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Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
...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
Seriously, though....where DID that thought come from that it'd be downright lovely if I died of cardiac arrest in the middle of shoveling snow?!
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
--what I prefer about the full performance over this mere clip, is the tiny details, ie all John's behaviour.
The Full Performance:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EE11Zp_KWtg  
The Beatles Blackpool Night Out, ABC Theatre, Blackpool, United Kingdom (Full Performance)
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Is it "funny" how miniscule my writing is when's done from the back seat?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXI)


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

18May19c
Oh, four hours there and the same back, it was worth it.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
...those who could and were watching me knew by halves



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXIX)


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

11Apr19b
Ha.  Ye canna contradict me.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2017
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
Haha, I gave my notes in laying this out, frustrated upon completing this sonnet because, as wont, it has lost the tantalizing thought's keen sense which provoked it, the thought itself being formed as it tripped out on the screen under my fingers, a thought I never had until the keyboard rendered it up, yet which now punishes me for forcing it out of existance into a sonnet.  *cue a wry smile*
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVII)


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

24May19c
Oh dear!  I think I put down recently that I'm not depressed.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
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
Well, I did see a line the following day saying something like, "It's okay to be silly"--like, I didn't need permission, thank you.
Jenny Gordon Aug 2017
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
Yes, yes, Maggie at least will remember this.  And I think turning forty altered that since I unconsciously figured it was the new twenties, was that?  I have this penchant for fun, kick me.  If you don't...well, you know.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
(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
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59WV0BvKQzQ]*and wait, I still have my brothers and father.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
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
Laugh at me.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2016
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
Not like I ever want to "get over" Mum's death.
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
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
L5-8 I swear, men love to scare their women, loving brothers no exception, probably cuz they do love their sister...and the LORD delivered us, mercifully.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
(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
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=srzjOJjBHmc]Mebbe when we can do it tangled up in each other.  *needless to say, he likes this one.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
whence our broken homes and societies.  But I could swear Donne was claiming he felt likewise, so, who knows?  That said, haha, THIS is about music, that's all.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
One of my brothers called to ask me a question about women, haha, cuz he's a man and I'm a woman and some girl friend of his claimed something, so....  and in all the chatter which ensued, he assured me most men are actually jerks, get used to it.  What, after that? "Marry who you want."  Dandy.  Now, whom?  Yes, laugh until your sides ache.
P.S. Sorry about the rather explicit note in L10...that's how one of my uncles phrased in it warning my dad years ago that even church was not the greatest place to look for dating.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
*manages a weak smile for half a second*  Aren't I downright terrible?
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.

08Aug17
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 Jul 2017
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
You know, I dearly wanted a whirlwind romance, and um, when the dust settles mebbe I'll take better notes.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
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
On second thought...let's not give them the link to this page.  I've enough explaining to do as it is.  Oh me...
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
(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
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuQ5fhcCM0E]*feels sheepish asking*...and since forgetting, I dunno.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
Remind me later that the light has an eye which in the middle of June wears a note of September, likewise the dryness of noon's glance as we lunched wore the same note, and I couldn't help wanting suddenly to put on red.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...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
Hmm.  Typing this up to post it, seems as if I wrote it but minutes ago.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
...'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
Yo.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sekf03ZMQXE  
NOTE:  Penning this in the middle of reading both essays, I don't know whether there's more to add on the second, but hopefully you can avail yourself of a perusal of each.  PM me if you want to peruse them since HP's been impossible since I've tried to include the links.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
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
It was novel, forsooth, to see the crescent moon hovering over the East in anticipation ere yet a blush of pink could blossom, and Roscoe's line came to the 'fore to haunt me for hours after.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...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
Was this experience what gave me nightmares so vivid that I had difficulty waking next morning?
Jenny Gordon May 2018
...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
Right now I'm too sunk to care.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018
"...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
If you will read this stanza carefully, then I'll tell you:  I always, I mean ALWAYS, take my notebook along to Ladies Bible Study since there is that lull when the madly chattering room is filling up before time for the movie and lecture, and I hate leaving my mind to the caprices of wandering.  She just had to interrupt me and derail that, though.
Jenny Gordon Aug 2016
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
*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?
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tamy_K2jmW0]
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Like my name tag?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVIII)


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

13Apr19d
There.
Now, having read these, there's nothing more I actually need to post of this month's work, despite all the pages and pages of it.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2019
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
P.S. I read this aloud January 25th at the 2019 Elgin Literary Festival.
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
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
Three guesses on how yours truly spent New Year's Eve, and the first two don't count.
Jenny Gordon May 2018
...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
*if only I can find grace to do so.
The first line refers to 72 or so hours ago and Oh, the joys of Twitter!
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...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
Trains.   Don't you just love their reality AND the metaphor?  Timing too,...AFTER midnight--what's that signify?
Jenny Gordon Feb 2014
(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
How's this for a Hello?  A bit of a backlog, admittedly, but never published until now, just for the sake of, I dunno, I wanted it to see the limelight too.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2017
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
YEAH.  Do you like it?
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Ha, I neglected (despite my intentions when I began writing this) to spell out why exactly I ever took up my pen/cil to write.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIV)


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

26Apr19d
The "he" in L1 and etc is Ken Jackson, a fellow in our local poetry "club."
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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
NOTE:  Gail Borden Library has an entire room of items they're selling, from books of all kinds, to cds, videos, all they don't want anymore, and my friend inviting me to check it out after class, I found a book of selections from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, another on John Donne, but the most interesting was one with selections from antique and more modern poets/poetesses.  All three disenchanted me when I sat down upon returning home that Monday evening to peruse my acquisitions since....NOBODY had a sense of rythm or metre!  What gives?!  Re: the sestet, erst wont to read antique sonnets over coffee, (see my sonnets for how that was fantastic "company") now that dead company seems flat.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...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
Chocolate is delish, but I've lost my ability to appreciate it fully for some little time now, frankly put.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018
...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
So, I swooned over Chanel's 2018 haute coutre collection and the list goes on, lesser after that love affair, to find me a month later now is it? that I'm drowning in fashion shows from countless designers, kick me.  And then, enjoy this?
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Laugh at me.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXIV)


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

21Feb19b
Haha, a new "take" on the old "looking for my bearings."
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Let's not pin down WHY I've cherished rain and somber oboe concertos, shall we?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCV)


There are ne puddles, just that drooling trail
Left by the gutter's mouth as I look hence
For any small detail to augur thence
E'en half a note of whither in this pale
Eye of forgotten dawn, moist on that scale
With fragile rain.  Naught quivers in suspense,
No, not my soul now either.  All fr'intents
Is quite foresworn as I feign what, t'avail?
If nonchalance is pretty, let's bestir
It to cavort across the stage anew.
I'd feign lose me to rain's soft calm as twere,
Yea, fly away upon those wings we knew
By instinct, though we could not see them, poor
As saying.  No sparrow calls, and what would woo?

21Mar19a
Yo.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
(sonnet #MMMMMCDXXIX)


I've rolled the phrase "white rime upon--" in frail
Excuse across my tongue oer tea's intense
Note in that morning cuppa, as defense
For something while cold porridge' stiff detail
Was forked twixt apple slices in the pale
Eye of uncertain dawn whose warming sense
Would filter shafts through skeletons I'd thence
Termed all the naked trees stance, and what's bail?
If Febry opes with silence as it were,
What's new?  Mine's colder in the frozen view
No voice breaks oer, the blueish distance poor
Light watches sans aught joy because I knew
Not to thence cherish Mum, or failed our tour
Of hours together now she's gone.  Frost cue?

01Feb16a
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-FNpEJkpwQ]Don't answer.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Ya, I'll say everything, except all I know about...him.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCIII)


Dear rain whose mincing footfalls but avail
The fellow working in thy moist kiss hence,
High in the scaffold where that silence thence
Does not quite cozen him, as he could hail
Each little noise if he desires, the pale
Eye of this first new day of Spring fr'intents
Is tender in its frore note, with a sense
Of all we cherished just in tow, to scale.
And like this season of auld loves we were
Taught was keen on romance, I wish he knew,
Nor was as now a fragile dream roused fer
My sheer distraction cuz chance thought to do
Me in by circumstance.  I pray in tour,
Yet am afraid to ask if he does...woo.

20Mar19c
NOTE:  Alas, I've taken to rising the past two mornings assuring myself that all this foolishness is passed with the previous day, to no avail.  Mayhap tomorrow?  I hate this idiocy.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
Funny...less that two weeks later how foreign this is.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXII)


Lo, ****** white tinged purple, for a sense
Of sorrows' keenest wailing, and so frail
To boot, lies now in state, as drying t'avail
The first petunia Joe gave me, what hence?
I wonder what the weekend shall from thence
Be, eh?  He's sposed to call.  Nor in betrayl
Does he know I'm a ******?  That detail
Waits chance to take its bow in sheer defense.
This white tank, pink-bowed floral skirt as twere
Ah, party clothes last summer when we'd brew
Espressos over beef, with wine to do
Our seance good in mid-July, was't poor
For groc'ry shopping?  I forgot.  His pure
Choice in a flowr--I can't help loving too.

30Jun17a
*takes a low bow* I guess it/we only lasted two months.  Whatever.
Jenny Gordon Sep 2017
sigh* a day later, when Saturday's mad pile of work was a memory, it literally tasted like water.  Now, how did that happen?  



(sonnet #MMMMDCXLIV)


Mists waft with curious fragrance' odd detail
Upon the creamy surface of those scents'
Brown claim of coffee in my mug, to fence
Thin hope with old chagrin as morning's pale
Light watches from its cloudy vantage' scale
Of truth, where ghostly layers shift oer pretense
And grey asks white to call it blue from thence,
My breakfast:  ***** dishes 'hind th'exhale.
It's nat'nal cereal day, so in a poor
Excuse I added Malt-O-Meal to do
The favours with our wonted pancakes, fer
A whopping stack of edibles.  Yes, two
Eggs, bacon, and a touch of fruit.  If you're
Still hungry, there's no coffee.  I love you.

07Mar15a
Don't give me lectures regarding old coffee as it's long been a favourite of mine over steamy fresh.  Yes, another old piece of work, to boot.
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.

03Apr13f
[http://poetfreak.com/205509/id-miss-my-friends.html]
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 Jul 2017
Telling one of my older brothers about it all, from last Fall's shenanigans to now, he said, "it's sad."



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXIII)


Not when a summer's lengthy hours avail,
But now the blackness of night's cooler sense
Culls crickets to play serenades frogs thence
Reply in bass notes to, write in betrayl.
As Mozart's timeless strains lend that detail
Of class I did not feel ere, and lo, hence
A notion of too many years 'go, whence
I nestle like I"m twenty' gain, what's bail?
Joe's contact info.  Ha.  What is that fer,
Eh?  I've called twice, to tell him of it to
His face ("yes, if I'm gone to bed--") and were
La, texting useful, I have done that too.
Oh silence!  Friday evening's late, and's poor
To harp on that.  But how I miss who'd woo.

30Jun17b
...I suppose the question was what exactly he labelled as sad?  I pressed him to no avail after wearing his ear off detailing it all.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2018
...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXL)


Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence
Ne words for aught.  To be suffices.  Pale
Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail,
As I wish to be out there listning, whence
Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense
Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail.
And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl,
I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense.
We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir.
Wash dishes after, while the dark night to
Effect is black, so very black.  Who tour
Upon these roads are like the fireflies through
Warm August twilight.  Oh!  What is't as twere?
Why's writing such a chore?  Will being just do?

10Oct18c
Please dinna waste your time trying to correct supposed spelling errors since I deliberately penned it thus for ease of reading.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
What's more perhaps frightening is to begin to waken to the subtler fact I've embraced and cherish this "new era" which 2000 supposedly ushered in, is it?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXVII)


"That was a diffrent--" yes, what, in betrayl?
The sevnties had their time.  The eighties' sense
I quite abhor, though raised in them.  Pretense
Waltzed naked through the nineties.  What, oh they'll
Call since "the noughts" was that new era's frail
Excuse for "now," which is so diffrent hence
Let's say I knew it by sheer instinct, whence
Forsooth, what zactly when ye want detail?
O, tis "pastoral" now to watch what'd stir
Folk in the sevnties.  I was too young to
Know aught but early childhood's joys in tour.
And wherefore I deplore, ya HATE the crew
Of years known as "the eighties" I as twere
Don't know.  Yet, what's THIS time we now live through?

29Mar19c
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkWaHJyA2eY
So, the previous sonnet and this are something like a pair of fraternal twins.  Hence, you've the link for the 1979 version of the song in that one, and the 2016 version here.  Enjoy?
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