[I bet you thought I did nothing all day.]



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXII)


Mourn in the greyish eye of dawn's void sense,
Those blue skies ere that darkness swallowed hale
Notes of sheer April.  Yes.  Ignore, t'avail
My soul again by memry, though's pretense.
Grab up the notebook, inking for intents
That thought which last night rolled as if to scale
Across my tongue, how "daylight savings'" bail
Is long since quite forsworn without defense.
Grey racks like Shakespeare knew oft could as twere
Yield heavn's eye chance to slip unknown all through
From East to West preside, and I demur
To catch aught languid note's detail.  Thus brew
Morn's *** of Barry's tea, with toast in tour
For taste.  And write of yesterday like'd do.

11Mar19b

(Intending to ink this early Sunday evening, twas useful I didn't....



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXI)


Think:  "they said twas a war-time measure..." pale
Skies washed of clouds as golden light from hence
Bathes these lost wastes with April's freighted sense
Of violets just in tow; as blue heavns hail
The dinner table set with plates t'avail
Our refried beans, cheese, yoghurt, chips fr'intents,
Where all have better things to do, pretense
Trimmed to half curtsy whiles I search for bail.
So I dined when the clock said "now." in tour,
And yearn to linger, watching those deep blue
Heavns which cull shadows to cavort as twere
In Sunday evning's calm.  Yet that won't do.
I wash the dishes; study all, then fer
Whatever, scamper off til gloaming'd woo.

11Mar19a

I am.  So there.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIX)


What? as firs whisper hoarsely to th'exhale,
Winds howling down the chimney, sirens thence
Lo, chasing which or whom on Sunday?  Dense
Cloud racks are peach, grey-blue in tow, the pale
Eye of these empty hours with what detail
I feel now in my bones?  Don't ask me whence.
"*** off yer soapbox."  Silence culling sense
Unto the 'fore as I'd talk, where is bail?
She'd post th'espresso break with this note fer
That: "necessary." I said yes, I knew.
Post Raisin Bran for breakfast...I had two.
Ne fancy artwork on milk's foam in tour,
I'd savour that, and feel the boxes'd stir
My lecture 'til he...walked away.  What's new?

10Mar19a

What's left to add?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVIII)


How odd rain looks now! dancing madly hence
Upon new puddles as snow watches (hale
Yet shrinking e'er so slightly 'fore the tale
Of actual water coming down!) a sense
As wont of silver mists half winking thence
Within the eye of languid minutes frail
Light haunts.  What whispers likeas twould avail
The soul as I see now lo, rain?  and whence?
I 'gin to feel a captive as it'd stir
Across these long dead wastes...like, to walk through
The naked woods might shew me in that tour
Mayhap the first hints of ist violets?!  Do
We yearn so much for fragile life as twere,
That e'en this note of warmth stirs in me too?

09Mar19b

I suppose we never are.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVII)


As steam wafts up in whitish tendrils' pale
Dance, likeas figures which cavort from hence
In ghostly silence til the ether thence
Half swallows them--as spirits in betrayl
Taen into heaven ist?  Look past, t'avail
Me of the world beyond this window, whence
See how fir boughs nod to chill breaths for sense
While lo, the Maple's naked yet, calm frail.
This first cup black, we're being good Swedes I'm sure,
And savour all the more what Daddy'd brew
Upon that note.  Remember too as twere
My sister'n'law who'd drink joe like I knew
Old seasoned captains would:  black.  And in poor
Still voiceless naught, the radio chatters too.

09Mar19a

The camera's eye is perhaps more effective than words, or?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVI)


I've watched the velvet roses blush fr'intents,
To see how crimson darkly fades, the tale
Of daffodils and tulips sweetly hail
Each "...dew-empearled morn--" and bow with sense
Of age; mine own locks gathring silver thence
As months tripped by sans backward glance, and pale
Though keen chagrin now I'm as cheese t'avail
And ver'ly aged, I mourn which loss from hence?
The minutes that would tiptoe as rain'd stir
While frogs crooned love songs whenas gloaming'd woo
I relished, dreaming of this man in poor
Excuse, or that.  Lo, now I beg of You,
LORD, to please give me marriage and in tour
Mine own sweet children.  Death laughs oer the view.

08Mar19b

Mebbe later I'll understand.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLV)


Ploughs scrape through morning's sullen eye in hail,
As lo, white answers from the pavement hence,
Eaves dripping like it's not sae bitter thence,
Til oh! whose lines trip off my tongue to scale?
Is't William Caldwell Roscoe's? in betrayl:
"Lo, on the ground, white snow--" and ah, fr'intents
I know he said twas Febry daybreak, whence
He'd say her love raised him from Death, t'avail.
Love is a thing since buried with as twere,
My mother, as watch how snow melts anew
In slower fashion whiles a sense in tour
Of all erst wont to be familiar through
The years now rises to the 'fore.   We stir
Talk of old 'puter games oer breakfast, too.

08Mar19a

...LORD willing, that is.  After all, February was cancelled for other plans...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIV)


I said these stanzas are so full fr'intents
Of me, me, me that folk in sheer betrayl
Can't savour them, like ole Limburger's scale
Of cheese that's like a ***** toilet's scents;
But she was far too nice, and like friends thence,
Would contradict, to say I'm rather (frail
As aught excuse) lo, cream Havarti's bail:
"Deceptively [what?!] mild."  Is that pretense?
So we'll perhaps THIS month go check out fer
Good taste that bookshop's poe'try gig that who
Invited she'd submit her work unto?
Well, he gave her his card.  I'll go with her
To clap cuz that's what friends are for, in poor
Scuse for none liking MY work.  Fun for two.

07Mar19d

Alas.  Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLIII)


Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain?  Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies.  What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?

07Mar19c

...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