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Jenny Gordon May 2019
...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.


Vogue begs to know what "entertains" me.  They'll
Be certain I indulge in that cuz thence
By sheer default, who does not, eh?  My sense
Of that is either quite perverse sans bail,
Or mebbe true:  naught but distracts me, pale
As sich assertions that's my case from hence.
I'll laugh for this or that, watch for intents
Both movies, and the id'ot box t'avail.
Yet all's for mere DISTRACTION.  Joy is poor,
Quite frankly.  I am broken, smile as due,
And swear it's all a game of sheer, as twere:
Pretending.  Christians say that is not true.
So what am I?  My heart died whenas her
Heart did, and I'm a shadow, fading through.

Oh dear!  I think I put down recently that I'm not depressed.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
..add to that, "sleeping is a luxury; eating a privilege" MY definition.


Does coffee ever wake aught soul fr'intents?
Or do we merely welcome in betrayl
Caffeine's ole kick-start to the morning's hale
Note it is time to put off sleep?  Dad's sense
Of it I canna say, 'cept he'd swear thence
Twas to be lo, "enjoyed." not quaffed t'avail
The soul like medicine, no.  That detail
Could praps suffice, yet I'm confused still.  Whence?
And oh, tea does not mix with joe.  Tis poor
On both sides if you drink them both, each brew
No complement to th'other, as it were.
Yes, laugh at me.  Now "independent" two
Weeks running--sip tea first, to savour fer
All that what'd ope mine eyes; then joe's weak.  You?

I don't care how many of you swear that coffee wakes you up.  Until you've had MY cuppa tea, you don't know what it is to be wakened.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Forty-five...the number of years her parents were married.


So many things, I spose, beg to avail
Themselvs of lo, a voice now I've fr'intents
Taen up the page and pencil in defense
Of aught.  Tis Mum and Dad's erm, in betrayl,
Yes:  wedding annivers'ry, as sans bail
Now it was ere and e'er shall be, for sense.
Which other items wanted space from hence
Pale in the light of that note's keen detail.
I yearn to call Dad for that reason, too.
Yet how my pride is shown up as what'd stir
Me, is it eh?  Whence ****** ere I (as twere)
Begin, what's left?  Pride caused our rift, as to
Effect tis ever what the Scriptures fer
All that 'non prove:  oh LORD, save me, won't You?

L's 4-6--May 24th until further notice can only be (to me) my parent's wedding anniversary.  So there.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Can I plead that I don't know poor as that excuse?


****** up the tea cups Dad gave me, to thence
Drop all to get a hold of him, t'avail--
His dear initials on those twa cups hale
Reminders of my father, in defense
Of all he's givn me, 'spite my follies, whence
O how we talk in lieu of breakfast's scale
Of nour'shment!  Likeas when we could detail
Each other's eye and face--talk--for intents.
I knew he'd love the Calhoun County tour--
Twas all both he and Mum had cherished through
The years:  secluded, off the grid as twere,
Nor with the city's echo, quite poor too.
It's just the money.  What drove me to stir
Up independence was that cursed thing's cue.

Stinks I'm not back home with Dad...
Jenny Gordon May 2019
...straight and narrow, too.


Wash table, countertop I used fr'intents,
And brush past lo, her flat betrayl
The id'ot box now comes to life!  T'avail
Grab up the big remote and turn it thence
Off--like I could.  How it goes silent hence
But glares at me with "no connection," pale
Yet deadly on its face.  I yield up.  They'll
Know how to fix that, right?  What's not pretense?
If only I were as the sparrows, fer
All that!  How shall I "get there," eh?  What do
We in our mad haste for the dollar?  Were
Such efforts godly, why's so diff'cult too?
Lo, sell my time?  My body too?  What's poor
Is how I know, yet swear sich lies are true.

Where's the other sonnet I wrote on this topic?!  hidden back in my notebook's earlier pages, stink.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Or do you simply wade in a fog through both sith the idiot box leaves souls in a perpetual trance?


I've heard of whipporwills ere now, a sense
Of romance in the mention, that detail
Which Wordsworth spelled out plainly in betrayl
False as it ever was, eh?  Or what thence?
Perhaps.  Where tall woods hem us in fr'intents,
Fire dancing as orange licks at logs t'avail,
Gnats, either by the spray or dusk, gone, they'll
Begin, a call I learn to hear from hence.
Tis nary dream.  The lone deer I glimpsed fer
Effect in that field of alfalfa dew
Was settling on near twilight (seems) in tour
So perfect.  Where dusk's blueish veil fell through
That lively calm, hark to what as it were
Calls from the distance, as't draws new.

Whipporwills...I can't be thankful enough they in particular intro'd me to those fabled birds since the twist he made of their call fit too perfectly.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Note how the title comes directly from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.


As hunter's wont, the deer's skull hangs fr'intents
Upon the wooden porch, eye sockets' stale
And empty hollows staring in betrayl
Without a blink, forever, with a sense
Of Death behind their deeper look, pretense
Half shivring down to nothing, bones dried, frail
What? shrinking at the ghastly sight, birds hail
From greenest trees where life sings in defense.
And I...observe in silence, like as twere
Some child.  This womanhood I never knew,
Which crept on me ere I was 'ware, in tour
A joke which laughs 'non in my face.  Skies blue
With whiter cloud battalions, winds bestir
These Maples to soft whispers in what, too?

I wanted to detail the dried bones' appearance, to no avail.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Y'know, New Year's Eve 2015/2016 set my course for the unknown ever since, and guess this last one did also, now I begin to see.


O New Year's Eve, and Day!  I, stranded thence,
And all forlorn, saw what lay through the veil,
Mists parting for a glimpse of yonder's tale,
Where home was distant, strangers for intents
My compny as I stumbled through a sense
Of being cast on my own, whiles aught detail
Was frazzled, cheap, and I forced to, though pale,
Be erm, a grown-up like's not vain pretense.
I wanted to just die at first.  But's poor.
For lo, when gi'en the chance to keep still through
Great danger what I cherished, what as twere
Drove me to wander from my nest?  I knew
Those grey, cold hours of lonely silence' tour
That THIS road lay ahead.  I knew.  Why, too?

Haha, having given up on making new year's resolutions, now I find they simply and subtly give me half a window on my future.
Jenny Gordon May 2019
If only my ears weren't so damnably deaf.


And now a breath bestirs the leaves t'avail.
Boughs rock sae gently as the whisper hence
Flirts through, whileas I strain to see fr'intents,
Then dies away when I 'gin writing frail
Hope's fragile tread, planes' voices all to scale
As trees stand clustered far as eye frae thence
Can see.  Twigs nod sae lightly wi' a sense
Of yonder jist in tow, beyond this veil.
I'm here because we've said too long now fer
All that lo, "Mum and Dad's dream will not do.
We MUST join step with whom we thought too poor
In their path through this world, and follow too,
What I deplored."  The LORD God, what as twere
Did I blieve 'bout His Word?  The Scriptures knew.

Interesting, eh?
Jenny Gordon May 2019
Not love as previously wont.


Lo, how the woods are silent! whiles from hence
The leaves all hang in soft chartreuse, th'exhale
Fast slumbring in its den, this calm to scale
Half breathless while all waits with half a sense
Of utter expectation I 'non finger thence,
No voice to break this patient null's detail.
And la, the clock just ticks, each second frail
As all the rest.  A Blue Jay'd scold, and whence?
Work nags at me but canna tug in poor
'Scuse at my sleeve as erst wont, cuz I'm to
Effect...cut off.  The rift is huge in tour,
Likeas a canyon whose steep walls loom through
That freighted, creeping mist I can't bestir
To find a glimpse of light for how to do.

Welcome to tea time with, me, myself, and I.
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