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

Hi.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXIV)


O tender blue skies!  How I yearned fr'intents
To sit out on the back stoop, listning, frail
As aught excuse, to breathe again, inhale
That fresher air and simply be.  Tis hence
Gone with the madder hours of work, that sense
I'd yet escape outdoors lost with the hale
Eye of sweet minutes I looked oer t'avail
Me of, sans that recure in poor defense.
Alas.  How I forgot to roll as twere
Whichever words across my tongue to do
The vision up now, is't?  Like, is't in poor
Reply for saying "...the Maple--" lo, um to
Effect an oak whose crimson buds 'gain stir
Now in the breeze?  Bet violets smile now too.

25Mar19c

Or?  Go figure.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXIII)


What? as night's blackness is passe in frail
Excuse, the hours now merely for good sense
Um, stacking up whiles I close down from hence
This slim machine for lack of aught else' tale,
And this where Twitter promised to avail
Itself of all my minutes--all's fr'intents
Too dead, dull, boring--I've moved on, pretense
Worn to a frazzle in aught that I'd hail.
Remember:  "I should write more--" to bestir
Me, yet ideas have flown off unto
Is't nether regions?  cuz I "watched in tour"
Who cares who?  Fashions.  "Follow her--what you
Should wear is...THIS."  I've MY own style, in poor
'Scuse, am ergo at odds with all, cool too?

25Mar19b

Do NOT enquire regarding the title.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXI)


O rain!  I'd plans lo, in the werks--t'avail
Me of the naked woods in tour fr'intents
Of violets.  That is lost as I mull thence
The joys of sitting on the stoop's detail
Jist to, erm, breathe.  And lo, in sheer betrayl
To write THAT kills the chance as twere, as hence
Those priceless minutes are most strangely whence
I canna say, lost--more in tow--sans bail.
Yes.  It is freaky.  Why'd my earring, fer
All that, fly off?!  Just where I'd rush out to
That spot and settle me to breathe in tour,
Lo, how I spent it praying, and searching too.
Rain slipped off on the wings of gloaming, poor
As all MY dreams.  And I was laughing.  You?

24Mar19c

Ya, JUST a moment, hahaha.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCX)


Lo, dinna argue thoughts or words are hence
As light as we prefer to think.  In pale
Excuse, I wrote "tell him that he [t'avail]
Can laugh at her who nursed a crush"--and thence
Could swear that someone surely did fr'intents.
Whiles lo, write down "none woo" t'erase that.  Frail
Praps as the mention, lo, how sparrows hail
Me with such happy cries--what of that sense?!
E'en further, write "...IF I could breathe--" to stir
Complete loss of the twinkling 'ssurance who
Was gone?  Now what is there to do, in poor
'Scuse for these stanzas which seem are sans cue
Put up just by suggestion to, in tour,
Be held against me is't?  Oh, what is new?!

24Mar19b

I was, too.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCIX)


Let's see...rain draws up silver puddles' tale
Of being upon the blacktop, where suspense
Is fast asleep cuz Sunday augured thence
Mair calm than it could e'er endure, the pale
Eye of uncertain hours with half a frail
Thought dawn played hooky for all that, a sense
None can e'en yawn worn out as sheer pretense
Was quite arraigned in morn's half light:  sans bail.
I roll words 'cross my tongue at lunch as twere,
And sparrows take the chance to gaily cue
Fond smiles til conversation rules in tour.
Now's time to put on rice to boil anew,
Warm refried beans for dinner, lo, bestir
Me fin'lly to jot down a note...where to?

24Mar19a

So there.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCVIII)


How black night's swallowed all whenas fr'intents
My back was turned, lost in the search t'avail
Me of the Beatles' first whole concert they'll
Assure aught therein had McCartney's thence
Um first rendition of that song which hence
Has been playing on repeat in sheer betrayl
For how long now?  Whiles oh, dear me!  in frail
Excuse I see more clearly hope's pretense.
Watch, not dear Paul nor John to see as twere
He is:  a man.  No.  Him just talking to
An older gent.  If I'd forgot in poor
'Scuse I'm a very silly girl, I knew
It slowly in a blink.  What folly'd stir
Days ere I canna rue enough.  Laugh too?

23Mar19d

Wonder what on earth THAT designation means, again?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCVII)


O do the violets peer ere yet March fail?
For how the Goldfinch merr'ly sing from hence
While lo, which sparrows woo as Mavis thence,
And robins knew to lilt?  Ere shadows trail
Across the blacktop, doilies to avail,
As blue heavns seem so warm, 'til I fr'intents
Maunt bear to stay indoors, how sweet tis! whence
Read through th'antholgy which auld flowrs detail.
Now I've a taste of Andrew Marvel fer
All he's been touted for his sonnets through
Suggestion I leave off the rules in poor
'Scuse, likeas he did with an extra two
Lines for whatever, I maunt yet bestir
Me to be naughty, tho' I wish he'd woo.

23Mar19c

I can't EVEN breathe



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCVI)


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

23Mar19b

...of the world."



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCV)


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

23Mar19a