...sigh



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXVIII)


Mists gird the skeletons of woods as hence
Dawn blushes pink in fragile twilight, pale
Gold clouds above, the highways now to scale
Half empty as how traffic speeds fr'intents
Upon its way, the ghostly veil which thence
Leaves yonder as a question we'll avail
Ourselves in finding later, oh! sweet frail
And silent minutes we drive through: what's whence?
If only I could linger here, nor stir
For aught save p'raps YOUR soft caress!  the dew
Which last night's pure moon wrought with as it were
Such careful fingers as that lace we view
As "frost," tis hoary white as lo, in tour
Our very breath which now we bate--how'd woo!

23Nov18b

...on my head --that should do us both good since YOU're not keen on aught knowing YOU love me too.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXVII)


O madness of these dolls my niece'd avail
Herself of cuz they're popular and thence
What aught who'd buy her favour purchase hence,
(Where I was far too poor to dream in frail
Excuse of any such things in betrayl,
When I was just a child)! The vid'os' sense
Of, well erm, foolish joy in these--pretense,
I cannot even like the dolls to scale.
Nor did adulthood change my view as twere.
Goodwill in lieu of e'en the mall MY cue,
They all look now askance at me in tour,
My peers thus none too blind.  What did I do?
Or wherefore is't I'm on the fringe, 'til YOUR
Love is a marvel none explain, O YOU?

23Nov18a

Yes, that should do.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDX)


What happened to long summer hours' dim sense
Of leisure, where I pined for chill t'avail,
And stoked the thought of misty twilight's pale
Eye while gaunt skeletons of trees skulked thence,
Dreamed of 'gain donning plaid and tweed fr'intents,
Yea of lo, nestling in such minutes' scale
Praps of "my niche"--that oh! tis ah, the frail
Note as it were of late November hence?
Why did warmth skip out on the last train to
Was't Mexico? um, was just days 'go fer
All that?  Where did the musty hours I knew
Depart to, eh?  and when?  December'd tour
Upon the heels of late October, poor
As saying, and I search for my bearings...too.

11Nov18b

Um, so...?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDVII)


Say coffee, no, dark choclate whose pretense
Falls short of that, or lo, a cuppa they'll
Assure you is quite good for health, t'avail
Dad's late exper'ments--coc'nut oil dropped thence
In favour of now Hershey's cocoa--whence
I sip half wondring at the ***** scale
Of "coffee," swirling sludge 'til that detail
Unmasks this "Special Dark" hot choclate hence.
And all he'd brew me ere is not sae poor
Now I am forty, as put off in lieu
As twere of, well, concoctions in grand tour
Mayhap of more than just good coffee.  Who
Shall say but that is...better?!  O what were
You thinking, Girl, when you spelled out what'd do?

10Nov18b

...past my waist as her-- "to my foot's glee--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDVIII)


I wanted coffee, with auld sonnets thence
As erst wont, Missus Browning's sweet detail
From lo, "the Portuguese," as I sipped stale
Last ounces from four nights 'go like's good sense,
With mair than I'd known ere for all intents,
And laden praps as Roscoe was't? thought, frail
Erm, as my seeing more clearly to avail
Just how much we've in common is't? from hence.
One friend some years back said I'd be as her--
Was't cuz I begged for romance? or through
These diary pages shewed I had as twere
That lonely life Miss Barrett ere me knew?
Where now, since losing Mum I feel in poor
'Scuse kinship like my friend claimed, sold to YOU?

09Nov18d

Yes, snow.  Mebbe take my face in your hands and shake me?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDIII)


It's...snowing.  Hug yourself within the pale
Eye of these naked hours whose ghastly sense
Of Winter sits triumphant oer pretense,
As tiny flakes 'non filter down t'avail
The soul of that keen silence--cherished bail
We relished in forgotten days like thence
Twas fit to sanctify us, wandring hence
To finger cotton-candy whiteness' tale.
Don't ask me why my heart sank in a poor
'Scuse when my owly eyes first caught the view.
Nor if I loved morn's cuppa like twas fer
My soul's recure, Assam just what we knew
It should be if you taste it, no.  We were
Too fond of lies, I think, was't?  I miss YOU.

09Nov18a

...say--whatever, nor how to say "ghastly" with another word.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCVII)


O how the gutter drools in morning's pale
And ghastly eye, leaves fluttring down from hence
In lonely ones or twos, so yellow, whence
Look how November lays a carpet, hale
Aye golden, thick and musty, whose detail
Glows dimly under grey racks' twilight, dense
Calm is't? mair bitter than our souls fr'intents
Like, while Death stares us in the face sans bail.
Trees' naked boughs stretch upward as winds stir
The fallen with a careless hand.  We do
Not look, but with faint shivring as it were,
Pull sweaters closer, hang up lights to woo
Warm feelings as the strands blink through this poor
Light, and rain weeps sans consolation, blue.

06Nov18a

...penned sleepily, my my! the title was illegible when I looked at it in the morning...sigh



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDLII)


Blue skies are fragile twixt these icy, dense
White clouds, morn's eye uncertain in betrayl,
That glimpse half peering keenly through as pale
As Febry, though leaves dance for all intents
On maples tinged by ghostly yellow's sense
Of yonder, and they're trimming bushes, frail
Hours stacked like to those clustered houses, bail
The navy racks in tow where warmth's gone hence.
Tweed kilt in purple herringbone and fer
All that tights and a hooded shirt will do--
In grey, with nigh fluorescent yellow's cure
For lack of colour, I watch shadows to
Effect on golden washed green lawns in tour,
And sunset smoulders where dusk swallows blue.

11Oct18b

I have no idea why that first line came to mind while I was indeed cleaning.  I've not read Austen in years, nor watched movies in months.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXLI)


Jane Austen's drawing rooms I'd feign avail
Me of, whose wainscot's polished oak is dense
With import as the papered walls from hence
Look smug; yes, take a turn in sheer betrayl
Across those gleaming floors, dressed ah, to scale
In empire-waist' floor-length is it pretense?
And for the *** of tea I'll sip for sense,
The dainty patterns on those walls' sweet bail.
Don't ask me why.  In scrubbing bathrooms' tour,
I could not settle on just whither to
Until that note piqued languid thoughts as twere.
I've been there so oft for discussions through
Each novel, t'would be quite refreshing, poor
As fiction's vain suggestion, if'd could do.

11Oct18a

...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXL)


Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence
Ne words for aught.  To be suffices.  Pale
Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail,
As I wish to be out there listning, whence
Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense
Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail.
And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl,
I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense.
We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir.
Wash dishes after, while the dark night to
Effect is black, so very black.  Who tour
Upon these roads are like the fireflies through
Warm August twilight.  Oh!  What is't as twere?
Why's writing such a chore?  Will being just do?

10Oct18c