Notice my play on words?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLIX)


Roll Soren Kierkegaard (nor dare exhale
As if the mention culls a sheer suspense)
Across your tongue, and spell "philospher" thence
Out slowly, to learn we were taught lies they'll
Assure us was for good, to countervail
His wisdom, whiles you're piqued for aught intents
Upon that note:  "they" would acknowledge, sense
Demanded it?  But hide what might avail.
I know "they" swore that Shelley was in poor
Scuse mad.  And now find Kierkegaard was too?!
Yet Bysshe had keener sense than all as twere,
Which I learn Soren did as well?  and who
"They" classed as what, eh, for all that?!  Go stir
The burning coals, for ashes whisper 'new.

21Jan19c

...unspeakable gift." (II Cor 9:15)



(sonnet #MMMMMMMLXXIV)


"They buried me with Mum."   That haunting sense
I'm just a pilgrim wandring in betrayl
These des'late wastes all else call home, sans bail
Despite new clothes, accessries for pretense,
And dearest friends to joy with me from hence
Or weep or who-cares-what, this world to scale
Some dish that wants salt, lacking flavour--they'll
Assure me tis grand--mocks life sans defense.
If Hollywood laughs in the face as twere
Of good and righteous, where designers too
Are filthy past all words and smiling fer
Applause, I'm sans a home sans her.  Then You
Remind me "one thing's needful---" to bestir
Hope that my home, LORD's:  You.  Life.  O!  Who knew?

06Apr18b