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Jenny Gordon Apr 27
cough, cough*



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXVII)


Say twas an "appetizer" to avail
Keen hunger:  poor man's tea and biscuit thence
Sae dry and old, whiles I half shiver hence
In dawn's sheer absence, silence poised in frail
Morn's weary eye we need lights fer, to scale,
My bouncy cheer squelched in a blink cuz sense
Pulls me up short to quarrel like joy's pretense,
And I'll not serve the rye bread yet--sans bail.
How fresh-ground coffee's scent wafts, teasing poor
Desires to nearly swoon on that note's cue.
I'll stretch the butter for six toast in tour,
As well as soft-boiled eggs, if Thou'lt grant to
Me such.  And listen to the Scriptures fer
Just whither, cuz aught we have is of You.

27Apr19c
I forget what else to add here.
Jenny Gordon Apr 27
Oh, let's us sigh and swoon, shall we?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIII)


I swear these blue heavns look like June's detail
Back when we'd ***** through grassy trails, a sense
Of lazy hours in tow; pluck mullb'rries dense
With juicy sweetness til our lips to scale
Were purple as our tell-tale fingers, hale
Warmth like a pass'nate kiss we'd revel thence
In, naked arms free as the birds fr'intents,
Hearts as our limbs cavorting down aught trail.
But he pulls me up short to note how poor
The shadows are for such a thought.  These blue
Skies are expansive, that is true; winds stir
Wee Maple leaves to whispring on that cue,
Yet ah, tis nary as warm as our tour
Of forest glades once knew.  I feel what'd woo?

26Apr19c
*cough, cough*
The "he" in L9 is my brother.
Jenny Gordon Apr 27
...or Once Upon A Saturday Night



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXCVII)


With fingers cold as Death, arms naked, pale
In lamplight's ghastly note for aught intents,
Watch as the golden moon 'non rises hence
Huge and sae round as't slowly climbs t'avail
These darkened scapes whose silence maunt exhale,
Half breathless, nary voice to answer thence
Save lo, these men who work late in defense
Of deadlines is't? where I love which detail?
I'd planned to watch that movie 'gain in tour,
Yet oh! how bits and bytes have ceased tae woo,
As if there was at all excuse to stir
Was't simpler joys where even frogs don't cue?
If's lonely, guess I maunt escape in poor
Reply this hungry fate which swears I knew.

21Apr19a
This piece is a veritable beauty, dontcha think?
Jenny Gordon Apr 27
or Notes From, erm, Sunday [AFTER MIDNIGHT]

(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXXII)


So boot up, grab a coat, red scarf, and thence
Wade out to breathe afresh (like to inhale
Ole Winter is refreshing) and none hail
Save lo, the cardnal from a distant hence,
Erm, corner.  Ha, pretend in sheer defense
I don't care, though to roll upon that scale
Yes, "lonely" 'cross my tongue as each detail
Hangs frozen in keen silence haunts that sense.
The lake is as erst wont and still, grey fer
How very white all is!  Wee snowflakes to
Effect land in my hair I 'non in tour
Unloose and shake out whilst a robin, too,
Sans voice half stumbles to the Maple.  Poor
As talking when none answer, what's to do?

15Apr19a
Yo.
Jenny Gordon Apr 6
(Here's where I fully intended to write about..."him" and couldn't.)  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXLVII)


So, as rain waits 'non in the wings t'avail
Sweet April of its antique phrase, as hence
How traffic lines up to disperse, and thence
Lo, rolls bake in the oven to detail
Our soup with now a chance for, in betrayl,
Orange marmalade to boot, as sparrows fence
The freighted calm with happy calls fr'intents
--A robin too--the dove flies 'round to scale.
Donne's erm, Selected Poems lies as it were
Hard by whiles I defer to scribble through
These minutes til the timer calls, in poor
'Scuse smiling at the birds like that is to
Effect passe, the light as fragile fer
All that as warmth.  And really, what is new?

03Apr19c
Penned out *sigh* on the back stoop.
Jenny Gordon Apr 6
Ah, aka JF suggesting I could pull off "4 or 5 sonnets"--I took that and this was the final in that half hour just before midnight.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXL)


Ya, we sipped tea where whitish tendrils thence
Drew up that airy note of yonder, pale
And ghostly, likeas spirits in betrayl
E'er non in sheer ascent, with toast fr'intents
Ne conversation but that hallowed sense
Of I don't know what, til my brother'd hail--
Then talk, and back to work upon that scale,
While I waltzed through a dream like's not pretense.
Now as the furnace growls, the Scriptures fer
All that in Revelation, nothing's new.
Yet I'm confused.  How midnight knocks in tour,
The myriad influence of all I knew
Half urging me to chase down sleep to cure
This madness.  But that's not Thy Scripture's cue.

01Apr19d
Thanks to aka JF I have this...and since I DID write in lieu of retiring half sensibly before midnight, I began another, to discover twas AFTER midnight and the next day....
It is quiet in the dark
the winter air settles,
stagnant on the glass,
before the sun can thaw the sleeping dew

Striped wool hats and cracked leather gloves
emerge from the closet
to join a hopeless war.
They shamble,
illuminated by the high rise windows
dotting through the fog,
towards the front lines.
Catching the warmth from their breath

And for a split second,
just before it flits away,
they are dragons
#1 in my Year One collection, from notes on 10/29
Jenny Gordon Mar 10
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
Having been told that good Swedes drink their coffee black, I cringed.  And my first sister-in-law was not at all Swedish either.  I prefer cream, NO sugar, though.
PrttyBrd Dec 2018
I.
discolored snapshots
breathe life into memories with blurred edges
unabated joy in thoughts of, "forever will feel like this"
Silver Bells tasted like pine boughs and cinnamon

she built home out of air
filling lungs with life that made love
into the root of all things beautiful
ragtag Charlie Brown trees, the most beautiful of all

II.
Fall fell hard and the trees died too
lights and empty gestures, for the sake of children
eyes clenched in prayers that, "forever won't feel like this"
breathing in the smog of auld lang syne

can't save what couldn't be saved
sometimes things end without ending
love in seedlings or old oaks still scorch a heart
Silver Bells in saline reminders of nothing feels familiar

III.
stomped into submission beneath icy indifference
short breaths feel alive in crystal shards that penetrate lungs
when they try to break free from truth
normal in stifled emotions where a toothy grin pretends it's elation

Silver Bells smile without a voice to jingle in
and snapshots prove happiness is possible...or was--once
believing that angels walk with us
teaching us how to make love into the root of all things beautiful

maybe, "forever, we can try to build home out of air"
auld lang syne - /ôld laNG ˈzīn,ˈsīn
    noun - times long past

122318
203w
Swathilris Oct 2018
i.
Abyss.
Cocooned within an infinitely bounded vacuum
A smile eclipsed by resonating quiescence.
                         This emptiness
                                  kills.
I yearn to sculpt the carvings of camouflaged tears
through 3 am poetry
but yellow sheets emptier than my dreams
embrace
as I dangle amidst kaleidoscopes of barren yesterdays.
Even words have failed me tonight.

ii.
Chaos
Twirling against haemoglobin tiles
deranged voices heist the oxygen from my lungs
as I gasp
against a narrowing rib cage.
Insanity tattooed within mascara embroidered eyes
I hear you over and over
screaming, screaming, screaming,
and I explode
into scarlet fragments of nothingness.

iii
Adieu
I used to build esoteric constellations with
the stars in my eyes
and tuck away the moon underneath
my smile
But now my irises bleed the tales of fallen stars and a widowed sky.
Whiskey memories sway against burnt edges of my windowpane
as I spiral into an expanse of toxic ruins
of myself,
falling
falling
falling
falling











fallen.
A gun gives you the opportunity,
The thought pulls the trigger
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