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...of the world."


"Alas, poor Yorick!"  echoes down the tale
O' centries since that Tristram Shandy thence
Was published, and familiar too, though whence
I ne'er could say 'til now, in sheer betrayl--
Love-sick being cause for seeking to avail
Me of some cure from false hopes' keen pretense--
To succour me at THAT font was for sense
Jist what the Doctor ordered:  pretty bail.
Now Corp'ral Trim reads Yorick's sermon fer
Ole Shandy's intrest ere that Tristram's through
The birth canal, I've highr ground as it were.
Not cuz the antique novel is a crew
Of nonsense.  No.  It sets off this e'er poor
'Scuse for "real'ty"...IF I can breathe too.

Tintin's sidekick was Snowy...where'd I have the idea Yorick was familiar again???
...just sitting out there on the back stoop.


What gives?  While twilight haunts the fragile sense
The minutes linger, and soft blue heavns pale
Lo, e'er so subtly, traffic on its way t'avail
This start of ya, the weekend, whither hence?
Hark! as the robins (distant) scold fr'intents,
And sparrows' eager cries half calm to scale,
Where now suspense half rises in a frail
Excuse upon its elbow, ask me whence.
Erst wont to sit at gathring twilight fer
These little calls and noises trickling through
The madder haste to be elsewhere in tour,
To listen once again is sweet.  I knew
All this when Mum was back indoors, when her
Face welcomed my return.  What's changed?  What's new?

Was this experience what gave me nightmares so vivid that I had difficulty waking next morning?
"...nothing really matters anymore--"


Where blue heavns softly yield to orange' detail
And robins 'gain renew dear Mavis' sense
Of April gloaming with that song fr'intents,
E'en breaking off to scold as wont, the frail
Warmth sifted out while lo, a plane t'avail
'Non passes over, sparrows gaily fence
This calm with chatter, traffic likeas thence
Wont: I would sleep; yes, laugh, in sheer betrayl.
Don't let me cull to mind what tis as twere.
Who gives a hoot tis Friday night?  I do
Not care so much if I could just, in poor
Excuse, forget, and breathe.  Pink 'gins tae woo,
Now gathring on the East, and Nigel's tour
Of music oddly plays, the Scriptures too.

Oh! leave me here to fade into nothingness is it?


What is't about the train's voice, that th'all hail
Um, piques my soul, which harks unto its dense
Low rumble like tis...what?  O dear suspense!
How "nibelung" half winks at me in hale
Dawn's golden warmth as if it knows in pale
Excuse my name, like these elf ears I've thence
Had from conception argue in a sense
Now with my height, while mists haunt with their veil.
I'd feign lose me in fog's embrace as twere;
Go wandring like I canna see unto
The fairer realms beyond is't?  Silver dew.
I cherish its sheer blanket waiting fer
Heavn's burning glance, a violet none bestir,
Hid in the darker shadows trains pass through.

I don't know what else to add.  
Nibelung was the word for the day and seemed too apt.  How's that?
Mmm...mebbe I'll manage a sonnet about what followed.  Prolly won't.  But, you never can tell.


Where golden shafts flirt with the fainting sense
Of clearing skies sae purely blue, til hale
Warmth looks upon my ***** arms' detail
As sparrows sing like all is games from hence,
O let my soul, if poss'ble, vanish thence
To higher realms likeas twas mine t'avail.
And whilst the frore breath sifts through, to exhale
With softest measures plying wisps, I'll breathe.  Whence?
Don't ask unless ye've lo, the Scriptures fer
Just whither.  Now's a thin chance to see through,
Although I canna pierce the mists in tour.
Let my soul hear the sparrows as they woo
Us from beyond this wasteland I've as twere
Been wandring years now, til that I see...You.

Like, how I leaned back and listened as I've yearned so long to do again, to the birds, and mused.  Or how it ended with my accidentally nearly setting the house on fire?  Mebbe I should try to ink it, mebbe not.
Dunno why, but I've wanted to write this for days...the first lines, that is.


Macbeth's wife wrung her hands, to then bewail
The blood which nary washing could fr'intents
Clean of that stain.  I've wondered lately whence?
That's all.  The coven's three hags' shrill detail
In howling incantations like to scale,
Erst wont to ring thus in mine ears for sense
And eerie visions of wild spectres thence
Too ghastly for my taste, could haunt sans bail.
Tis just her cries naught can assuage which stir
Vague questions I maunt pin down.  If I do,
Where will they end?  Her failure as it were
To cleanse the clinging bloodstains, if we knew,
Could we find aught forgivness?  If in tour
I do not preach the Scriptures, I'll e'er rue?

See, sonnets are virtually impossible to compose if you come at them with a determination of what exactly you intend to say. IF, however, you allow the twinkling thought a chance to flesh itself out, then it's often very interesting to discover what exactly follows.  Case in point? This stanza among countless.


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?
Let's not pin down WHY I've cherished rain and somber oboe concertos, shall we?


There are ne puddles, just that drooling trail
Left by the gutter's mouth as I look hence
For any small detail to augur thence
E'en half a note of whither in this pale
Eye of forgotten dawn, moist on that scale
With fragile rain.  Naught quivers in suspense,
No, not my soul now either.  All fr'intents
Is quite foresworn as I feign what, t'avail?
If nonchalance is pretty, let's bestir
It to cavort across the stage anew.
I'd feign lose me to rain's soft calm as twere,
Yea, fly away upon those wings we knew
By instinct, though we could not see them, poor
As saying.  No sparrow calls, and what would woo?

...couldn't arrive at a decent title, sorry.


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?

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.


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.

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.
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