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Ah, Mediocrity, you pernicious and insidious killer!
You live through the Good Enough, the So-and-So.
You make dull the genius; a philistine of the sinner!
You slow the clock to maintain the status quo!
No matter what I do or how I try, you are always there,
Conniving in the dark, outside my imagination.
A villain of the artist indeed! A true nightmare!
The perpetual source of my mind's sedation.
Perhaps it is not you that is the real culprit?
Perhaps it is the ones that love you, that adore you?
I have indulged you before, ashamed I am to admit,
Your raison d'etre is profitable, surely tried and true.
But I have greater aims than you! It is Heaven I strive for!
The mountain that I climb has no place for a *****.
Yes, I know a sonnet technically has to be written in iambic pentameter. But I don't know how and I'm a bit of idiot, so consider it artistic license.
Kate 4d
The moon has stirred, in darkness glints give way
To deer who doze in haze of purple mist.
It's time for sleep and all its wake to stray,
I slip within the deepest peace I've kissed.

I hope to see the day of night, a dream,
A nocturne played with roaring harps and keys.
I dance along the river Past, upstream
Are birds who sing among the carps and bees.

From scene to scene I learn and scream and gawk
At angels, floating in my lilac hue,
And then I wake, in heat of warmth or shock
To find the deer are awake in wonderment too.

I ask are dreams prophetic? Thoughts divine?
Or needless as a moon beneath his kine?
...couldn't arrive at a decent title, sorry.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCIV)


While lo, the eaves drip with a fragile sense
As of a leaky faucet, sparrows hail
With sweetest cries, and oh! now which detail?
Tis frore, yet with the dishes washed fr'intents
I'm warm enow for half a minute's dense
Chance of mere seconds just to breathe, as pale
Hours trim their painted nails to traffic's scale
As twere of passage ere we've dinner hence.
Too soon flown, even as the birds in tour,
Just overhead whiles I am scribbling, blue
Is not so much heavn's glance but clouds as twere,
Though how that piercing eye burns hotly through
Where we are settling down to soup.  Was't poor
I'd only minutes on the stoop?  What's new?

20Mar19d
The difficulty was in finishing this stanza, and how typing it up to post culled all manner alterations which I did not yield to.
Ya, I'll say everything, except all I know about...him.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCIII)


Dear rain whose mincing footfalls but avail
The fellow working in thy moist kiss hence,
High in the scaffold where that silence thence
Does not quite cozen him, as he could hail
Each little noise if he desires, the pale
Eye of this first new day of Spring fr'intents
Is tender in its frore note, with a sense
Of all we cherished just in tow, to scale.
And like this season of auld loves we were
Taught was keen on romance, I wish he knew,
Nor was as now a fragile dream roused fer
My sheer distraction cuz chance thought to do
Me in by circumstance.  I pray in tour,
Yet am afraid to ask if he does...woo.

20Mar19c
NOTE:  Alas, I've taken to rising the past two mornings assuring myself that all this foolishness is passed with the previous day, to no avail.  Mayhap tomorrow?  I hate this idiocy.
...anything?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCII)


So, blue heavns hid 'non by a veil fr'intents
Of stringy clouds, I rolled that to avail
Across my tongue thus:  "cirrus clouds to scale--
Lo, change of weather scheduled..." like twas sense,
And checked the forecast to see what from thence;
Watched how the golden light cast firs' detail
Upon the blacktop likeas doilies' tale,
Yet plumb forgot to ink whate'er was.  Whence?
Sip tea in morning's weepy note as twere,
While rain just tiptoes 'cross the silent view;
Hark yet in vain for sparrows' playful cure;
Want cream to no avail as if that'd do,
'Til oh!  What's left to jot down?  All's not poor,
But I'm half tongue-tied, like's not vain.  What's new?

20Mar19b
Oh well.
I have no excuse for myself, I know [ducks head]*  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCI)


Oh! I'd forgotten wherefore aught that'd hail
Was never inked, why Tristram Shandy thence
Seemed cure enow, and why I slept fr'intents
In lieu of posting la, my work t'avail.
Yes, sleep was that fine drug which in betrayl
Washed clean the mental chalkboard in defense
Of some remote attempt at fragile sense,
Until he chose to be where--what?! tis stale.
I 'fessed at one weak moment, "I've in poor
'Scuse lo, a crush on...him."  Alas.  That'd do
Me in for keeps, left swooning as it were
When night 'gain cozened all, and whispring to
Myself, "I wish he missed me too!"  Rain's tour
Is sweet, but I'm a mess because of who?

20Mar19a
Honestly, I forbore to write anything at all, in hopes of not inking this damning piece.
...if nothing else.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXC)


Turns out I shoulda said lo, "shamrock" hence
Was it?  Aw, dearest me, how that detail
Called "leprechauns" had far more 'ppeal; and stale
As donning green to match me ein's green sense
Of hazel, la dee dah! the Duchess thence
Defined all in a darker pine tone's scale
'Til guess I lose for all I've Irish.  They'll
Not even care twas Barry's Tea fr'intents.
And I wore purple too, and blue, as poor
From thereon out that I donned green's fine hue.
O laugh at me!  I wanted violets too--
Tae go a huntin' fer them damsels we're
Sae sure to miss, hid e'er in shadows.  You're
Not pinked I tried to curtsy now, are you?

19Mar19c
Oh, just having a little fun here.  Duchess of Cambridge, if you cared two bits.
Ha, and THIS while "Dance of the Blessed Spirits" lilts*





(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXIX)


How sparrows cry in sweetest notes, t'avail
Me of such happy smiles! As if we thence
Might laugh instead of being, is't sober hence?
And blue heavns look so clean in sheer all hail,
Like feeling in our bones thet time of hale
Songs is upon us is not false, the sense
Of baited breath loosed whiles these blue skies fence
The hours in more expansive notes' detail.
I wrestle with that spirit which'd bestir
My soul to singing and 'non tripping through
These golden minutes all seems welcomes fer
Is't oh, the millionth time as wont?  I do
Not know which way to turn, am as it were
Now stifled on the threshold as all woo.

19Mar19b
The LORD be magnified.
...and they're STILL giggling.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXVIII)


Men quip lo, "Giggly girls...completely clueless [thence]--"
To say,  "No,..." and I wish there was t'avail
This manual titled "How To Vex Him," pale
As aught excuse, cuz to appease from hence
His wrath I've accident'ly roused (where sense
Had been a child on holiday, in frail
Reply for being a girl and prone to hail
Dawn's pure blue skies with smiles)...owns ne defense.
I tiptoe where just minutes ere in tour
Being like some carefree butterfly anew
Seemed it could be forgivn.  Like twas not:  poor.
Yes, muse in sipping coffee first, in lieu
Of cherished tea, yes, poor man's tea, if fer
Such joys I must be chastised?  Swear I knew?!

19Mar19a
I'm serious.  Read how the exchange of the Serpent and the woman proceeds very, very carefully.  That's a woman for you.
...how I miss all we erst knew.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXXVII)


Ask, while the kettle boils wherefore, in pale
'Scuse, brew morn's *** of tea again?  And thence,
As whitish tendrils waft up, up--why hence
Jot down the soothing dance of steam's detail?
If tis yet worth the effort in betrayl?
This cuppa I have yearned to sip, defense
Enow when oh, my fainting heart's suspense
Cried for its bracing note likeas'd avail?
Tis gone ere I've a chance to notice fer
All that the minute to half breathe anew.
Work nags and tugs upon my sleeve as twere,
While "conversation" drives aught peace unto
Another planet, til all I'd bestir,
Held in dawn's cuppa, is not.  Ah, what's new?

18Mar19
Will ye call THIS "growing up" eh?!
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