#whocaresnow
L14: No, ***** but...enjoy the moment.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVIII)
The mourning dove ere twilight yield calls, whence
Orange winks upon thet waking thought's detail,
And lo, I hear it softly coo. Grey mists in frail
Nigh ghostly touch a thin suggestion, thence
Do maples faintly shiver in suspense?
I thank the LORD for that voice on the pale
First notes of whither, erst wont to avail
My soul, and dawn sifts through to crown that sense.
How Joey worked "each day this week," yet fer
All that's forever on my mind. What, to
Effect, now does the culver's song as twere
Mean? How I used to know. Or thought I knew.
Now like a memry of sweet days lost, poor
Though what be? Does it bless our hopeful dew?
05Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
...the old classic "I'm forever trying to keep ahead of that freight train--"
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXIV)
Lo, peach-kissed fluffy white clouds sailing thence
In bluest seas oer greener Maples frail
Winds softly ply to soto voce's scale
Of whispers on a Friday evning's calmer sense,
And I'm too zonkered to but note from hence
What nudges memries long since past t'avail,
As if Mum still was waiting in betrayl
To talk and laugh while sunset yawns oer whence.
Now but's an hour 'til midnight, hark! in poor
'Scuse an explosion rocks the silence, to
Lapse into nothing. Is't July astir
Upon suggestion? O, what matters? Do
We feel the changes tugging, what's as twere
To do? Perhaps Joe shan't call. Say I knew.
30Jun17c
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
*08Jun17: probably Joe is done with me, Adrian assessed; my brother sez it is too fishy: "just forget it/him."
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXII)
How piquant notes of car'mel waft thin scents
Across this hollow silence like t'avail,
'Cept there's none to be had in sheer betrayl;
And blue skies wear soft white clouds with a sense
Of lazy calm winds flirt 'non through from hence,
Boughs nodding lightly as leaves whisper frail
Auld secrets to the listning ear, as pale
Light eyes these shadows which cavort, and whence?
Forsooth. They talk of la, the wedding, fer
Our questions: groom was "bro-force." Hope th'ado
Lasts until death, though couples think that poor
These days. And I cannot be sick of who
Just toy with me, cuz I'm forever your
Fool who oft use me thus. Yes, what is new?
08Jul17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
Don't know what good it'll do.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXVIII)
I don't observe the holiday, as whence
Joe's calling oer this weekend in detail
Meant just that, but did not. Four days t'avail
Us, lo I see now, signifies good sense
Where Monday is a work day, Tuesday thence
As wont likewise, for me--haha on frail
Complaints of silence. All 'non waxes pale,
Nor can I figure what, for all intents.
Winds turn the Maple leaves backside in tour
Til white blinks at the gathring clouds thin blue
Drowns warmly in, and I am dull as twere.
My brother's touring Europe now, to do
Whatever good. I dreamt of fishing, poor
As thinking I'll be yours, Joe: ya, what's new?
02Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
Whateffer.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXIV)
Smoke like a haunting veil the greener sense
Of trees now sifts through, what are blue skies' hale
Note as how fire licks up the trimmings' tale
Whiles maple boughs just nod, leaves whispring thence
In concert to winds' playful touch as hence
What traffic is speeds past like that'd avail?
Should I dream of gone camping in betrayl?
I'm sold to Joe, where fishing chases whence.
Don't tell me twas a sorry joke he'd stir,
This whiter smoke at intervals some cue
Or screen I should consider as it were.
His eyes lost their mystique when I'd yield to
Those overtures. Tell me that patience'd cure
The fishy sense whose ghost belies he'd woo.
08Jul17c
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
The perhaps freaky thing is from the first occasion to the last, the affair leaves me disillusioned.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXIIII)
They pulled shots on more fancy presses' scale
Of lo, espresso, than we know, tae thence
Pass 'round the little porc'lain mug for sense
And comment. Bells and whistles to avail
Whomever of sheer grandeur was't? would hail
Their newr machines as ultmate for intents,
Dad sez. And we rolled 'cross our tongues th'intense
Black tazos, sip by sip, til such'd wax stale.
Fire up the grill, next: play the epicure,
As now mein host two diffrent cuts put to
Our palates and good taste. Wine to assure
Souls twas the height of whocareswhat, we knew
Such conversations, laughter, and for sure:
Philosphy. Problem's: I can't think what's new.
08Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
...I spose you musta appreciated that.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXIII)
You sign out "Joey," and say Thursday. Frail
Pink like those bars thet Wordsworth noted thence
Stretch 'cross fatigued blue skies as for good sense
I tap to Russian strains; and we drive. Pale
Heavns wear grey twilight, greens in that detail
Dark, shaggy trees with vast lawns, fields in dense
Green, row on row forever, and what hence
Twill be like in the car with YOU t'avail?
I wonder, itching for the chance, in poor
'Scuse for how slow you're being. O me! how you
Write "I don't do this often--" swears as twere
That caution's in the air, though you kiss to
Effect my hand these days. Firewerks 'non stir,
Ah yes, they do. And you're a dream come true.
03Jul17d
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:09 PM UTC
Barnabe Barnes--right up my alley, man.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXVI)
How Barnes sings of my--what? til I see thence
Tis folly to writhe on this dainty scale,
Love's net a golden one, I might avail
Me of content if I forget this hence.
These weary heavns, fatigued as I, wear sense
In blank white's ***** racks, the hours to pale
Light givn, how maples own vague silence, frail
Winds tickling 'non the leaves to whisper. Whence?
I have begged Joe for more. He listened fer
All that. I've emailed, called him twice, and do
Ya know, e'en texted him. But that was poor.
It's "see you Thursday." That is all. Go to.
The minutes wasting, dunno what he'd stir.
Nor have I yet another to think'd woo.
04Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:13 PM UTC
Reference Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXV)
What days are these that lo, we just avail
Us of a look or two, handshake, for sense
You kiss my hand, yet no more, like tis thence
Too rich to be...what, eh? O! in betrayl
I'm sorely tempted to leave off this frail
Charade and kiss you too, in sheer defense,
To waltz off like it does not matter hence,
Yes, mebbe that will do. Think you tis bail?
None, darling, now exists. These games are poor.
I'm sick of playing around like that will do.
There is no upper hand to take. You stir
Hot coals as if their whiteness meant Death knew
No fires could rouse a light. No. You as twere
Half tiptoe, daring me to be more too.
04Jul17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC
Dream on, Baby. Waking up won't be fun, but whatever.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXI)
Those bubbles on my tea, as kisses' pale
Touch augur that according to the sense
Of ist tradition? and both cuppas thence
Wear crowns of...what Joe gives me--in betrayl?
I'd rather his dear lips than froth's detail,
And we're off to a start, for all intents.
Ist funny now I"m his these bubbles fence
Dawn's waking note as breakfast 'non avail?
Or how we've jumped from playful to as twere
The thing itself, 'til Dad knows what we do,
To say "you think you've got a boyfriend fer
All that, eh?" Ya, which part is odd. He'd woo.
It's been well-nigh two months since Joe would stir
My sheer complaisance. And I'd love him too.
29Jun17c
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
Prolly.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXIX)
O me! Fatigued light watches through a veil
Of thinner clouds as maples rock from hence,
And whisper oer the glances flirting thence
In golden warmth twixt feebler shadows' pale
Games, blue skies haunted by the fragile tale,
Whilst I yearn to be lost and licked fr'intents
By those rough murmurs sweeping 'cross these dense
Vast lawns of fresh-mown greenness, like'd avail.
I wanted to just listen as rain'd stir
The quiet evning with that silver dew--
Was it three nights ago? But all's sae poor.
You feel too much, on fire sans aught to cue
That soothing touch on fevered brow as twere.
I maunt tell Joe. For if I did... he knew?
02Jul17c
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
Funny...less that two weeks later how foreign this is.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXII)
Lo, ****** white tinged purple, for a sense
Of sorrows' keenest wailing, and so frail
To boot, lies now in state, as drying t'avail
The first petunia Joe gave me, what hence?
I wonder what the weekend shall from thence
Be, eh? He's sposed to call. Nor in betrayl
Does he know I'm a virgin? That detail
Waits chance to take its bow in sheer defense.
This white tank, pink-bowed floral skirt as twere
Ah, party clothes last summer when we'd brew
Espressos over beef, with wine to do
Our seance good in mid-July, was't poor
For groc'ry shopping? I forgot. His pure
Choice in a flowr--I can't help loving too.
30Jun17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
Give up waiting, doofus. It's so much easier when you don't give a hoot and nothing's happening anywho.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXVI)
I've been reciting for--was that--intents?
How lo, my cousins' kids are in betrayl
Nigh grown, who were so little on that scale
Ten years agone, when I last for good sense
Saw these, or pictures of the same to fence
Some fam'ly shindig with all to avail
Whatever, me an old maid yet sans bail,
Til hopes look quite askance without defense.
Joe is attractive ah, beyond as twere
The dreams I've known, a dream anon come true.
If only now we could be all we stir,
Have children of our own, lo that would do.
Well, be together in yes, love, endure
To death thus, and have kids: what's I love you?
01Jul17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
(if not worse)
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLV)
How shadows sweep across the corn in pale
Grey silence, swathes of golden warmth from hence
Askance, whileas tree clusters dimly thence
Wait. Crows ist? like unto torpedoes scale
Descent, wings folded; cloud battalions, hale
In fluffy white, amass with half a sense
Of what's in tow. And June for all intents
Wears age as if twas naught in each detail.
Another week yet, firewerks wink as twere
Now, cuz I had to play the fool and do
What my friends thought sae good. Suppose twas poor,
We shall say it worked out, shall we? Nah, to
Effect Joe was too nice. Yet I maunt fer
All that be satisfied. We'll swear I knew?
27Jun17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC
Telling one of my older brothers about it all, from last Fall's shenanigans to now, he said, "it's sad."
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXIII)
Not when a summer's lengthy hours avail,
But now the blackness of night's cooler sense
Culls crickets to play serenades frogs thence
Reply in bass notes to, write in betrayl.
As Mozart's timeless strains lend that detail
Of class I did not feel ere, and lo, hence
A notion of too many years 'go, whence
I nestle like I"m twenty' gain, what's bail?
Joe's contact info. Ha. What is that fer,
Eh? I've called twice, to tell him of it to
His face ("yes, if I'm gone to bed--") and were
La, texting useful, I have done that too.
Oh silence! Friday evening's late, and's poor
To harp on that. But how I miss who'd woo.
30Jun17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
(Well, I was sitting in the car that time.)
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLIX)
Orange Tiger Lilies in a cluster, frail
Yet nodding to soft whispers' vagrant sense
Wink as we slowly gain on whither hence,
Some tractor's clearing space for which detail?
Along the field thet prairie grasses hail
From, and when Joe has time, he calls me thence
A "doll," to net "I love you" fr'intents,
To say he'll try to call this weekend: bail.
It's so--yes, what? For now he'd notice fer
Whatever what I'm wearing--"is it new?"
No, what I'd worn the day he 'gan to stir
My heart with that petunia's purple. To
That lo, he must go pick another. Were
Fun ah, passe, I'm loving all he'd do.
29Jun17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC
I didn't, really. I just walked straight up to where he was working, and tada.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLVI)
Does gloaming softly thieve what was, a sense
Of yonder haunts the fragile light gone pale,
And I see-saw on whether to avail
Me of the number Joe wrote down from hence
Or write him off as quite the fruitcake, whence
Our tete-a-tete is laughable. Yes, they'll
Aquit him of aught, cuz I have ne bail:
Despised is, um, passe for all intents.
I am a woman. "Lewd" is common fer
All that. And lo, the skies don navy-blue
As nary bough stirs, traffic naught and poor.
Come, now they rock, leaves whisper lightly, to
Lapse into freighted silence. Go assure
Yourselves. I'll laugh tomorrow ist? at you.
27Jun17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:49 PM UTC
La dee....his eyes tantalized me with mysterious looks until the day I yielded.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLVIII)
Lo, yesterday 'bout now...we talked, from whence
What, eh? I've dreamed of what in sheer betrayl
We might, erm, name our daughters. Sons? oh, they'll
Have yes, their father's name, I hope. Ya, thence
Laugh oer my folly when Joe's not fr'intents
Yet even called or answered emails, pale
As hopes built on his kisses ist? Detail
I dunno what, and patience is good sense.
Ah, Joe. I love...his eyes, how frankly fer
Aught he looks into mine. His face dear too,
Those kisses to my hand my lips as twere
Are jealous of, I'd cherish each inch to
Etern'ty if the LORD grants us. Is't poor?
If only I could tell Joe: I love you.
28Jun17b
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC