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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 Mar 2019
Dunno why, but I've wanted to write this for days...the first lines, that is.


Macbeth's wife wrung her hands, to then bewail
The blood which nary washing could fr'intents
Clean of that stain.  I've wondered lately whence?
That's all.  The coven's three hags' shrill detail
In howling incantations like to scale,
Erst wont to ring thus in mine ears for sense
And eerie visions of wild spectres thence
Too ghastly for my taste, could haunt sans bail.
Tis just her cries naught can assuage which stir
Vague questions I maunt pin down.  If I do,
Where will they end?  Her failure as it were
To cleanse the clinging bloodstains, if we knew,
Could we find aught forgivness?  If in tour
I do not preach the Scriptures, I'll e'er rue?

See, sonnets are virtually impossible to compose if you come at them with a determination of what exactly you intend to say. IF, however, you allow the twinkling thought a chance to flesh itself out, then it's often very interesting to discover what exactly follows.  Case in point? This stanza among countless.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
and walk in it.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMXV)

O wherefore do I echo Job? to hail
"My soul is weary of my life--" from hence
As ver'ly true and what dogs me fr'intents
Now Mum is not, nor any lover?  They'll
Arraign me for it, doubtless, cuz t'avail
I still have joys, smile for the sparrows, fence
These posting hour with prayrs He'd give me thence
Unto a husband, aye to bear kids' tale.
And come, why does my path dissolve as twere
Each step I take? aught moments passed gone to
Obliv'on whilst my fingers grapple for (in puir
'Scuse) all I seemed to have?  March skies are blue
Sans clouds, the caller breath mild as it'd stir
Trees' naked boughs to trembling, and where to?

And why did they press me over being so cheery?  Mebbe chronically depressed people know how to be ambivalent.  Huh? Huh? Huh?  Ya.
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018


Those Sonnets From The Portuguese culled thence
From lo, a pure heart set on fire t'avail
His love who ransomed her from Death to scale
The heights of heavn on earth, I've read til hence--?
Forgotten like some reject none would sense
But with keen scorn for sins I in betrayl
Do not know I've committed--which detail
Could buy my ransom likeas hers, fr'intents?
Thieves, scoundrels have deceived me in vain tour
Of better than this thought of Hell we to
Effect think that we know on earth, til fer
All that I make "naive" look false.  None woo
Save to steal parts of me.  Dear hope is poor.
Love is a jew'l I'm not good 'nough for too.

Cuz after all, Robert Browning fell in love with Elizabeth Barrett cuz she was incurably sad.  My sprite is forever gaily finding a reason none else can see, to caper about as if it's a blessing just to be alive and see another day.  Kick me.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018
[Sonnet #107 to SouthHampton:  "...thy monument/When tyrents' crests and tombs of brass are spent./"]


What **!  Write of the violets like t'avail
My soul of cherished hours gone far, far hence
Upon the crueler rending of joys thence,
And Life's dear fabric as it were, and pale
As aught excuse, read Shakespeare--in betrayl
Wisked off, as how those lines rouse for intents
Sweet minutes lingring oer the violets, whence
I lisped "...and Death to me subscribes--"(sans bail).
Lo, I can see all now as twas (in poor
'Scuse, eh?):  blue skies sae warm, and silver dew
Just melted off the shadowed clover, fer
Those minutes I bent down and mused, while too
Thus fingring purple dainties winds would stir
Across sans kissing...and why now anew?

Funny how different things trigger memories you never dreamed were made, huh?
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
The drama is Korean and called "Save The Last Dance For Me."  I loved it until the final episode.


I watched those silver curtains whose thin veil
Down in the valley blotted trees with thence
But ghostly figures 'hind thet rainy sense
Of nowhere, while the greener Maples' tale
Just whispered on this hilltop like to scale,
And thought dreams were too pretty hence
Wrapt up with love in those refrains, til whence?
But how we punished these in sheer betrayl.
La.  Why must even dramas skew in poor
Excuse the heroine?  She suffered to
Effect and then some, 'til when fin'lly fer
All that they had all, she was crippled through
The villain.  Wherefore must we ruin as twere
E'en that?  The rain gone, midnight glowrs, deep blue.

That goes beyond saintifying her.  I watched movies and read novels to escape this reality, not be faced with it again.  And yes, I still cherish the drama.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, let's us sigh and swoon, shall we?


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?

*cough, cough*
The "he" in L9 is my brother.
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 May 2018
Oh, I think I've figured it out:  I'm so bouncy and smiley simply because I am chronically depressed.  


Oh yes, please text me that "it's love's detail"
And promise marriage ere we've talked fr'intents
But hours, to ask how I earn money hence,
Whileas ye ditch me cuz I don't in pale
Excuse have sure employment, and t'avail
That's what I've feared:  love false, as each want cents
When they quip "****."  And I knew't.  Good sense.
True love, shan't care for her purse:  love is bail.
I stoop low for the purple violets, stir
Twixt taller grasses that wee morsel's cue
Of deepest sorrow:  cuz I am as twere
Myself a violet, lost and trodden through
The years, and full of grief, yet smiling too,
For that's our lot.  Ai!  Is love always poor?!

And for the octet:  my mother, and several of my brothers have assured me that IF a man truly loves a woman, he will not care at all that she's penniless.  I've known a few true lovers, then, been engaged once to one such, but for the most part am hit upon by fakes.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2017
“ good measure--”


I’m thirsty sans aught to, as twere, avail.
You turn the page now back and forth, a sense
Of all we tasted hours ‘go waltzing hence
As twould but trip now off my tongue in pale
Excuse, just begging for a voice as frail
Half silence chews its fingers for intents,
And you just make a small noise, like from thence
We know, yet feign an ignrance in betrayl.
Okay, the sigh’s collective as we stir
Our noggins oer that prompt of water—to
Leave off as time is called.  And you?  My poor
Thought vanquished, we all burst out laughing through
Your lines.  Will tears be salty water we’re
Left to ‘non drink because of “I love you.”?

Beginning this upon finishing that other, what I like about this one is how it captures deliciously a sense of the moment.
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?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, to be certain, she* was dead serious.  


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'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?

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 Mar 2018
for Courtney S. Jennings' "upon the surface of the deep"--


Depression's clammy fingers slip fr'intents
'Non twixt her empty ones cuz in betrayl:
She is a woman.  Like some ghost t'avail,
That mist creeps through her veins til ah, from thence
We feel it in our bones, as if good sense
Bows low the head to yield to that detail
Which eats small joys erst wont to be more hale,
And she melts through the floor, a puddle hence.
Thus I embrace November's ghastly tour
Of Death and call grey hours MINE likeas due.
Find solace in these naked boughs that stir
But dimly to winds' chilly breath, as't woo;
Yearn thus to wander through the firs, in poor
'Scuse?  Nah, cuz Thy voice seems there, or is't who?

Jenny Gordon Feb 2019


Not Main's antholgy, nor as wont fr'intents
MY sanctum, that dear "corner" I'd avail
Me of for reading ancient poets' tale
Of what was then and beckons too for sense
To aught who'd listen, no.  Yet ah, from hence
Lo, Francis Palgrave"s auld collection--hale
With their sweet flavour--whom Main refrenced--bail
For blackest coffee til mine eyes saw...whence?
Haha.  Well, children, like the Scriptures fer
All that declare:  yes, nothing, nothing's new.
O! which sweet courtier inked the tale men cure
This "modern" day with, moaning folly to
The tune of "girls are fickle!" which in poor
Scuse Jane, um, Austen cried false?  Say we knew.

L6--Main referenced Palgrave's Golden Treasury, which having found, does not compare to his 1881 anthology A Treasury of English Sonnets, yet has some excellent pieces nonetheless therein.
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
How many days ago was it blizzard conditions?!


If warmth and rain conspired t'undo the hale
White blanket flung across these wastes, til hence
The silver puddles shine with ghastly thence
And wan miens like the moon, how in betrayl
Lawns late unmasked lie with an air of frail
Hopes violets soon shall wink, snow islands' sense
Of being alone upon that sea from whence
There's no return, forlorn like March'd prevail.
Blue skies for sweetest minutes peer in tour
Twixt greyer cloud racks like the waking view
Might have a softer breath in tow as twere,
While Daddy pulls espressos foamed milk to
Effect crowns with an April note.  Tis poor
Tae think December's gentle, but how'd woo.

Kick me, but I'm loving it.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018
"...and Death to me subscribes--"

(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXX)

How fragile light draws shadows up to fence
Our passage to and fro, ne groundhog's scale
Of is't author'ty? as blue heavns avail
Long naked boughs where last Fall leaves' brown sense
Half shivers or just waits in dead suspense.
This eye of April whose bulbs know th'exhale
Is but a whisper of frore breath own bail
And, buried, shift now to the hours' intents.
If I had inked how gloaming 'gan to stir
As rosy blushes warmed the vacant blue
'Lone on the West ah, what?  I could not, fer
All that, yet wondered as I sifted through
The flour and leavning if dawn would be poor
Or sans a blot as lo, tis for that cue.

Talk about long-lasting fuel, la, that particular sonnet sure inks my pen sometimes, or what is it?
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
You are allowed to guffaw at me, considering what came before this.


Snow.  Likeas if what, eh? mists' fragile veil
Haunts gathring darkness as white caps from hence
That thought of April in the wings, suspense
Put back to sleep with frozen kisses' scale
Of niceness was't?  Rain's tripping through t'avail
Culled naked lawns in yellowed Death, which thence
Are tucked 'neath that chill coverlid, and whence
Straps on its boots 'gainst crunching forth, hope pale?
Nah.  It is Janry still, and violets' tour
Shall not be guaranteed until the dew
Once more rests silver on green carpets fer
Soft light and warmer hours lost under blue
Skies nary iciness skulks in as twere.
Tonight we'll shiver, glad the furnace knew.

Talk about the landscape changing when your back was turned as it were, as if the world itself were your naughty child, was that?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018 Mum taught me.

(sonnet #MMMMMMCMIX)

Did sparrows gaily call as wont, t'avail
Espresso with Dad's lecture of a sense
Long since forgotten, just where blue skies fence
Is't Sunday morning's placid airs as frail
White clouds lent April's winking eye a pale
Note of grey yonder, what? for aught intents?
How Janry owns the jest was poor as hence
These naked wastes look dead, likeas to scale.
O yes, they market florals ere March tour,
Cuz stylish girls must be the first to do
Um, April Fools a proper notice.  We're
All shivring in wool rollnecks now, but you
Just want mair golden hours to cull what'd stir
That keener sense Spring shall anon debut.

Well, a fashion party the beginning of January landing me with a pretty pair of filigreed silver drop earrings with faux diamonds, I have no necklace to pair with the same, noting afresh ruefully that pearls do NOT match.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019


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.

NOTE:  Coleridge extolled "...cloudland, glorious cloudland!--" or you can correct me, and Wordsworth coldly delineated several images from the clouds as well, the sestet containing a bit of that.
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
--Now I AM an olde maid--


Some violin whines as a harp from thence
Plods softly in the rear, and that detail
Is met by keyboard clicks, whileas in pale
Excuse I almost trim my nails fr'intents
Cuz tis too early yet to paint them, whence
Cull what frae that as twere, in sheer betrayl?
How breakfast's coffee in my veins t'avail
Half drives me bonkers waiting.  And what hence?
Dreams trick out what was sposed to be in tour
Real'ty, cuz YOU said ere now we two
Would celebrate my birthday grandly fer
All that:  together.  Yes, it was not true.
But I can't help still wishing in a poor
Reply that YOU weren't jesting.  Ah, what's new?

What strikes me now as too amusingly apt is that first line juxtaposed with the title culls to mind the world's smallest violin.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Mmm...mebbe I'll manage a sonnet about what followed.  Prolly won't.  But, you never can tell.


Where golden shafts flirt with the fainting sense
Of clearing skies sae purely blue, til hale
Warmth looks upon my naked arms' detail
As sparrows sing like all is games from hence,
O let my soul, if poss'ble, vanish thence
To higher realms likeas twas mine t'avail.
And whilst the frore breath sifts through, to exhale
With softest measures plying wisps, I'll breathe.  Whence?
Don't ask unless ye've lo, the Scriptures fer
Just whither.  Now's a thin chance to see through,
Although I canna pierce the mists in tour.
Let my soul hear the sparrows as they woo
Us from beyond this wasteland I've as twere
Been wandring years now, til that I see...You.

Like, how I leaned back and listened as I've yearned so long to do again, to the birds, and mused.  Or how it ended with my accidentally nearly setting the house on fire?  Mebbe I should try to ink it, mebbe not.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
(Intending to ink this early Sunday evening, twas useful I didn't....


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.

...since President Trump tweeted Monday morning.)
Jenny Gordon Aug 2018
...oh, I dunno, a variety of intros could suffice, whence, none might as well, no?


I caught the ghost of mists likeas a veil
Down in the valley where trees clustered thence
'Hind shifting white's detail, rain waltzing hence
Without a voice as't tiptoes 'cross the tale
Of weedy blacktop; firs mair silent, frail
Calm hanging 'til winds ply the Maples' dense
Green, and the distance lost to that suspense,
Whiles I chid rain for being light; to exhale.
You listen to--is't my complaints? and YOUR
Response of "you're amazing" fails me too.
So I wish to just kiss and tease you fer
All that me--which you say you'll do.
Right now seems but a pipe dream, mists in poor
'Scuse on what lies 'fore:  I belong to YOU.

A pretty number, eh?  I'll confess me too pinked with this and the one that followed, albeit I also thought them rather damning.  So...have mercy on me, pretty please.
Jenny Gordon May 2019


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?

Ahem.  What were you wanting to know, exactly?  Not like I'll satisfy you anyway, at least not intentionally.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
...the old classic "I'm forever trying to keep ahead of that freight train--"


Lo, peach-kissed fluffy white clouds sailing thence
In bluest seas oer greener Maples frail
Winds softly ply to soto voce's scale
Of whispers on a Friday evning's calmer sense,
And I'm too zonkered to but note from hence
What nudges memries long since past t'avail,
As if Mum still was waiting in betrayl
To talk and laugh while sunset yawns oer whence.
Now but's an hour 'til midnight, hark! in poor
'Scuse an explosion rocks the silence, to
Lapse into nothing.  Is't July astir
Upon suggestion?  O, what matters?  Do
We feel the changes tugging, what's as twere
To do?  Perhaps Joe shan't call.  Say I knew.  

No, this was NOT the time to sign up for basketweaving classes, deary.  *promptly laughs too much*
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
08Jun17:  probably Joe is done with me, Adrian assessed; my brother sez it is too fishy: "just forget it/him."


How piquant notes of car'mel waft thin scents
Across this hollow silence like t'avail,
'Cept there's none to be had in sheer betrayl;
And blue skies wear soft white clouds with a sense
Of lazy calm winds flirt 'non through from hence,
Boughs nodding lightly as leaves whisper frail
Auld secrets to the listning ear, as pale
Light eyes these shadows which cavort, and whence?
Forsooth.  They talk of la, the wedding, fer
Our questions:  groom was "bro-force."  Hope th'ado
Lasts until death, though couples think that poor
These days.  And I cannot be sick of who
Just toy with me, cuz I'm forever your
Fool who oft use me thus.  Yes, what is new?

Having heard Laura Ingalls Wilder's incident with vanity cakes, yes I shoulda used that, not cream puffs, but whatever.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
(Well, I was sitting in the car that time.)


Orange Tiger Lilies in a cluster, frail
Yet nodding to soft whispers' vagrant sense
Wink as we slowly gain on whither hence,
Some tractor's clearing space for which detail?
Along the field thet prairie grasses hail
From, and when Joe has time, he calls me thence
A "doll," to net "I love you" fr'intents,
To say he'll try to call this weekend:  bail.
It's so--yes, what?  For now he'd notice fer
Whatever what I'm wearing--"is it new?"
No, what I'd worn the day he 'gan to stir
My heart with that petunia's purple.  To
That lo, he must go pick another.  Were
Fun ah, passe, I'm loving all he'd do.

Shall we now quibble over grammar is it? and challenge putting the name of those first flowers in proper caps?  *sigh*
Or wait...that was then [please note date of sonnet] and this is now.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
..."they" swear I'm NOT (awake)--as the world is waking on every side as wont.


Green is astir, though yellow carpets hence
Look quite as if Death owns the grass' detail
Yet, and I know the violets nod t'avail
Now too.  If only I could finger thence
Those smiling faces!  Walk through all for sense,
Put off this nagging what? that dogs in pale
Excuse my waking hours, or be to scale
The saint I aught to be, in sheer defense.
So, Friday night I played the music fer
All that quite loudly, bobbed to it like'd do,
Stayed up past midnight, and slept like as twere
Some log, but can't shake off this sense that'd cue
Me.  I don't want aught music now.  Tis poor
I'm not asleep, but wish I was 'non too.

It's so fun being me.  Not.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...of the world."


"Alas, poor Yorick!"  echoes down the tale
O' centries since that Tristram Shandy thence
Was published, and familiar too, though whence
I ne'er could say 'til now, in sheer betrayl--
Love-sick being cause for seeking to avail
Me of some cure from false hopes' keen pretense--
To succour me at THAT font was for sense
Jist what the Doctor ordered:  pretty bail.
Now Corp'ral Trim reads Yorick's sermon fer
Ole Shandy's intrest ere that Tristram's through
The birth canal, I've highr ground as it were.
Not cuz the antique novel is a crew
Of nonsense.  No.  It sets off this e'er poor
'Scuse for "real'ty"...IF I can breathe too.

Tintin's sidekick was Snowy...where'd I have the idea Yorick was familiar again???
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
Ya, weeds.


Now April dogs our sunny minutes, pale
Blue skies with nary cloud to mar that sense
As orange 'non splashes buildings in defense
Of rosy sunset just where dinner's bail,
The biscuits cut ere that eye cease t'avail,
And curtains drawn while steamy soup fr'intents
Give us cause to reflect, black night what'd fence
Dessert as we talk oer the future's tale.
I roll the first words 'cross my tongue as't stir
'Fore butter gives flour cause to be anew
Sheer dough, that haunting sense light rouses fer
Auld memries of lost days what winks unto
My soul, though's but March first.  Is it sae poor
To feel it in our bones likeas twould woo?

This is cheerier than what I've been inking lately, plagued with blue thanks to the sunny suggestion of April, sewing restoring me to the memories I'd been avoiding--Mum gone and me a stranger in this world sans a home.  Haha, laugh at me.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ahem. *cue Dido's "...I wanna see you again--!"


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?

*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 Oct 2016
Oh well.  This is so ****** fun I think I'll...give up, like Dad sensibly advised.  Yes, I will.  [ah, famous last words.]


Shaun.  There.  Oh me!  How I kin roll from hence
His name across my tongue in sheer betrayl,
To savour those four letters like't avail
Me, his dear voice my heart loves with a sense
Of sweet perfection, blue-grey eyes I'd thence
Look into sans aught knowledge of their bail
Til now it kills me:  muse on each in pale
Excuse, that curly brown hair love--but whence?
He does not know.  And I'm impossble fer
All that, til who despairs?  He likes me too.
Oh tort'rous joys!  For shall he ever tour
These pages and see this?!  Don't ask me to
Be sens'ble.  I am in a swoon in poor
Excuse til dunno when.  Oh that he knew!

We are unavailable for comment until further notice.  Haha.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
I can't EVEN breathe


There's some conspiracy, I'm sure.  Good sense
Was feigning to be mine, likeas t'avail.
But now I've had to pull up Queen's detail:
Put on "We Are The Champions" in defense--
Cuz folly has the upper hand from hence.
I had rehearsed that "nothing happened--they'll
Ne'er know--I was a fool--" and in betrayl
As King Saul said, "I've played the fool." O whence?!
Dear reason, now I beg of thee, be pure.
Stop letting false joys caper 'bout and woo.
Tis Saturday.  I'd meant to own as twere--
Oh!  I give up.  My hands are shaky too.
Will some one tell him he can laugh at her
Who nursed a crush, til now, what is to do?!

I really should NOT post this, frankly.  Since nary soul usually bothers to more than read in passing, mebbe asking aught to cut me slack is unnecessary.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
[I bet you thought I did nothing all day.]


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.

Guess again.  Hint:  Monday's are forever insanely busy.
Jenny Gordon May 2018
See the previous sonnet:


I meant to put down shadows 'cross the hale
Face of these sun-washed green lawns blue skies fence
With nary cloud but tis a white puff hence,
How that September'd wink in tow t'avail,
Our hopes of was't vacations? in betrayl
Capped ere yet realized with a haunting sense
Of sheer conclusion, kneading rye dough thence,
Tae whip a sheet cake up like joy's not frail.
Poke myr'ad holes and trickle as it were
The strawb'rry juice in for dessert, and to
A fault I'm drained 'fore sundown in a poor
'Scuse.  So I washed my hair at midnight's cue,
And showered after, to drift off, til fer
All that how Sunday nudges me anew.

...I managed two sonnets ere breakfast, intending on this after dinner dishes, but making bread characteristically fatigues me, and what is new?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2019
What my men lament, I suppose.


Lo, how mists shroud the world til aught fr'intents
Quite disappears!  The clustered houses tale
Lost to that fragile whiteness, firs detail
The edge of haunting yonder likeas thence
I knew high in the Rocky Mountains, whence
My soul takes off on that note, like the veil
Hides steeper ledges and ravines, this pale
Eye of thin warmth with puddles in suspense.
An essay on erm, Samuel Johnson fer
Is't thus another angle on just who?
I thought our lit'rature taught us in tour
His name at least.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  He knew
So much tis reckoned better he as twere
Was NOT a lawyer, brilliant.  Is't fog's cue?

Ya, the "Incurable Dreamer."  I think they call it "woman."
Jenny Gordon Jan 2019
...for in Thee do I trust--"


Ah, dismal hours in black and white! the pale
Eye of this languid dawn admits fr'intents
Ne colour on that scale, the cold from hence
Mair bitter cuz which note cries in betrayl?
The blacktop scraped in shovling to avail
Our passage looks the colder with a sense
We feel within our bones, to want from thence
Morn's *** of tea to hearten souls like's bail.
And yet we have Thy Scriptures, LORD.  This tour
Of snowy vistas to remind anew
That our souls shall be "white as snow--" more pure
Than my heart's yearnings as I think now too
Of three years ere when Mum's death was as twere
Made all the more stark by this icy view.

*Mum was buried 14Jan16*
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Pretending, feigning.  I said that was the rule of the day.  cough,cough  


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.

Because I told myself I'd NOT write to, nor  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 Jan 2018
"...what is seen, but what is UNseen, for what is unseen is eternal."


Twas MY lake once as twere, which now in pale
Morn's fragile Sunday calm is placid hence
In slate-grey silence wandring voices fence,
But don't as frore winds own this Janry scale
Of lost joys I view from afar in sheer betrayl,
The naked trees' black silhouettes as thence
Sae gaunt or rattling bony fingers, whence
Is't that the only call I catch--winds' hail?
Snow melted by rain,  how th'expanse lies fer
Blue heavns' half clouded eye so dead, yet to
My soul's perception, 'ginning now to stir
With hope, though March is but a dream.  We knew
So many things, once, and the lake as twere--
Its ***** like a mirror--shows 'gain what'd woo.

You know?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2019


Lo, Gershwin--did I think to thus avail
Me with pure ambience for coffee's dense
Black notes? Tis quashed upon attempt, as thence
Thin hopes of drinking in good compny.  Pale
Blue skies own icy clouds, and on that scale
How golden light is rather ghastly hence,
Whileas I stoke the thought that for intents
I'm being a proper Swede sans cream's detail.
No danish could quite answer for as twere
Exactly what my instinct sought to do
This black elixir good.  No sugar, to
Be certain, either. Milk was allus poor
In that regard.  And now dead poets' tour
Of compny is as well?  Whose music too?

Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
The LORD does.  But how my flesh is...everything the Scriptures declare.


Let's talk about things other than the scale
Of my affection for who cares.  How dense
Blue racks are in the lack of shadows hence,
Or how the sparrows gaily cry in pale
Excuse for my 'non feeling like what they'll
Call, erm, a "*****."  Yes of, for aught intents
The LORD's great mercies, though I can't see thence
Past this torn minute's burdens to avail.
Reschedule lo, my hours whiles I in poor
'Scuse think that someone's cruel and rouse me to
Um, foolish oh, complaints.  I've read as twere
How Israel'd oft complain, and thought I knew
Far better, yet I cry against Thee fer
The umpteenth time, O LORD.  Help me now too.

Mercifully He does.  The LORD be magnified.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2018
...unspeakable gift." (II Cor 9:15)


"They buried me with Mum."   That haunting sense
I'm just a pilgrim wandring in betrayl
These des'late wastes all else call home, sans bail
Despite new clothes, accessries for pretense,
And dearest friends to joy with me from hence
Or weep or who-cares-what, this world to scale
Some dish that wants salt, lacking flavour--they'll
Assure me tis grand--mocks life sans defense.
If Hollywood laughs in the face as twere
Of good and righteous, where designers too
Are filthy past all words and smiling fer
Applause, I'm sans a home sans her.  Then You
Remind me "one thing's needful---" to bestir
Hope that my home, LORD's:  You.  Life.  O!  Who knew?

Dunno why the verse in my title pulled the carpet out from under my feet, but there you go.  (If you want to see it originally posted I guess 4 hours earlier on AP--[]
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 Feb 2018
...asking if I'd "--left the kitchen because it was too hot?" as I'd brownies in the oven and dinner warming on the stove.  


Lo, nary voice flits through this warm pretense
Whose eye is April's in a trice, the pale
Blue heavns white clouds dim with four geese' detail,
And yes, a silent flock of birds which thence
Fly past, light flashing off their wings, a sense
Of deathly naught held like a notice frail
Warm hours are but a tease, as sparrows fail
To merrly answer, whiles I feign what hence?
Thin nonchalance, just as last night in tour
Where I "performed" sae poorly with a crew
Of local poets at the Lit Fest.  Were
Their kindness not Thy mercies, LORD, what through
Our vain hours should we answer?  Is't sae poor
I cherish 'gain these minutes I once knew?

I'd only thought in looking out the kitchen window on all that it was too silent in the kitchen sans bird voices, when lo, there were none to be heard after all. NOTE for L14:  in 2011 I used to hang out on the back stoop in the warmer hours.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...for real?


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.

Answer:  look who actually cares about you, and who can prove in a trice that he owns your affections.  ****.  I did care more than I realize and that...oh, you know.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019


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.

NOTE:  pretending is the theme for April 2019, if you read MY work.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
Kick me, I smile too gaily for the sparrows these days.

(sonnet #MMMMMMCCL)

Now twilight falls upon what was and thence
Sifts out more lucid notes, how silence' pale
Breath hangs oer naked trees until their frail
Stance, like to ghosts half frozen in suspense,
Waits for the darkness sans a voice, though hence
Ah, Mavis' hallowed strains aught thrill t'avail.
Me left alone and whispring in betrayl,
"Oh, Andrew--!" blue skies thicken oer that sense.
Yes, I watched orange splash stone walls left as twere
Forlorn with empty eyes that stared out through
The greyish windows as lo, clouds donned fer
Effect, ah, purple, fuschia winking too
Oer houses left in shadows none in poor
'Scuse shifted.  Come, tell me when he'd not woo.

The sestet reads oddly in the sense the stone walls thus invoked would mistakenly appear to render the speaker, but I am too lazy presently to fix that.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...well, I neglected to stir the refried beans as I wrote this...


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.

My la! am I allowed to howl about how long it took to type these up?  hahaha.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019


So, blue heavns hid 'non by a veil fr'intents
Of stringy clouds, I rolled that to avail
Across my tongue thus:  "cirrus clouds to scale--
Lo, change of weather scheduled..." like twas sense,
And checked the forecast to see what from thence;
Watched how the golden light cast firs' detail
Upon the blacktop likeas doilies' tale,
Yet plumb forgot to ink whate'er was.  Whence?
Sip tea in morning's weepy note as twere,
While rain just tiptoes 'cross the silent view;
Hark yet in vain for sparrows' playful cure;
Want cream to no avail as if that'd do,
'Til oh!  What's left to jot down?  All's not poor,
But I'm half tongue-tied, like's not vain.  What's new?

Oh well.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Note how the title comes directly from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.


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

I wanted to detail the dried bones' appearance, to no avail.
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