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Apteryx Jul 2011
As skylarks departed
At rue in sorrow; --
Broke me half-hearted
From sever tears
And narrow --
Narrow, of my fears,

Which lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --

As skylarks departed
In tint of pearl;
Iris skies started
To sever the years
Of a little girl
That frolic wind swirl --

And lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --

As skylarks departed
In butterfly hue;
Spread far plumes parted
From severing peers,
With gossamer and dew
Drip upon me too.

And on it lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --

As skylarks departed,
Birds they cipher
Once were all parted
For sever cheers
They decipher
The stream of a sad lifer

That so lolls
To the broken lily
That un-rolls
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --

When skylarks dis-hearted
Of a sussurous stream
Follow with rue darted
In my sever tears,
I've bled to cry and scream
As flown pass a dream.

And thus so lolls
To the broken lily
(As skylarks departed)
That un-rolls
(And broke me half-hearted)
Her half-winged angels --
Wan and chilly,
(From sever tears)
To the pinions of the angels
Frore and chilly --
(And shallow, of my fears)
(c) 2011 PoetryFoundation
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,

I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!

Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,

I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!

For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,

Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!

Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,

A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!

Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,

Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,

Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!

Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;

I finagle in my filigree!
This contains nearly every word under 'F' in the dictionary. I would have used them all but I could not get a consistent story with all the words so I used the most possible. Wauhermes in Toto means, "The totality of thought about F."
JR Potts Feb 2015
The wind swept across sheering dunes of white sand
the way certain kinds of dancers sway
like flames
The way young children often play
free of their father’s shame

It filled his lungs with the fire of his innocence
and the longer he inhaled the larger he grew
no sooner had he rivaled mountains
did he hear the cries of his former self
this being bound in chains spoke thus

Be wary Apricus,
many great men have had their heads over hills
and their fates delivered them to the stake.
Are you willing to burn, to crumble into ash
and return to the dirt of mother earth
for all that you believe?

Broken by doubt,
the mountain becomes a man again
but the heart of a giant still swelled inside of him
It raged against his fragile frame like a violent slave
until it grew weary of its own restless thunder
and there it sunk into the deep,
the deep frore of a wintry slumber

Sleep for now my lively child
for the hearts of giants reside inside of all men
but first they must learn to love themselves
before the giants can walk the earth again
I originally wrote this work in 2012. I envisioned it as a piece of a larger body of work surrounding my original protagonist, Apricus a Gypsy Poet who wanders and talks with people of life and philosophy. Think Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet" or Friedrich Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra". This poem was submitted to several poetry contests with no accolades being bestowed upon it but I still consider it one of my best works. Thank you for reading.
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
Nor plod the winter land to look
For willows in the icy brook
To cast them leafless round him: bring
No spray that ever buds in spring.

But if the Christmas field has kept
Awns the last gleaner overstept,
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
A single season, never two;
Or if one haulm whose year is o'er
Shivers on the upland frore,
--Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
Whatever will not flower again,
To give him comfort: he and those
Shall bide eternal bedfellows
Where low upon the couch he lies
Whence he never shall arise.
Jenny Gordon Apr 2018
Prolly will too, judging from afternoon's frore air.


Blue skies are but a memry now fr'intents,
And is black even littered with stars' tale?
I canna look.  Twas frore when we'd avail
Our selves of talk where afternoon was thence
Chance for rehearsal, late as we'd for sense
Put cafe tables side by side, light pale
With greyish region clouds nor blue's detail
But gone ere dinner was put on, and whence?
Ah, how all we'd enjoyed is lost as twere
To wasting hours which never but sift through
Sweet minutes spent with brothers, and in tour
Dear friends.  I had espresso with Dad too,
Spent two bucks on a cuppa coffee fer
The chance wi' friends, and did I, LORD, seek You?

Yes, I really did elide a syllable in the original title...cuz my page was fresh outta room.
Timmy Shanti Dec 2013
As Tuesdays come and go, I wonder
What brings me up,  what makes me cry…
Why am I here - not over yonder
Where special wishes come to life?

And when it's frore, and dim, and gloomy,
When slush is lush… I read some Rumi.
I pour some wine, I sit and muse:
Those h o l y  d a y s - are they of use?

Yet, each December, twenty four,
What better time to think of yore!
To reconcile and forgive,
To dream and do, to love and live!

Merry Christmas!
Severe Siberian shivery stinging
Below freezing, bitter, bleak, brisk
Painful, penetrating piercing
Frigid frosty frore
Icy intense inclement

Copyright 2014
All Rights Reserved
mEb Nov 2010
The world holds it’s terrible coves.
I am set obliged around them.
Surmising the wrong I propose.
Entity’s so immoral, clout’s.
Scrupulous self closed.
Weakened and stricken keen doubts.
Bedevil prodding youth-less one.
Profusion glut under autumn’s frore sun.
Tim Peetz Dec 2016
I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's wilful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall, o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'
This poem was written by Lord Alfred Douglas and published in "The Chameleon" in December 1894.
Abbigail Jan 2014
You are the middle of August,
the product of a seasoned summer right before the cold returns.

You are the last chapter of everyone's favorite book:
a hesitant read for fear of an ending, yet all too inviting.

You are the sound of a soft rain's patter against the window
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

You are the familiar smell of a mother's home-cooked meal.

You are the purples and pinks in the sunset
and you are the reflection of colors on the water.

You are sleeping in until 3pm with nowhere to be.

You are the grin on a middle-schooler's face
when the girl at the dance says yes.

You are the first glass of water to a hangover.

You are the dream that disappointed minds
try to reenter when they awaken.

You are the feeling of freshly cut grass on bare feet.

You are the feel-better kiss
for every cut, scrape, bruise, or bump.

You are the excitement in a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.

You are the first ray of light to peak
from behind the clouds every morning.

You are the feeling of new socks.

You are looking at the moon
when you can swear he’s looking back.

You are the glow from the top of the lighthouse,
guiding sailors home from sea.

You are a memorable conversation with a stranger on the bus,
haunting and ending far too soon.

You are hiding out in a tree after dinner,
imagining belonging to the branches deriving from its core.

You are the joyful “God bless you”
proclaimed by a man on the corner asking for a dollar.

You are a hand to hold when sidewalks are slippery.

You are the warm voice emanating from the warm smile
on a frore wintry night.

You are the comfort of “goodnight”
from a lover’s lips just inches away.

You are the loyalty of a dog when his soldier returns home.

You are the fireflies in a mason jar,
flashing light through a dark room.

You are the best line in the song on repeat.

You are the laugh lines that years of smiles
sketched into the face of an old man.

You are every last bit of good and pure and magic in the world.

*And you don’t even know it.
SamBee Feb 2013
Enrages silence combs through bleak feeble hair strands.
Frore weather fidgets through thick coat threads,
Licking flesh;
Penetrating bones with piercing, ridged fangs.

Mere rustles scream.

Breath escaping from lips so close
In rhythm and tone, they seem to be harmonic.
Limbs erode from manipulative
Promises of divinity.

Forceful whirlwinds of mania
Sweeps across raw, exposed fervor.
Eternally caught in tremors of avidity.

We lavish in our intertwined fantasia.
AL Braddy Aug 2015
His icy blue orbs
The dark seas of the frore north
The key to my world
Abbigail Oct 2014
Dad’s got a mind like the machines he works on
His psoriasis-beaten hands, still tough as they’ve always had to be
I come home to, “How’s your car?” and, “Do you need money?”
His jackets smell of oil and metal shavings and sometimes they hide splinters
His laugh is contagious and it mostly ignites from one of his own slightly comical remarks,
and it makes his belly move up and down like a boat on a lake during a storm
It reminds me of when I used to curl up for a nap on that pillowy tummy
and I’d bob up and down as he breathed

Mom doesn’t stop taking care of people even once she’s left the hospital
She can tell something’s wrong before I know it, myself
Her blue scrubs are her superhero costume,
and her other clothes are just a disguise
Her hugs make me miss her, somehow,
even though we’re as close as we can get
Something about her arms feels like being curled up in an afghan
and looking outside on a bleak and frore January night - Safe
They smell like every comforted cry and sympathetic word of my entire life;
Like home
mom dad love parents home childhood memories comfort safety life hugs warm close tough strong laugh love missing hero admire
Jenny Gordon Mar 2018 sheer droves in erm, Hawaii.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMIII)

Frost's hoary whiteness in the valley, pale
Blue heavns 'non warming as pink blushes thence
Fade softly, and how twilight's greyish sense
I canna 'scribe haunts sweetly, til the veil
Is pierced, that golden eye in sheer betrayl
With yellow fingers twixt the trees, and hence
How shadows draw up silent figures, dense
Yet lacy on dead lawns sans dew t'avail.
Ya, dew.  May shall own silver droplets' tour
Upon green carpets as I know frost's cue
Would be if twas not frore at dawn as twere,
And how the light is ghastly on the crew
Of naked trees, yet prettier thus.  Flowrs stir
As daffodils and tulips search for...dew.

Chide me for wanting to see silver dew again?
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
January's thaw was ever wont to deceive even the lacklustre souls with visions of sugarplums was that?


How blue dusk fringes that wee chance t'avail
Myself of scribbling...ere we dine.  Spring hence,
Despite frore winds' most cruel breath, tiptoes thence
Within these longer hours of light.  Though frail
Perhaps in guise, yet O! in keen betrayl
Nor with aught joy, my very soul can sense
Its eye as if upon these wastes, til whence
Is only whether next month shall wax pale.
Yes, will ole Febry yield to April fer
All that?  I feel it in my bones anew,
Half shivring to acknowledge what, as't stir?
Ah, wherefore do I shrink from May, and rue
The hope of daffodils and violets, poor
As all my ecstasies therein?  Who knew?

Shall we say it's fun racing the clock when you've only 10 minutes?
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
"...what is seen, but what is UNseen, for what is unseen is eternal."


Twas MY lake once as twere, which now in pale
Morn's fragile Sunday calm is placid hence
In slate-grey silence wandring voices fence,
But don't as frore winds own this Janry scale
Of lost joys I view from afar in sheer betrayl,
The naked trees' black silhouettes as thence
Sae gaunt or rattling bony fingers, whence
Is't that the only call I catch--winds' hail?
Snow melted by rain,  how th'expanse lies fer
Blue heavns' half clouded eye so dead, yet to
My soul's perception, 'ginning now to stir
With hope, though March is but a dream.  We knew
So many things, once, and the lake as twere--
Its ***** like a mirror--shows 'gain what'd woo.

You know?
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
[My beloved Mum died 2 years ago today.]


This wan light draws up shadows for pretense,
Their fragile shapes like ghosts in sheer betrayl
Upon dry lanes bleached ere for safety, pale
Blue skies with half an eye, winds piercing thence
Nor but too bitter as they scour from hence
The frore and stubbled fields none wander; frail
And icy clouds with grey battalions hail
Is't who'd observe in passing?, like's good sense.
I cherish naked trees' black forms in tour,
Now clustered by the graveyard, tombstones to
Effect 'non dotting hallowed ground is't? poor
As our fond notions, dim hours' greyer cue
Sae perfect as Death owns that space as twere,
While leering at souls through these minutes too.

NOTE: L's 7-8, coming down the ***** to the intersection and sitting at the light, I don't know why those fluffy grey clouds against the icier white in blue skies struck me suddenly as a vision of enemy aircraft coming in for a raid over the masses of houses sprawling across from left to right.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2018
"...and Death to me subscribes--"

(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXX)

How fragile light draws shadows up to fence
Our passage to and fro, ne groundhog's scale
Of is't author'ty? as blue heavns avail
Long naked boughs where last Fall leaves' brown sense
Half shivers or just waits in dead suspense.
This eye of April whose bulbs know th'exhale
Is but a whisper of frore breath own bail
And, buried, shift now to the hours' intents.
If I had inked how gloaming 'gan to stir
As rosy blushes warmed the vacant blue
'Lone on the West ah, what?  I could not, fer
All that, yet wondered as I sifted through
The flour and leavning if dawn would be poor
Or sans a blot as lo, tis for that cue.

Talk about long-lasting fuel, la, that particular sonnet sure inks my pen sometimes, or what is it?
Jenny Gordon Jan 2018
Nathan, aka Nateive Son, will probably make a point with me, come to think on't, cuz--


Yes, Shakespeare whileas fiddles seem t'avail
This warming chance to simply breathe; a sense
Not warranted of carefree joy's pretense
Half waltzes like these soft blue skies' detail
Mulls spring ere time, as if the thrilling scale
Of higher temps could waken for intents
The daffodils yet buried 'neath snow's dense
But melting whiter coverlid gone stale.
Piano too, for strings, ere that sweet tour
Of cherished lines is quite sufficient through
Long use is't?  How Will inks his love 'til we're
'Non prey to  black ink's breath just as he knew
We aught to be and swore was so, though's poor.
These frore hours we trudge through know what 'gain too?

L T Winter Aug 2017
A melody so
Beau-ti-ful-ly broken
It's- ghostly
To ears-
And the
Bone frore; psoriasis skin
Screaming vociferous
With claret shot
Token festered eyes
Could speak

Glacial strokes to
An empty
Growing epicormic buds
For fresh-er-than-threshing

Shadows speak
And evanesce,
When the blood
I made shivering
Seeps warmth; to tears.
I call for Help--



It echoes and
I forget--
Why I came here.
While the big-ness of things and feelings
Are gone again.
Alice Dec 2018
It is chilly.
It is snowy.
I have been frostbitten
From under my mittens.
The skies are cloudy
As I am drowsy.
The fireplace keeps me warm
From the snowstorm
I wish flowers were at their bloom
So I could see them, from my room.
I am at frore
But also at bore
Is it cold?
Who knows, from what we are told?
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...and know that I am God."  


Some dog barks from the clustered houses' sense
Of sheer commun'ty, distant as th'all hail
As twere of sparrows and the Cardnal.  Pale
Warmth is a tender kiss we feel from hence
While frore winds drive last Fall's leaves sans suspense
Across the naked blacktop.  Donne's poems they'll
Assure us are good reading lies t'avail
Next me upon the stoop, and whither thence?
Hark! as the dove's soft coo wafts 'non in tour
Likeas a note from yonder.  Say we knew,
Yet would not dare acknowledge aught that'd stir
Except by halves, blind, deaf, and sorry to
A fault cuz we'd not praise Thee, LORD, in tour
Was it?  Nor give Thee thanks.  How firs call too.

The final sentence culls to mind:  "Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols? I have heard him, and observed him: I am like a green fir tree. From me is thy fruit found. Who is wise, and he shall understand these things? prudent, and he shall know them? for the ways of the LORD are right, and the just shall walk in them: but the transgressors shall fall therein." (Hos 14:8-9
Luna Jay Jan 2019
Falling out of flight,
Falling into night;
These wings were never meant to save me…
They’re just a faulty accessory.
It’s surreal,
How much the stars remind me
Of your skin.
Pale and porcelain.
Out of your lips, called ugly.
Seen by my eyes, beauty.
You shine against black canvas.
But the stars, they’re burning…
And yet,
You’ve always stayed so frore…
So completely alone.
You are such a magnificent specimen.
It’s viceral- I want you.
I want your stupid opinions,
That nonchalant, aloof and lackadaisical attitude you host,
Your soft, sweet lips,
Fleshed out into reality,
And pressed against mine.
But it’s too dangerous.
A love like this is far too dangerous.
And your eyes have yet to meet mine.
I’ve yet to exist.
I’m not here.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019, silence?


Where blue skies like we used to know detail
This last, erm, calndar day for all intents
Of March, a Sunday whose sheer calm is thence
As sweet as milk's foam on th'espresso's hale
Breath of strong coffee, frore winds' soft exhale
That playful touch dead leaves 'non skitter hence
Unto, the silence we more feel and sense
Than know while sparrows chatter, lo'd prevail.
The rusty can's orange label glares as twere
From hiding in the bush' thin shadows through
These long months since October thought it poor
To scarf the leaves July was proud tae brew.
And tulip capes look scrawny is't? in tour,
While freighted what? nags at us to jist do.

Mercifully granted my plea to sit out on the back stoop and compose, thankfully this sonnet and the following.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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 naked 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.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Hint:  see his sonnet on his second wife Catherine, specifically the line--"...vested all in white--"


Snow.  Was last summer traipsing through a tale
Of mirey puddles?  Ah.  Tis wet fr'intents,
But with frore air presiding all's white hence
Or icy, like the curving claws that hail
From silent eaves, no scimiter--in pale
Excuse for fancied heights--but fringing thence
The void twixt roof and far below, a sense
Perchance of grasping in their scope's detail.
I look out half surprised all's buried fer
The umpteenth time, as flakes cavort now through
Unnumbered hours likeas soft mists in tour,
Sip that espresso foamed milk crowns anew
In thoughtful silence, not unlike that pure
Calm listning as snow falls in silence too.

"...all in white---" has such a sanctified sense, doesn't it?  I've wisht countless times to amend the text notes on that reference since even David M. Mains failed to realize whence Milton culled that idea.
Luna Jay Dec 2018
Golden Afternoon-
I’ve waited years
To find you
When you were
Right here
All along.
Hidden under
Frozen nights and
Frore hearts.
I tore apart my
Chest to find
I never asked for
This endless game
Of hide and seek.
I am no longer
Let the sun showers
Bathe me in their
Golden, elegant
I face my
Inner light.
No more hiding in
The shadows.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
...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.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
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.
Jenny Gordon Feb 2019
...but don't ask me WHY?--because I honestly don't know why, that's all.


Dawn warmed upon these frore white lands t'avail
With feeble notes the darkness fled from, thence
And with pink blushes like an olde maid hence
Erm, withring on the stalk as Wordsworth'd hail
Them in his sonnet on pure silence, pale
Hours all the more still with an ear whose sense
Of keener listning we'll catch if fr'intents
We stop to hark, snow dampning madness' tale.
Was't an espresso?  Or the dregs in tour?
I was too glad for that cup's steamy brew,
As if the very ghost of coffee were
Delicious on that scale.  We don't talk, to
Effect wrapt up in silence like to stir
Ourselves to speak is crimnal.  You call too.

*NOTE:  as ever "You" signifies the LORD.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Ahem.    Well, here's breach of rigidity, shall we say?


If I'm too busy as sheer gloaming thence
Draws lo, the curtains on these frore scapes' tale,
How darkness cozens ere that dinner hail,
This piecemeal chance for sustnance in a sense
Half lonely, til I wander off fr'intents,
To flip through People magazine t'avail
Me of a picture, and why friends ere'd scale
My sweaters and tweed skirts as what from hence?!
"You allus wear such intresting clothes." Were
My choices strange when all don black, and to
A fault wear skinny jeans and leggings through
The week, nor ever touch tall boots?  Is't poor?
Am I thus slated to be odd in tour
Cuz my tastes are not like theirs?  What'd I do?
We're "social creatures."  I've no lover too.

Of my three tutors, the elder twain (one from CA, and the other the UK) would urge me to bend or break outright the sonnet's cardinal rule of "14 lines imabic pentametre" one citing 16-line accepted pieces by I think Andrew Marvel was it?
..thanks to accidentally beginning the stanza up a line on the page, I was loth to leave the empty line below it, so....

— The End —