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.

06Apr17c

...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

...anything?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCII)


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?

20Mar19b

Note how the title comes directly from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXIV)


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

19May19b

...say--whatever, nor how to say "ghastly" with another word.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCVII)


O how the gutter drools in morning's pale
And ghastly eye, leaves fluttring down from hence
In lonely ones or twos, so yellow, whence
Look how November lays a carpet, hale
Aye golden, thick and musty, whose detail
Glows dimly under grey racks' twilight, dense
Calm is't? mair bitter than our souls fr'intents
Like, while Death stares us in the face sans bail.
Trees' naked boughs stretch upward as winds stir
The fallen with a careless hand.  We do
Not look, but with faint shivring as it were,
Pull sweaters closer, hang up lights to woo
Warm feelings as the strands blink through this poor
Light, and rain weeps sans consolation, blue.

06Nov18a

...cuz I won't tell you IF you ask directly, my mind goes blank.  You hafta come at it sideways.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCXCIX)


Quoth I, "while golden hours--" to find in pale
Excuse what?! Milton's sonnet answring thence:
"...lead on propitious May--" as blue skies hencxe
Yield not sae much kind warmth as on that scale
Urge 'non the soul to think of April's trail
Of violets through the budding woods leaves fence
With softest whispers, wherefore do I sense
Lo, summer ere that Febry's old, t'avail?
Yea further, why does my heart tremble fer
Favon'ous' merry hours' return as blue
Skies set that thought on fire as if it were
But weeks away?  I struggle now as't woo,
'Gain yearning to stroll through the pines in tour
And listen to their voices like t'would do.

09Feb19a

...just arrive at your own perverse conclusion sith that's what academia and its ilk forever do with artists' work.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXXIII)


If I note that he shoveled in (t'avail)
His pj's, like the man whose showr from thence
Would cleanse all to effect, and thought fr'intents
For lo, the umpteenth year, of how (in pale
Excuse) this exercise can cull to scale
Erm, cardiac arrest, tae think from hence
In looking on that ****** landscape--whence?!
To die in shovling could be sweet...is't frail?
Or rather, I am, mebbe.  Dawn's breath pure
And crisp; to shovel heartning; lonely too,
Why did that eerie thought rise up as twere
Upon the heels of vague concern, to do
Was that a caper in morn's eye?!  And YOUR
Thin protest I'd not die soon...was it true?

26Nov18a

THIS:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCHL9b6nBXA



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCII)


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.

22Mar19b

Is it "funny" how miniscule my writing is when's done from the back seat?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXI)


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

18May19c

...well, who doesn't love Cheerios?

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXXVIII)


Mum said that I loved Cheer'os when, to scale,
A baby, til I knew the photos thence
Well-nigh by heart, those little o's fr'intents
So perfect yet so slippry e'en dry (frail
As aught excuse where tiny fingers hail
All sheer retrieval as a project hence);
And now she's gone, I eat them like defense
For all we knew and cherished, like t'avail.
One brother rhymed and sang that, "Cheer'os [were]
The best thing you e'er tasted!" cuz we grew
Up with our oats thus packaged, or in tour
Rolled, boiled and hot, as porridge, til what's new?
I'm packing them for werk, in milk, is't poor?
And if they're comfort, LORD, how we need You.

20Oct24a

...those who could and were watching me knew by halves



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXIX)


Tis all about pretending, in betrayl.
O yes, a thousand things, for aught intents.
Until that fateful hour when all pretense
Is stripped off, where th empror's clothes t'avail
Are seen for what they truly are to scale:
In other words, are NOT, and galling sense
(Which has been leering at us in defense
Of wisdom all this time) reigns sans aught bail.
Quoth Shakespeare "...all the world's a stage--" and, poor
As our excuses, twas forsooth THAT to
Effect.  Don't let me, please, forget in tour
My lines.  We socialize as trained, on cue
Recite the proper speeches, smile and fer
Brief moments...fool ourselves.  Dear me, what's new?

11Apr19b

FIRST:  the poem which inspired...oh, yes, laugh--it's reminiscent of, of, would that be the old "the house that jack built"? ie, Joshua Amos Graff/aka Graff1980's poem--

Graff1980
4h@18:04, 29Oct17
Untitled

The phone store
is closed,
but I can still see
the sharp blue glow
of those
bright screens
blinking out at me
from the window
to the streets
where I am walking slowly.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2187429/untitled/

SECOND:  the comment his poem inspired and which he too generously told me I "should post."--

[He said Jenny Williams]--Like a ghost none sees, catching the lurid eye of those eyeless windows to the black hole of an eerie yonder, the speaker treads as if slippered through the darkness which itself is alive and aware, the scene commonplace, yet rendered thus with a poignant ghastliness, a delicacy. Thank you for sharing.

THIRD:  the sonnet which I told him I'd endeavour to compose from that same comment, yet which is a frustrating reminder why as Stella Armour was it? told me years ago she did NOT want to force thoughts into sonnets, and I heartily concur:  I'd far rather pour the unformed thought into that "most exquisite form of poetry" than try to squeeze a complete thought into that "gilded cage"--

...for Joshua Amos Graff's poem--



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCXXII)


Likeas a ghost none sees where streetlamps fence
The blacker shroud of night, how in betrayl
'Non catching lo, the lurid eye's detail
Of those more eyeless windows harking thence
Unto the black hole of an eerie sense
Of yonder, how you tread as if t'avail
Now slippered through the darkness which in pale
'Scuse ah, itself's alive and 'ware.  What hence?
You only put down for the page as twere
That lonely walk through naked streets left to
None else.  Yet where dead cellphones look in poor
Excuse out, la, you render thus anew
What's common, but whose ghastliness in tour
Is poignant, delcacies I cherish.  You?

29Oct17a

...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVII)


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

24May19c

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXVI)


October's but twelve days in, and the trail
To yonder looks as bare as erst wont hence,
Trees naked by the score as yellows thence
Look orange for age, and drop. Oh me! In frail
Excuse it's "Game Oer" ere I realized. Hail
Next season with the usual mourning, sense
In black, as Death stalks joys like no defense
Exists. What happened to the féte's detail?!
And wherefore am I yawning, listless, fer
All that, so very dull?! I'd coffee to
Be certain, in a big mug too. In poor
Reply, now eat Chobani under blue
Heavns no rain haunts, and be as t'were
What, eh? What do I need to do? Seek You.

12Oct24b

Feigning since I'd freshly painted nails and was going out after dinner to poetry class that I didn't care that he hasn't talked to me...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLIII)


The fragile ghost of mists likeas a veil
'Non gathers in the waning light fr'intents,
As puddles shiver to rain's dimples hence,
And how the clock declares work's done, to scale.
Whileas the timer counts last minutes' tale,
I do a sassy dance, and sparrows thence
Go silent as I play out sans defense
Was it a naughty thought lo, sans erm, bail?
O how the firs now whisper hoarsely through
This freighted calm as I serve dinner fer
Us three, and carry that big soup *** (poor
For just us few?) 'non to the table, to
Dish out his bowl and mine, rolls too in tour
With butter, marmalade as fog yet'd woo.

04Apr19f

I don't know what sprouted this mischief, the first 2 lines teased.



(sonnet #MCMLXVIII)


I'll have me fun in solitude as where
No supercilious frown may cast a pall
Upon my gaity, if't must be.  You all,
Who sniff at silliness, can with an air
Of sensible hauteur drink your despair
In prim tea cups, but as for me, grey's shawl
Cast off as t'were, for brief fun, why sip gall
If laughter tickles sans grim reason's glare?
Its in my blood, I think they said, that sense
Of jolly merriment a thread which'd run
From old to young 'mongst relatives, though whence
It came I can't quite guess.  And when 'tis done
I'll sit with you and be too glum, pretense
Of better ways a front.  Don't you have fun??

10Feb13d

(sonnet #MMMMMCCCXCVIII)


I think you'll never understand, in frail
Excuse for mebbe caring in a sense.
I know you can't.  Or what?  Erst wont to thence
Give mourners yes, my only Hope, where's bail
'Cept in the Word of God?  And wherefore pale?
Did I love aught down here?  Ah me.  Come hence
You say?  Forsooth.  And yet.  Oh vain pretense.
Now learn what Mummy knew, and you'll not fail.
Set your affections on the LORD.  Weep fer
Your loss, but seek His face Whose mercies new
Each morning set you in the Way as twere.
I have naught here indeed.  Good.  Now ensue
The LORD Himself forever.  Aught else poor,
I do have Hope.  And crying?  Don't mind me.  You?

19Jan16c

Or, the kind of page which you find buried out of sight cuz it wasn't fit to be seen.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLV)


O let me roll his name in sheer betrayl
Across my tongue and savour that fr'intents.
"He" turns my storms to sunshine with a sense
Of happy songs in every step, t'avail--
With just that note "he" cares is't?  Swear I've bail.
I yearned to crawl off somewhere to weep thence,
But "he" stepped out to smoke, and all cleared, whence
Dear me!  I've nary tear to shed, to scale.
Don't tell me tis a dream I'll rue in tour--
Note how "he" called "his" fellow--was it to
See that "he'd" culled a smile by that as twere?
Go laugh at me, and give your lectures through
Experience and etcetra.  Though tis poor,
Nor sense:  I'm banking on "his" caring too.

05Apr19a

Happily he deals very gently and understandingly with me.  I love him.



(sonnet #MMMMMDCCXCV)


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.

24Jul16a

Well, and that doesn't even account for having been buried with Mum's remains.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCCLXVI)


Rain...lo, the ditches were quite full cuz thence
All could but hardly drive, and in betrayl
Slid off the roads since ice was that detail
Upon all lanes, police too, for intents
Cast in such straits, ah we discussed it hence
To put my visions of that party's bail
Thus on its ear like plans are fragile, they'll
Assure me, "you might hafta find defense."
Therefore I pray, as she sends out in tour
Reminders "It's tomorrow!--" (yes, I knew)
And "...don't forget!" like Janry is not poor
For such things here in Lincoln's Land.  We do
So much, yet for what cause?  To sweetly stir
Souls is't?  Friends:  I'd forgotten joys' thin crew.

07Jan18b

(sonnet #MMMMMCDXXXII)


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?

03Feb16

Science claims a woman only "falls in love" once, and is irrevocably wreckt after that,



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXVI)


There was a reason Lagerfeld fr'intents
Did not waste aught on social media, frail
As which excuses for the same detail
Of foolish, erm, indulgence was't from thence?
And likewise why I'm dull without defense
For having lost me to renditions' tale
Was't? of my latest fav'rite: song; to scale--
Th'orignal that I love, and later's sense.
That taste of Cossack/Russian dancing fer
Dear memries of lo, Fiddler On what? to
Effect--The Roof--is gone, quite gone in poor
Reply for "Moskau" being the theme we knew,
Yes, ALL of us, was nashnalistic.  Were
Our joys in "disco" 'nough, that's "okay" too?

29Mar19b  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvS351QKFV4

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

I guess.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXV)


Come, let's begin thus, "while blue heavns" t'avail,
Songs part of dawn's sweet quire for all intents,
Lawns still in yellowed Death e'en as a sense
Of what? now as in Gen'sis moves to scale
Across the surface like God's Spirit--frail
Though aught compare--which ah, the ancients thence
Called by another name or varied, whence
We said "Favonious--" trips through in betrayl.
I only miss the mourning doves' soft coo
In evning's calm, or where the silver dew
Yet waits upon each blade of grass none stir--
Their subtle voice as if unto as twere
My breathless soul the call I yearn in tour
To hearken to...as if tis unto...You?

26Mar19a

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.

08Aug17

Now that this is merely the winking first piece of a heady whatever....



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCXCVI)


Let's put it down for who cares what:  as thence
A folded piece of notebook paper'd hail--
Joe left that in my door's erm, handle, frail
As aught excuse, signed "always your--" and hence
I've wrestled with...is't "friend" or "Joey"? sense
Knots up itself and he knows how t'avail
Himself of my heart, that is what.  Detail
How last week when he'd--ah, he has defense.
Two fun'rals in one week's enough, nor poor.
Say I'm not worthy notice 'gainst that, who
Shall cut whom slack?  Just when I'd give up fer
All that, he does not let me go.  I do
Not want to let go, but be Joey's, were
My prayrs heard.  Say's too early?  Say we knew?

13Jul17b

I wonder what either shall think if they see this page?



(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXXIV)


How fuschia peers as from a slit cut thence
Twixt purplish navy racks low on the pale
West houses cluster 'fore in gloaming's frail
Eye, and down in the valley silence'd fence
Lo, neighbors' dogs set up a racket whence
I unpeg laundry that ne winds exhale
Through save by whispers, hoping yet for bail
When I can see Shaun, like tis not pretense.
One headline touted findings of why you're
Too fond of being online.  Well, I'll tell you:
Cuz breathing is more stale than we'll endure.
And wherefore is't that waking to Will's cue
Began this fine divorce from that?  In poor
Scuse I liked Shaun ere and what shall I do?

21Oct16e

(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXVIII)


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.

09Jan16c

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

...yesterday, did I?! Tsk, tsk.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMXVII)


Poinsett'yas red for Xmas "cheer," detail
The huge, white snowflake cutouts with a sense
Of all we dreaded facing, tree fr'intents
A green fir Santa's head hangs from t'avail,
I've Irish strains to give the silence bail
As merry jigs in season charm from hence
The dead calm I'd not wake, but why's defense
So dearly wanted like I'm lost? Joys fail?
I know! Tis amb'ance for a party. Were
Such mine t'indulge in, these might as well do
That want of "what's just right" some good. Is't poor
Now I am dying of boredom strangely too?
Put on Tchaikovsky after Celtic fer
This restless sense I can't shake--oh, where to?!

07Dec24b

...I'll tell you in a later stanza.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXI)


Swear that I don't know what to scribble, frail
As aught excuse--as traffic chases thence
Dear whither in the dull lacklustre sense
The region clouds (which Shakespeare to avail
Knew best to frame) drive forward, white so pale
We put our music on or yes! fr'intents
O me! the news, this time of breathing hence
Mair stale than praps the ancients knew to scale.
I've read not license plates for sense in tour,
But like the girl I am--just which or who
Made each car, truck, etcetra, like's not poor,
And relish evry bird's voice like tis to
Effect a ransom for my soul.  Geese fer
Good measure honk in passing, and what's new?

28Mar19a

...'non'd solace broken me, no lover 'round to give a hoot.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMXIII)


Me.  Say t'invoke the violets' wonted tale
As if twould be what my soul'd cherish hence
To vaunted heights, aye breathless for intents
Could I but revel in that auld detail
Whose white and purple-striped wee faces' scale
Of sorrow drew me ere I could from thence
Acknowledge th'import's by all counts pretense.
Yea, trounce my songs, and whither to avail?
Should I don overshoes and search as twere
The forest's muddy trails like pilgrims who
Own heavn on earth, we'll call it far too poor.
My sonnets three years 'go belie what'd woo,
Cuz I ****** all joys where Death 'gan to tour,
And wrote to whom is not, that:  I need you.

14Mar18b

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

Yes indeed, oddly enuf.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMX)


Let William Caldwell Roscoe's line fr'intents
Sift to the 'fore while sapphire blue skies hail
In warming black's first light, the moon's detail
Upon day's eastern rim, just as he thence
Wrote centries ere, a sliver in suspense:
"The eastern hanging crescent--" in betrayl
Does not climb higher as he'd said, though how pale
Blue heavns 'gin now to lighten in defense.
And she must have been younger, cuz in her
Love he felt resurrection.  Ah, but to
Effect ist? I shrink from old men, as twere.
Why maunt a young man cherish me and woo?
The moon is lost as surly racks now stir
Rich pink's blush of chagrin.  O what we knew!

13Mar18a

...just sitting out there on the back stoop.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCIV)


What gives?  While twilight haunts the fragile sense
The minutes linger, and soft blue heavns pale
Lo, e'er so subtly, traffic on its way t'avail
This start of ya, the weekend, whither hence?
Hark! as the robins (distant) scold fr'intents,
And sparrows' eager cries half calm to scale,
Where now suspense half rises in a frail
Excuse upon its elbow, ask me whence.
Erst wont to sit at gathring twilight fer
These little calls and noises trickling through
The madder haste to be elsewhere in tour,
To listen once again is sweet.  I knew
All this when Mum was back indoors, when her
Face welcomed my return.  What's changed?  What's new?

22Mar19d

...whomever wants it.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCXLIX)


How leaden racks hone caller airs' detail
As rain comes marching grandly through.  Leaves thence
All whisper soto voce as I hence
What? listen to an airplane's voice, the pale
Hours fraught beyond their import in betrayl,
Cuz love and romance weren't my cuppa sense
According to his measures, no.  Fr'intents
"Goodbye." now echoes hollowly sans bail.
Let's know that dreams were only what we stir
To frustrate colder truth's keen tooth.  I knew
That when I tweeted "dream come true" twas poor
Cuz he'll not be mair than a dream.  What do
We, eh?  Nor can aught choclate salve me fer
All that.  The Scriptures comfort.  Let that do.

12May18a

"...as scarlet they shall be as white as snow--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXXX)


Snow-frosted boughs reply to dawn's clean sense
Of newness as how diamonds in betrayl
Half mesmerize upon thet canvas' hale
White 'neath the heavens' purer blue eye, whence
We drive upon these wetter lanes, glad hence
For cloudless skies and golden kisses' hail,
Cuz last night twas a bad dream sans avail,
The chatter of erm, happier ladies dense.
She cuts into my rev'ries with as twere
Is't half a note I should not really do
This now? her questions and discussion's tour
Fit to derail thin efforts, cuz we knew.
Some actor feigns he's Christ with lies in poor
'Scuse for the Scriptures, and snow winks at who?

06Feb18

Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)

I


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.



II


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.

24Dec15c,d

Like my name tag?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVIII)


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

13Apr19d

Notice my play on words?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLIX)


Roll Soren Kierkegaard (nor dare exhale
As if the mention culls a sheer suspense)
Across your tongue, and spell "philospher" thence
Out slowly, to learn we were taught lies they'll
Assure us was for good, to countervail
His wisdom, whiles you're piqued for aught intents
Upon that note:  "they" would acknowledge, sense
Demanded it?  But hide what might avail.
I know "they" swore that Shelley was in poor
Scuse mad.  And now find Kierkegaard was too?!
Yet Bysshe had keener sense than all as twere,
Which I learn Soren did as well?  and who
"They" classed as what, eh, for all that?!  Go stir
The burning coals, for ashes whisper 'new.

21Jan19c

Just leer at me and put your finger on my lips as I slip into the mists.



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCCXLIX)


Tis New Year's Eve and one hour left t'avail,
The blueish shadows, tire tracks winding thence
From here to out of sight, and white snow dense
Upon the landscape are all buried, pale
Within night's blacker shroud, as no detail
Save distant, muffled shots is't? own a sense
Of what we thought to know, yea, that pretense
Mair hollow as the Scriptures tip the scale.
Ya, Revelation and the end in tour
Of Babylon sets all our fete as due
Now on its ear,  the festive note we stir
Less than its vaunted echo, listed to
Effect as burned up in a moment, poor
As freighted joys.  And what is left to do?

31Dec17a

...to swear he never was its captain.  Do NOT say anything to me, right now.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCXLVIII)


Trust.  How black liars press you for that sense
I canna find e'en face to face'd avail.
Friends smile sae warmly, crucify the pale
Thing known as me in just a trice, and thence
Swear that, "I'll miss your smile, Dear," for intents
Upon their honour making plans to hail
Sweet minutes next together, and oh! they'll
Be scandalized to see I wrote this, whence?
I'm never good enough for love.  Tis poor.
He sez he'll war with gods to have me, to
Abort the thing called US more times than you
Can guess.  Old men court favour as it were,
And I've givn up on breathing's grandeur.  Cure?
"Trust in the LORD with all thine heart" will do.*

11May18b

...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

(sonnet #MMMLXXXVIII)


Men dare acknowledge that the poet's soul
Breathes whispers of his essence in each line,
Thence, wherefore trample it while you define
The means used to convey the precious whole?
They never hear me.  No.  For 'tis too droll
To blindly parse his nonsense out, t'assign
Cold academic measures and divine
But private ecstasies outside his goal.
It is man's genral attitude to feign
A distance 'tween himself and any who
Dare write.  The sheer depths cull this strain?
Yet treading on the surface scants the view
Until we miss the whole's intent.  To gain
Perspective, simply read.  Few know.  Do you?

30Nov13c

...I've either the power of coercion or else most everyone else I meet concurs: 2024 has gone by impossibly fast.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMVII)


December first is here once more, the tale
Of months, weeks, hours--this year--are flown from hence
As Xmas tricks the days out with a sense
Of fabled dreams we've known in sheer betrayl
Lo, all our lives: the colored lights' detail
Which Daddy set up for the tree's pretense
Whose silver tinsel arms Mum unpacked thence,
To put in all the slots what'd e'er avail.
If presents were less grand than dreams as t'were,
If stories of th'impovrished matched ours to
Effect, what of it? Sugar plums in tour
Were lines in songs; the camel cookies' cue,
Green sugar cookie wreaths with red hots'd cure
Our visions in good style, as how all'd woo!

01Dec24a

I think it was pop....yes, the Hinoi Team, among others.  [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9i3VCVHzTAY]



(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.

03Apr17a

Ha, I neglected (despite my intentions when I began writing this) to spell out why exactly I ever took up my pen/cil to write.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIV)


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

26Apr19d

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

...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

...just simply crazy:  me.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMIV)


Be modern art.  Don't merely wear a sense
Of twisted souls in anguish, that detail
Seen only on the runway to avail
Is't buyers of the tortured folk which thence
Are writhing whilst they trot amongst us? whence
Designers new upon the scene cull frail
Half notions of it in their wildness' scale
Of "clothing," music pumping out that hence.
Thus Yamamoto's girls looked pained in tour;
Ike Seungik Lee's um, clowns which played all through
Their catwalk, to effect.  Chanel as twere
Conserv'tive was't?  I can't see how but to
Be stylish is pure madness, though tis poor
To call it that.  Just laugh at me, won't you?

10Mar18c