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Jenny Gordon May 2019
Or do you simply wade in a fog through both sith the idiot box leaves souls in a perpetual trance?


I've heard of whipporwills ere now, a sense
Of romance in the mention, that detail
Which Wordsworth spelled out plainly in betrayl
False as it ever was, eh?  Or what thence?
Perhaps.  Where tall woods hem us in fr'intents,
Fire dancing as orange licks at logs t'avail,
Gnats, either by the spray or dusk, gone, they'll
Begin, a call I learn to hear from hence.
Tis nary dream.  The lone deer I glimpsed fer
Effect in that field of alfalfa dew
Was settling on near twilight (seems) in tour
So perfect.  Where dusk's blueish veil fell through
That lively calm, hark to what as it were
Calls from the distance, as't draws new.

Whipporwills...I can't be thankful enough they in particular intro'd me to those fabled birds since the twist he made of their call fit too perfectly.
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.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Ha, all the little details my daddy worried over me about is it?


O how the dove coos softly in dawn's pale
Eye!  Warmth a light caress as songs trill thence
Through Sunday's hallowed peace, a ghostly sense
Of silence hovers as none else t'avail
Breathe here except the wind whose cool exhale
'Non whispers through tall grass and leaves fr'intents,
Morn's golden shafts upon the mowed lawn hence
Like fragile notes playing hide-n-seek, to fail.
Showrd, dressed, start that machine for coffee, poor
As using canned joe after I've penned through
The years so many lines on beans as twere
FRESH-ground; boil water for my porridge too--
That "instant" stuff I oft deplored--and fer
Aught see how last night's rain winks as the dew.

NOTE:  That closing note is the answer I failed to acknowledge, else I never should have written this naughty complaint.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Well, in discussions since, I'm torn only because I cherish socializing, though I abhor the city.


Out where twa rivers meet, or rather thence
Lo, at the top of that peninsla's tail,
In Calhoun County where farm houses hail
At scattered intervals, with half a sense
Of sheer depression hard in tow fr'intents,
They show me where folk lived sans plumbing's scale
As twere of "civ'lized," cell phone service frail,
Point out the pump:  an outhouse their defense.
I ask how long they lived thus, and that's poor,
Cuz "all their lives!" (the answer) sez what? to
Me in effect?  I canna say.  We tour
Their property by A.T.V., the view
Romantic in its backwoods' fashion.  Were
I thinking what, that all half seems tae woo?

The mental image which culled this particular title was jesters' silky clown suit divided by two opposing purple and yellow or something.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Is it "funny" how miniscule my writing is when's done from the back seat?


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.

Oh, four hours there and the same back, it was worth it.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...I lose.


Lo:  men.  Do NOT tell him, "I don't care hence
About you--" for whatever cause.  In pale
Excuse it's back on track and we're to scale
What, eh?  Forget the little things fr'intents:
Th'espressos Dad enjoyed with me; that sense
Of ah, delicious rain! The sweet detail
Of coffee with a dear friend--you prevail.
It does not matter what I try.  Now whence?
I messaged YOU on Instagram.  What fer?!
I'd comment on YOUR YouTube vids, and too,
Left one on Twitter.  YOU ignore all, poor
As trying to uh, communicate with YOU.
It's face to face:  that's all.  YOU win.  Ya, stir
Me to those "nutty smiles" oer...YOU.  What'

I, I, don't know what to say.  Besides, what don't you know already?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Oh yes.  You ARE jealous--


Thou and thy hangdog airs!  In sheer betrayl,
You started it.  My brother told me thence
Who left?  and I said "...I don't care from hence
Cuz--(nevermind)."  So who is now to scale
'Non showing off that, erm, I do?!  In frail
Excuse for all this foolishness, whose sense
Has fueled this madness?!  Yours, for all intents.
Yet wherefore do we thus go on sans bail?
I swear, no sooner do I throw as twere
The towel in on this game, but lo, twon't do.
You're back in gear to circumvent my poor
Attempts at moving on.  You like me too?
No, that can't be.  But oh!  Tomorrow.  You're
What, eh?  Not jealous of my smiles, are you?

Okay.  *slams his door to let me know he begs to differ with my bravado that "I don't care about--" and: YOU win.
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 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 May 2019
Tuesday in a nutshell, the week, for that matter.


Rain dances on vast puddles with a sense
Of that delicious wetness, where in pale
Excuse I maunt find one spare minute's bail
To steal a chance out where it'd whisper thence
Fair secrets to the listning few.  Note hence
That lightning flashes, thunder's deep exhale
In tow, and how my schedule shan't avail
Me of a chance to breathe for aught intents.
No, run, run, run, mair thankful thus in poor
Reply that lo, Thy mercies are e'er new.
And further, that "man does not live [in tour]
By bread alone--" but by Thy Word, while too
Besieged by what would drown me, 'cept for Your
Great lovingkindness...cept, LORD, cuz of You.

As if it's not been insanely busy and upside-down, trying to shrug off you is pointless when you realize that's what I'm trying to do.  O thou distraction!
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