's veil
Except the evening star alone oer pale
Dead houses, and how sunset burns low.  Whence?
Indeed.  He's gone to Burning Man as twere
Or some take off that, romance forfeit too,
Else I'll wish for a date with each in poor
Excuse, how's that?  The problem is...that you
Are not here.  What are cool winds' murmurs?  You're
Who gives dusk romance.  Tell me that you knew.

Hi.  Mebbe I'll share my diary pages again when I feel reckless.  Like how some date proceeded or whathaveyou.  Don't hold your breath waiting.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
See my spiral for how she rendered it*  


Ya.  Lean upon the porch rail as night's dense
Black--does it twinkle with ah, stars? nor hail
The mirk none pass through, just my brother.  Pale
As Au Revoir where all else sleep from hence,
Lo, how--what ist?  Hark!  For the train calls thence,
Its whistle breaking this cold silence' tale,
And think now, of how I'll lose all ist? frail
Against the metal lacework, sans defense.
Turn back indoors to clean the mess we'd stir
In babysitting.  Wooden tracks a crew
Of Brio traincars clattered oer in tour
Half like what deeply rumbles past, aye to
A fault, my brother saying "a real train--" Were
I numb too long oer Mum?  Or swear I knew?

As it was, she's almost 4 so I thought that question of her dad too odd, but whatever, mebbe Tia understands after all.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
Being fatigued has its benefits: I don't give a hoot.


Talk to the silence as a train growls thence
Through wooded stretches, 'neath the bridge detail,
Sans more than rumbling deeply on that scale,
And think of how wee cricket voices fence
These ghastly plains with fiddling oer suspense,
Nor listen cuz--those days are gone and fail,
At least my solace in their joys does, pale
Expanses washed in moonlight not mine hence.
Or not the maple's knobby roots as twere,
Its canopy of shadow lace I knew
Last year, that freedom of the lake in tour
Gone, I remember, as tinnitus to
Effect half waltzes with the clock's demure
Tread, ticking, whilst...what is't that no man woo?

Yes, when I am too zonkered I do not give a hoot for men.  It's a rather useful state of affairs when you're such an idiot as I am prone to be.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019


Watch Paul McCartney's erm, debut of thence
That soulful number "Yesterday." and they'll
What, eh?  If's not the song itself t'avail,
How 'bout John Lennon's snide remark for sense
To Ringo, was't?  As if there was fr'intents
This rivalry which could not in betrayl
Be satisfied to have Paul up (sans bail?)
Alone on stage where all the girls cooed hence.
As if they did not cry for John in tour,
And that by name, he must begrudge it too?
I'm just a child in sheer compare as twere,
Yet "all grown-up" now to effect, see through
Their boyish ways and fall in love, though's poor.
While "Yesterday's" notes never fail to woo.

--what I prefer about the full performance over this mere clip, is the tiny details, ie all John's behaviour.
The Full Performance:  
The Beatles Blackpool Night Out, ABC Theatre, Blackpool, United Kingdom (Full Performance)
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016

Lo, poor man's tea in dawn's first light, whose pale
Eye shifts vague shadows 'cross dead houses thence,
Ere twinkling with an orange splash' warming sense
Upon that silence, and no coffee's bail
In morning's fog as rosy lee's detail.
Snow's bitter whiteness waits sans aught suspense
While sparrows gaily answer for two pence,
And I wash up the dishes on that scale.
We fix a mean cup of ole joe as twere,
Yet where the Brits swear by tea's mincing cue
I oddly know what tis to waken, poor
As such assertions oer the second brew.
Discuss caffeine, and I sleep well nor stir
'Til ah, forget it.  What I need is you.

[]Yes, um, poor man's tea.  Coffee never does a thing for me in the morning, despite all the opportunities I give it.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
...might as well be?


Lo, now the moon peers in to splash a pale
Glance 'cross Mum's carpet, up my legs and thence
Upon these silent hands sans voice, a sense
Thet silver eye just watches, what'd avail?
The Scriptures.  As tree silhouettes detail
Nigh ghastly clouds with blackened figures, hence
Recall " glory of the sun--" fr'intents:
"...Another of the moon--" what, in betrayl?
Forsooth.  I am not Mum, nor shall in poor
Scuse ever match up.  Yet what should I do?
My aunt sez God has me still here as twere
To do His will.  I can't but own tis true.
Dreams, prayrs, half mock what is.  Whatever, fer
All that is my work?  Someday swear I knew?

What WAS rather freaky was the next day I discovered Courtney had published a pretty number on howling at the moon over a lover, and my dad over dinner mentioned it had apparently been a fool moon.  Oops, my bad, full moon.
Jenny Gordon May 2018
Yes, I am prolly the only fan of old, cold, coffee.  Over antique sonnets, too.


Soft blue heavn's arid eye ne clouds 'non fence
Though ah, how ghostly shadows haunt and trail
Across the rippling fields of grass detail
Below! look sweetly as in years gone--sense
Of all we'd known within their cast, til hence
The soul yields to is't childhood's carefree scale
As twere of hope? vain dreams' perspective hale
If we'd but 'llow ourselves to breathe, fr'intents.
And Maples' shaggy boughs nod; leaves astir
To aerie whispers, as the voice of who?
Some distant motorcyclist passing through
Upon these emptyer country roads in tour,
Lends 'scuse for placid calm, where Sunday fer
All that's excuse, the hol'day 'pon us too.

*NOTE:  my la! I literally NEVER edit my sonnets, but this one was riddled with a hexametre line and is shoddy altogether despite editing, kick me.
Jenny Gordon May 2017
and you said:  "I hope you like chocolate."

(sonnet  #MMMMMMCCCLI)

I've not had choclate, nor a taste, in pale
Excuse, for that in days, perhaps cuz hence
You called yourself that, and my hunger thence
Was only for whom stole aught else, t'avail
Me of:  just you.  And oh! how that detail
In lieu of packaged squares, eats me and sense
Out of both home and hearth, ne crumb to fence
The **** is't? yet smudges in betrayl.
Oh, Adrian!  There I must leave off.  Were--
What?  Savour ah, minutest crumbs, roll too
Across your tongue that darkest morsel your
Soul yields itself up to, and ah, foil to
Glint, crinkle, tease, nor but in silver tour
Hold lo, exquisite heights:  what's I love you?

Last I checked, chocolate merely demands you eat it.  Oh wait, it doesn't even do that, kick me.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
So there.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMVI)

Yes, fire.  We plunked down on the fur rug thence
Afore her fireplace, and I in betrayl
Neglected to erm, lose me on its hale
And licking flames, e'en that romance' pretense
Was blind to--wherefore? Sandwiched for intents
Twixt two guy friends, I was too dull t'avail
Me even there, yea lost myself in pale
'Scuse in auld lines to Nigel, like's good sense.
Now Sunday watches diesel trucks roar fer
Sweet hours through lonesome country roads 'neath blue
Skies nary cloud is but a ghost in, poor
As saying.  I told a friend I'm as a melon you
Cleaned out, sans Mum, and what as twere
Is left?  LORD, give me Thy fruit.  And kids too?

*bangs table like a kiddo:  I want marriage and to have babies!* funny how that hits a brick wall and I must look like some danged bulldog at this rate.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Layered.  Say you didn't know these were complex.


Blue skies peer thinly twixt the whiter tale
Of clouds whose stringy webs mask what, from hence?
The warming golden light half bleak, a sense
I maunt put down stalks through all that'd avail.
Ne shadows nor a flirting breath t'exhale
By even halves and I am jumpy, whence
What daffodils might nod can own intents
While folk tell April Fools jokes like we've bail.
Did I complain oer...jonquils' yellow tour
Of frilly heads and purple hy'cinth too?
Yes.  I said even ******* laundry's...poor,
Sith Mum is buried.  Taen from me now, who
Shall pity?  Sparrows e'en too distant fer
Aught smiles, I wonder if a man'd now woo.

"...the kingdom of God" I think is how it goes.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2016

I swear, I love you, Robert.  Drive me thence
Up every wall.  In Spartan fashion scale
The hours down as I trim each sorry nail
Erm, with my teeth.  And oh!  What is it hence?
But you're the master of this ship, to fence
Unnumbered minutes with naught to avail,
Cuz I am spoiled?  Or what?!  In sheer betrayl
Oh help me!  but I'm cussing in suspense.
To top it off you have compassion fer
My father.  He swears I'm a task.  You two
Make quite the pair to set me off as twere.
Okay, I'll take up knitting.  That won't do.
You drive me bonkers!  Tell me that's not your
Intent and I'll prove tis.  I love you too.

I love you.  There's no better word.
832 · Mar 2017
6AM...the Wilder Version.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2017
Fantasy.  Take a second look.  This is literally one angle on the only fiance I've ever had.  No joke.  Mebbe see the sonnet titled "why did you hafta die?" next?

(sonnet # DCCCXXV)

We skidded round the corner and the p'lice
Were in our face.  "Oh boy, we're out of space
Babe--just be brave, we're gonna win.  Disgrace
Will keep them on our case 'til we decrease
Those *******.  'Til they skulk and beg for peace.
Now hang on tight"--(shifts in reverse)--"and brace
Yourself"--(tires squealing loudly)--"we'll retrace--
It might be hard--hold on--don't drop your piece!"
We ducked our heads, careening blythely through
A blockade, sending cars flying everywhere.
Out on the open road 'gain finally, too
Alert to miss a beat--"Get ready!  Ere
You see them--fire!  This is our rendezvous--"
We won at six.  He's now their head.  Take care.

*Original intro:  Jesse (a friend and fellow online poet at the since extinct's comment on "At 6AM...on Saturday" (the sonnets immediately preceding this number) prompted this. [pure fantasy]  Obviously I can't get Hollywood to hire me. But it was jolly good fun to write.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2017
You are allowed to laugh, I've heard it is good medicine.


Alas.  I cherish too much, in a sense,
October's pale eye, and how in betrayl
Thet lonely yellow leaf 'non skitters, frail
And hapless 'cross the blacktop, lost from hence
Within grey shadows as cold winds breathe thence
In careless fashion through worn Maples' hale
Stance, green, orange-kissed and whispring of ne bail
Whilst Death walks silent through this vague suspense.
These blue skies wear a cloudless mien as twere,
Yet blinding echoes of thin fragments do
Some tour of duty in their backdrop fer
Good measure.  Yellow gladrags dance, the crew
Of staid leaves fragile.  But I love't all, poor
As saying is, only wanting, yessir:  You.

*cuz aka Vincent Dill requested it.
Jenny Gordon Aug 2017
You know, this journal does not even contain half of what we know.  I hope we never forget.  

(sonnet #MMMMMMDCLV)

Now, while cicadas drone 'neath blue skies' pale
Glance, or to deeper shades of that, what hence?
Remember Starbucks' "Friends Day" for intents,
The prompt last night, as yesterday's detail:
We rode the bike path 'gain whose wildflowrs hail
As wont in clover's pink, and yellows thence
With brown eyes, thistles' purple, grasses dense
On either side, while goldfinch laughed t'avail.
I'd hated these auld trails we knew, as poor
Since Mum's death, but now I belong to you,
Oh! all's sae sweet like ne'er before as twere.
My car'mel fru-fru drink was tasty too:
Cuz I am yours.  That means I can't write fer
All that cuz evry minute's yours who woo.

I'd fully intended to ink that bicycle ride, sweeter than I've ever known before cuz of you, but you must captivate every minute; and to think I didn't realize Mrs. Sitz' prompt of "Friend" was on the same day as Starbuck's Friendship Day special.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016

Snow.  Thick white flakes whose hapless note's detail
As't measures distance their profusion thence
Half mocks, yet draws the careless eye from whence
These mesmerize sans voice within the pale
Light of an afternoon, and lo tis bail
Enow for losing me upon that sense
I maunt pin down, til playing guitar is hence
Forgot, or trips and chokes in sheer betrayl.
And ah.  You know that word, um, chaste?  Oh sure.
Come, roll it 'cross your tongue and hear anew,
Cuz I am sick of being too naughty, fer
The record, and shall leave erm, you to woo.
If only I sit on me hands 'til you're
Quite ready, that should do.  Snow.  I need you.

[]*feels sheepish asking*...and since forgetting, I dunno.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019


What? ere the daffodils nod with a sense
Of picnics in their sunny yellow scale
As twere of frilly cheer; whileas the pale
Eye of half hidden blue heavns trails from hence
Thin shadows 'cross the naked lawns green thence
Haunts with a ghostly touch; while sparrows hail
At intervals, and breathing is t'exhale
Without a second thought, what's not pretense?
Saul fell upon his sword t'escape as twere
Abuse by lo, the Philistines; died too,
And if war's gained a new face, claiming fer
Is't modern Troy? that it's a horse, what's new?
They'll let you see the palace' room in tour
Which is the grandest, and you thought you knew?

I guess we'll just need to wait a tad longer until Odysseus announces himself....mebbe in CA or TX or NM or AZ or?
777 · Jul 2016
My Brother Knew--and I?
Jenny Gordon Jul 2016
Don't ask me.


Not mine.  As if a stranger passing thence
From who-knows-where to whither, aught detail
Is like the accents you'll set to avail
Along with artwork for that ***** sense,
Just items in a world that's lost from hence
Its varnish.  His bare room decked on that scale
With table, chairs and knick-knacks, in betrayl
Wood toilet seat's in pieces for pretense.
Tis naked.  Yes, he's glad to see me fer
Old times--"Erm [smiling] what's your name 'gain?  You--
You're so familiar--"  I laugh, to assure
Him's fine, aye tease him.  Yet why does th'ado,
Though fun as ever, strip the dream as twere
Of all its trappings?  Robt, I love you too.

This is the section where I elucidate is it?  Sorry.  Or wait...never underestimate the fuel every stinkin' bit of life provides when I is a sonneteer.  Haha.
765 · Feb 2014
That's Why I Wear Them
Jenny Gordon Feb 2014
Ahem, as if anyone wanted to know my preference in clothing...

(sonnet #MMMLXXXVII)

My minis lend that sweetly girlish stance,
When in a coat and calf-high boots rays set
Me down as casting my grey silhouette
Upon the Maple's trunk in sunset's glance
Adieu.  I did not search it out, but chance
Sketched me and caught mine eye, to vainly whet
That barely veiled thought's appetite and net
The happy pleasure thence, as I'd nigh prance.
Perhaps the stylists meant another look
In that cute popular design; I do
It no disservice thereby though, but took
A far more flirty angle thus as through
The fair suggestion adding zest.  Hence brook
My crime if such there be?  'Sides, I love you.

This, as the majority of my work, is addressed in closing to my boyfriend/aka the man who owns my heart, and in whose love I cannot be happier.
753 · Feb 2014
You Make Me Look Too Silly
Jenny Gordon Feb 2014
Wonder what he'll say when he sees this finally?

(sonnet #MMMXC)

December's undue warmth gone with the pale
Light's tender glow, what chill assaults! Each sigh
Which gaily teased, a frigid breath ne'er shy,
Yet gloaming is too pretty in its frail
Stealth waning while I fold the minor tale
Of items earlier pegged where morning'd buy
Fair hopes the laundry might well even dry
If it'd not rain.  Winds soft then are more hale.
But I am smiling like a fool sans sense
And giggling cuz of you.  How when I knew
You'd penned a most exquisite tribute dense
With what I meant, you swore that sunstroke threw
Its blind across, and not love's influence,
Nor me.  Haha.  I know.  And love you too.

Note:  the leafy shot on my profile page is taken from the vantage of the second and smaller clothesline, both lines at the top of the hill, that shot to the far right of the main line.  And yes, it happened just like that.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
He said I'm a good kisser.  ducks head

(sonnet #MMMMMMDI)

His.  O, I wanted Joe to call me his, in pale
Excuse, and yes, to call him MINE.  What hence?
But lo, I am.  He's like a dream come true, a sense
Of all a girl wants in his sweetness, frail
As fancies ever were.  Why, in betrayl?
To top it off, yes...what?  but kissing thence
Is nat'ral, being in his arms like ah, whence?
Two puzzle pieces fitting in detail.
If I said "he is home to me as twere,"
Would all I've tasted then dissolve unto
Some naked shore the waves crash into fer
An endless washing of all that we knew?
He sez that love (in all caps) is too poor.
My legs and lips are what he wants.  What's new?

My mother (when I was 14) begging me to save my kisses for the man who'd marry me, yes, he is the first since grade school and playing house with the neighbor boy.  If this is the fun she alluded to, I'll never have my fill.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016


Distracted, aye as wont.  With half a sense
Of yonder pinned to five small minutes' tale.
As bitter air looks out from blue skies' pale
Mien and the maples whisper of suspense,
Orange-kissed or flaunting yellow in defense,
Go count the florets:  seven pinks detail
The stoney passage is't?  Four whites.  How frail
Their stance now drier stalks rasp over whence.
Yes, phlox.  Do peony bushes change in tour
With dusky red leaves, how my niece points to
Lacrima's echo tangrine globes as twere
Hang from, and I peg hopes to Shaun as who
Does not laugh oft, I guess.  Tell me it's poor.
And count the days 'til I shall see him too.

I can't think what you're supposed to put here.  You can arrive at something, how's that?
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
"...nothing really matters [anymore]--"


Where blue heavns softly yield to orange' detail
And robins 'gain renew dear Mavis' sense
Of April gloaming with that song fr'intents,
E'en breaking off to scold as wont, the frail
Warmth sifted out while lo, a plane t'avail
'Non passes over, sparrows gaily fence
This calm with chatter, traffic likeas thence
Wont: I would sleep; yes, laugh, in sheer betrayl.
Don't let me cull to mind what tis as twere.
Who gives a hoot tis Friday night?  I do
Not care so much if I could just, in poor
Excuse, forget, and breathe.  Pink 'gins tae woo,
Now gathring on the East, and Nigel's tour
Of music oddly plays, the Scriptures too.

Oh! leave me here to fade into nothingness is it?
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
Oh well.


Earl Grey and biscuit for a proper sense
Of yonder ist?  where blue skies fringe clouds' veil
Known as white racks that keener eye'd wax pale
Through as how orange paints bits and pieces hence
Whiles yellow flutters to the sidewalks whence
Tis trod whilst fills aught cracks in sheer betrayl;
La, bony limbs cast 'gainst these heavns look frail,
How vines run riot in deep reds' intents.
Hot soup for dinner, I wear plaid now fer
Ah kicks, a kilt to boot, as if being new
Might salve the galling void I can't endure,
Yet must.  Talk of espresso gadgets to
Think ya, the French Press grand.  And tea.  What's poor
Is blindness cuz the LORD's our life, ne brew.

We've always patted the suffering on the head, proffering a steamy cuppa for consolation haven't we?  and...nevermind me.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Hi.  waves with a happy smile


"Your Jenny."  And these blank skies thinly pale,
The baby leaves 'non shiver to winds' sense
Of sheer caprice, their soft chartreuse lit thence
As if translucent while birds wing oer, hail
With voices my heart knows from June's detail,
Like summer's breath flirts 'cross green lawns more dense
And ruffled carpets, daffodils bright hence
In deepest yellows smiling to avail.
Oh, Andrew!  Song of Songs talks of what fer
Effect seems mine, though we're but friends--yet ooh!
That's how she knows him, yes.  Warmth's waltzing tour
With singing lightly on the air and dew
What twinkles in morn's eye is ours as twere,
Whiles I want violets as I wait for you.

Problem with not liking to wait is how much of the Scriptures show that is our ultimate downfall, so far as I can see.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Wonder which of my favourite kites I am?

(sonnet #MMMMMMCCLV)

Read antique sonnets, yet don't hear them, frail
As voicing David Grey oer coffee thence
Is, lost to western beaches' surf from hence
And which I almost listen to in pale
Excuse, while Illinois' blue skies detail
These moors and wasted prairies winds pass whence
I canna say oer, whispers in a sense
Where Or'gon's ist? tore up auld trees to scale.
Our houses wink to golden light as twere,
Whiles Andrew's feel the hurr'cane damage to
Effect.  Suppose I don't know what I stir
In asking, he swears I shan't know 'til through
What ist? the ache's root we unearth in tour:
All.  And I love each minute lost to you.

Kites, I think I've forever loved to lose me to the skies.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
L14:  No, *****, but...enjoy the moment.


The mourning dove ere twilight yield calls, whence
Orange winks upon thet waking thought's detail,
And lo, I hear it softly coo.  Grey mists in frail
Nigh ghostly touch a thin suggestion, thence
Do maples faintly shiver in suspense?
I thank the LORD for that voice on the pale
First notes of whither, erst wont to avail
My soul, and dawn sifts through to crown that sense.
How Joey worked "each day this week," yet fer
All that's forever on my mind.    What, to
Effect, now does the culver's song as twere
Mean?  How I used to know.  Or thought I knew.
Now like a memry of sweet days lost, poor
Though what be?  Does it bless our hopeful dew?

I read something recently about mourning doves' call and--but I forget what it was; it was good, though.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
..add to that, "sleeping is a luxury; eating a privilege" MY definition.


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?

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 Jun 2017
By the by, her prompt was summer, with several provocative, evocative poems by other authors.  I began this one in meeting, cuz I'd finished that first one and people were not done scribbling, nor had she called time yet, but as the sestet proves, I finished it an hour later, outside.


Yes, summer.  Blue skies nary clouds 'non fence
While fragile boughs rock to rough winds' exhale,
Leaves whispring as these golden shafts detail
The colder silence we now scribble hence
Through, and it's not e'en eight, but nearly, whence
Ya, what?  A train's deep voice in passing'd hail,
And people shift within their seats t'avail:
It's...June, and Shakespeare said "hot," aye, that sense.
Tis early, but the fifth, and cooler fer
'Most nine, as gloaming culls a winking crew
Of robins and lo, who? to lilt in tour
While I wait on this bench, and fading blue
Skies yield to friends in passing, while tis your
Face, arms, I want sae badly, Adrian:  you.

Oh, isn't--what?--so cute?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2014
The other side of the previous sonnet.

(sonnet #MMMLXXXIX)

Mists softly romance clumps of distant trees,
Their naked dark grey limbs clothed in that veil
Of hazy white 'neath tender blue skies' pale
Cheer, while the golden light warms by degrees
December's barren vistas, winds a tease
Whose mildness gently breathes a hope too frail
To live beyond the sunset, each detail
From green lawns' worn expanse to heavn, at ease.
I used to lose myself here, every sigh
A fond caress I revelled in...'til you
Taught me to see past all which sweetly vie
For notice, vaprous dreams no longer true
As I rest me in who'd more satisfy
Than these, lost in your love and happier too.

Hmm, guess it's not been completely snowy since November...just seems like it by now.
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