...I'm all mixt up, am I?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXI)


Sweet blue skies with soft gilded clouds t'avail,
Red Maples' baby leaves now flutter hence
So lightly, and how dandelions thence
With sunny yellow heads dot green lawns' trail
To yonder as songs flit and call like bail
From every bush, tree, covert, nook, a sense
Of all we cherished in that note, no scents
Of pine, fresh grass nor clover to inhale.
But how the lake now ripples as winds stir
Across its face, the sparrows gaily too
'Non calling as geese rest. If plovers cure
Night's blackness, how frogs chorus through
The welcome touch of chill. And Shakespeare, poor
As subterfuge, remains cloaked. What is new?

23Apr25e

...neither of us.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXX)


She calls to tell me of the wondrous scents
Now wafting in from her oped windows hale
In clover and fresh grass, whose sweet detail
Is not, she sez, though that can't be pretense;
And I am glad for her. Wisconsin dense
In such is far too perfect. I'd avail
Me but I am in Lincoln's Land sans bail,
And country living hers, I've no defense.
Best friends now from a distance, what is poor
Is we can't hang out anymore. We knew
Such parties in the day, shared dishes fer
The fun of it, went groc'ry shopping too,
Together, and now only have as t'were
Our phones. Thou gav'st all, LORD, and we wait You.

23Apr25d

Ah, dearest Will, you win, hands down.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXIX)


Dear William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, they'll
Not know you as you are. Tis as fr'intents
You wanted; oer four hundred years quite dense
With progress have erased you; that detail
Used then to masque is all they know t'avail
Them of as, "in black ink [my]Love-" fr'intents
Not thee, "may still shine bright." Tis called pretense
Whenas I try t'acknowledge thee. I've no bail?
The "gordian knot" who set in place to stir
That world back then has worked so well, what's true
Is not known now. As for thy Love, in poor
Reply what Francis Meres knew shall not do,
You are a pervert now. Your love in tour
"May still shine bright," yet your Love is just who?

23Apr25c

Hmm.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXVIII)


Tis Shakespeare's birthday, and his sonnets' sense
Of who he was, with notes of that detail,
Preserved "in black ink" like he knew'd avail,
Yet nary read by most, still face fr'intents
School children who would rather find defense
In play, but where I've learned much, likeas bail,
Including when the seasons are, in frail
Excuse for what we're taught, til what's pretense?
I wonder. For he clearly knew as t'were
What is, and what shall be. Or did he through
Whatever means but know the half in tour?
That this earth is reserved for fire how few
Know even now? What good is black ink? We're
Not going to read aught then. LORD, we wait You.

23Apr25b

...as does 1580.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXVII)


Rain falls likeas a nursemaid's calm voice hale
In tender solace, where the light from hence
Has not resolved itself, and night seems thence
Reluctant to depart, the soothing scale
Of sheer relief what children gladly hail
When fevered as myself, for tis defense,
The soul aware within that note of whence
Being still hid by sheer mists, but what'd avail.
Late morning, how the dove calls from as t'were
Near yet half distant, sparrows, and geese too
'Non chatt'ring as the feast called breakfast's tour
Waits for indulgence, eggs, tomato to
Grapes, bacon, cottage cheese, banana fer
All that and brie with apple asking who?

23Apr25a