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Jenny Gordon May 3
Ye never need the finer details so here are a few for mystique.


Dad's vacuum coffee *** stands in the frail
And ghastly eye of Sunday's wee hours, dense
Calm not at all asleep, but poised from hence
Likeas a tiger waiting in betrayl
To spring upon the first noise breaching pale
Erm, silence' freighted null.  We don't breathe thence,
Nor shift within our beds...til dawn's bright sense
Of "it's a new day!" draws the curtains, hale.
I slept through his alarm and maunt bestir
Til late, cuz slumber was a thing chased through
Sae many hours, I mourned sleep would not cure
My soul of aught.  And Dad's now grinding, true
To form, espresso beans, tae pull shots per
Our Sunday wont.  What of the dream I knew?

And now, whomever will may watch the wild unravelling of Jennifer's attempts to...what, again?  First day of the week, and I didn't sonneteer about everything.  But read the diary pages and it's hardly a secret by Thursday night...
Jenny Gordon Mar 22


I lick my finger slowly, with a sense
In closing as of stealing frosting, pale
As aught compare, th'espresso's foam detail
Tinged subtly with milk's sweetness for intents,
Like that finale suited for it hence,
The rainy blacktop half dried in betrayl,
While minutes tiptoe by on wings more frail
Than insects' glassy touch we note from thence.
Prepare their lunch with baggies for as twere
Thin cleanliness, cuz honey's sticky to
A fault; cube our potato like in tour
What, eh?  I tossed my brother's typed note, knew
Not that twas worth aught, and discuss how poor
Tis that all's typed, not writ by hand.  And you?

Interesting thought, eh?
Jenny Gordon Mar 10
I am.  So there.  


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?

Well, I mean, I've this subscription to First Things, and receive two essays late Sunday morning.  Needless to say, I've put off reading them for the moment, anyway.
Jenny Gordon Mar 10


Blue skies lo, nary cloud blots for intents
Warm on these frozen wastes as trash' detail
Flirts 'cross the puddles like a bird in pale
Excuse who, washing up as wont, shakes thence
His wings, light flashing off them with a sense
Of summer's carefree minutes, whiles to scale
Ice glares more coldly from the corners frail
Ghosts of thin warmth ne'er touch but tis pretense.
Dad pulls espressos, foaming milk in tour
As all baristas, yet sans flourish, to
Leave that to sheer caprice I find as twere,
Whiles I feign then to ascertain a view
Of this or that, which he half tol'rates fer
The mystry is't? of all we sorta knew.

Doubtless there are definitely better titles than this one.
Jenny Gordon Jun 2018

So, if I wait until the morrow, pale
As aught excuse, we might continue thence
This theme:  I meant to scribble--for intents.
Espresso.  With sweet conversation, bail
For many years, passe, lost in betrayl
Since April was't?  This morning likeas hence
We'd never ceased, I sip with Dad, a sense
Of sweeter hours in tow as if t'avail.
And Wordsworth oer last bits of coffee, to
Effect where Sunday afternoon in tour
Could don a sense of happier years we knew
When Mum was still with us.  O tis a poor
Suggestion.  I cooked lunch with mishaps fer
Reminders of the LORD's great mercies:  new.

My boyfriend saying he'd like to see this, now ally'alls can too.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018 Mum taught me.

(sonnet #MMMMMMCMIX)

Did sparrows gaily call as wont, t'avail
Espresso with Dad's lecture of a sense
Long since forgotten, just where blue skies fence
Is't Sunday morning's placid airs as frail
White clouds lent April's winking eye a pale
Note of grey yonder, what? for aught intents?
How Janry owns the jest was poor as hence
These naked wastes look dead, likeas to scale.
O yes, they market florals ere March tour,
Cuz stylish girls must be the first to do
Um, April Fools a proper notice.  We're
All shivring in wool rollnecks now, but you
Just want mair golden hours to cull what'd stir
That keener sense Spring shall anon debut.

Well, a fashion party the beginning of January landing me with a pretty pair of filigreed silver drop earrings with faux diamonds, I have no necklace to pair with the same, noting afresh ruefully that pearls do NOT match.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
The perhaps freaky thing is from the first occasion to the last, the affair leaves me disillusioned.


They pulled shots on more fancy presses' scale
Of lo, espresso, than we know, tae thence
Pass 'round the little porc'lain mug for sense
And comment.  Bells and whistles to avail
Whomever of sheer grandeur was't? would hail
Their newr machines as ultmate for intents,
Dad sez.  And we rolled 'cross our tongues th'intense
Black tazos, sip by sip, til such'd wax stale.
Fire up the grill, next:  play the epicure,
As now mein host two diffrent cuts put to
Our palates and good taste.  Wine to assure
Souls twas the height of whocareswhat, we knew
Such conversations, laughter, and for sure:
Philosphy.  Problem's:  I can't think what's new.

See last year's sonnet down there in the pile-up below for a similar but different angle on this above.

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