...relieves stress.



(sonnet  #MMMMMMMDCCLXXV)


"Beware the Ides of March!" is't on the exhale
As lo, a silence hangs oer this calm sense
Of what? a null we never knew? suspense
Chews on its painted nails with eyes that hail
This fragile light likeas a rat's is't?! pale
And wan as Philip Sydney's moon fr'intents,
The notice that "it's Friday...--sans from hence
A date." not quite a knife, but THAT detail.
If fashion bloggers write of style and tour
Milan, etcet'ra, I'll look on, nor rue
No date tonight.  But let them have in poor
'Scuse lo, a baby, talk of their ado
With erm, "post-partum," how kids now as twere
"Change ME!" I eat my heart out.  Laugh, won't you?

15Mar19b

The sales caught me off guard with early cries of St. Patrick's Day, kick me.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXIV)


Lo, sparrows gaily chatter as I thence
Pass by the entry, and whiles rain t'avail
Is like some fragile yet persistent, hale
Sweet kiss that drives ole Winter's Death from hence
And rouses buds to pierce 'gain through those dense
Leaf mats knit months before and spread to scale
Across the sleeping flowrs last April'd hail
The world with once upon a time, ah whence?
I yearn to wander oer these wastes in tour,
If that I might now listen to the dew,
Hear all the little scurrying which'd bestir
As yellowed grasses shift to what? anew.
It is the Ides of March, the knife as twere
'Non twisting in dear Caesar's back from who?

15Mar19a

cough, cough*


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVIII)


Where gloaming's blueish note of darkness thence
Culls oh, electric lights, I close the tale
Of drapes and we hang out in sheer betrayl--
All four of us--whiles I wash dishes, whence
Sweet conversation, or reproof for sense
When I drop lo, a spatula.  Detail
Whatever, but twas sweet to thus avail
Ourselves of time together for intents.
Now it's so dark, and I have played with her
Til aught before is lost in how the crew
Of dolls cavorted to her fancies, poor
As aught excuses, I am blank.  What, to
Effect, teased for a line hours ere?  What'd bestir
While I was working?  Nothing's left that'd woo.

13Mar19b

(Intending to ink this early Sunday evening, twas useful I didn't....



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXI)


Think:  "they said twas a war-time measure..." pale
Skies washed of clouds as golden light from hence
Bathes these lost wastes with April's freighted sense
Of violets just in tow; as blue heavns hail
The dinner table set with plates t'avail
Our refried beans, cheese, yoghurt, chips fr'intents,
Where all have better things to do, pretense
Trimmed to half curtsy whiles I search for bail.
So I dined when the clock said "now." in tour,
And yearn to linger, watching those deep blue
Heavns which cull shadows to cavort as twere
In Sunday evning's calm.  Yet that won't do.
I wash the dishes; study all, then fer
Whatever, scamper off til gloaming'd woo.

11Mar19a

This is what can happen if you let the fragment of a suggestion play itself out.  Dangerous?  Perhaps.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLX)


One dead leaf that October left fr'intents
Behind for old time's sake, 'non dances, pale
And lonely 'cross the naked blacktop, frail
Or homeless where snow skulks in cold suspense,
(To hunker down like yielding is pretense)
Its fragile essence like ours as th'exhale
Drives it on forward, March' winds chill detail
As our iniquities til Death.  Ah, whence?
I had this notion there was more as twere.
Like, if we bide our time, Spring shall 'gain woo
As wont.  But if you hear the Scriptures fer
Lo, even this dead leaf, all pales.  The crew
Of happy souls on Instagram, and poor
Lil me none knows, will answer, LORD, to...You.

10Mar19b

What's left to add?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLVIII)


How odd rain looks now! dancing madly hence
Upon new puddles as snow watches (hale
Yet shrinking e'er so slightly 'fore the tale
Of actual water coming down!) a sense
As wont of silver mists half winking thence
Within the eye of languid minutes frail
Light haunts.  What whispers likeas twould avail
The soul as I see now lo, rain?  and whence?
I 'gin to feel a captive as it'd stir
Across these long dead wastes...like, to walk through
The naked woods might shew me in that tour
Mayhap the first hints of ist violets?!  Do
We yearn so much for fragile life as twere,
That e'en this note of warmth stirs in me too?

09Mar19b

Please.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLVI)


If only what, eh?  Close the drapes ere thence
Tis gloaming, nary soft pink blushes' tale
For romance as we turn on lights t'avail,
And lose ourselves to dinner for intents,
Where I dash out the door as if from hence
She'd just arrived, the fragile hope's detail
Lost in that race to be elsewhere to scale,
'Til I don't see, like others, twilight's sense.
Discuss how men are jerks as we wait to
Pass through this intersection, cuz tis poor
To think he'd act the gentleman.  What?!  Do
You really cherish chivalry in tour?
It's dead.  Just like I weep when as it were
None look, all I had thought decays now too.

04Mar19b

Well?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIV)


Blue skies lo, nary cloud blots for intents
Warm on these frozen wastes as trash' detail
Flirts 'cross the puddles like a bird in pale
Excuse who, washing up as wont, shakes thence
His wings, light flashing off them with a sense
Of summer's carefree minutes, whiles to scale
Ice glares more coldly from the corners frail
Ghosts of thin warmth ne'er touch but tis pretense.
Dad pulls espressos, foaming milk in tour
As all baristas, yet sans flourish, to
Leave that to sheer caprice I find as twere,
Whiles I feign then to ascertain a view
Of this or that, which he half tol'rates fer
The mystry is't? of all we sorta knew.

03Mar19b

Ah:  how to begin a new month, specifically the one which sees the seasonal changing of the guard.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXL)


Folk preach this "starting over;" talk fr'intents
Of "liberation," and I'm deaf in pale
Reply.  If marriage was that too, bewail
My hapless case, nor find I've aught defense.
"The bride weeps at her marriage bell--" for sense
Lo, Missus Browning wrote.  I cleave t'avail
To every bit I know, whileas "they" hail
Me wi' the call to erm, "let go."  Pretense.
"If any...be in Christ--" well, THAT is new.
I am just me.  Change is a horror, as poor
As aught good sense.  Years alter me in tour,
Not by my leave.  Oh no!  I yield unto
What I cannot resist, by halves, as twere.
And March culls Spring to 'gain:  renew.

01Mar19b

Okay, okay.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXVI)


Ah, listen to the Scriptures as fr'intents
All that was day's gone to the dogs, in pale
Excuse for wanting now to write.  What'd hail
When I was working, had no time, and thence
Thought to ink later?  Blue skies cleared, a sense
Of April winked back through pine shadows, frail
Upon the melted snow's erm, puddles' tale,
And sparrows called for half a minute, whence?
How first John answers all that'd muddle fer
The umpteenth time what I erst thought I knew.
This vain dream I had thought was living, poor
As aught excuse, is only that:  dreams.  Do
We hear what Thou set'st 'fore us in this tour
Of breathing?  O that we'd walk, LORD, with You.

22Feb19b