Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.



(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)

I


Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.



II


Lo, ******. Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.

24Dec15c,d

Once upon a time we had the hymnal propped by the kitchen sink so's I could learn; years later Mum would sing along with me, and now...I like never but once in a blue moon dare to sing aloud, for missing her to tears.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXLVII)


What's happened to--me?  Rainy hours detail
Thet eye with silver's touch while green lawns fence
The minutes fog obscures by vague suspense
With softest carpets rolled out to avail,
And I'm not erm, my own in sheer betrayl;
Erst naked trees lost to mists' whitish sense
Of yonder, I could shiver, and do hence,
Cuz in a blink I'm his upon that scale.
One comment like my wont five days ere, poor
As what?  now he distracts aught hours 'til through
Suggestion I am giggling, sober, tour
His deepest sorrows, and maunt say he'd woo?!
Of course, I'm better searching violets, fer
All that.  Let purple wink low, saying we knew.

05Apr17b

Layered.  Say you didn't know these were complex.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXVII)


Blue skies peer thinly twixt the whiter tale
Of clouds whose stringy webs mask what, from hence?
The warming golden light half bleak, a sense
I maunt put down stalks through all that'd avail.
Ne shadows nor a flirting breath t'exhale
By even halves and I am jumpy, whence
What daffodils might nod can own intents
While folk tell April Fools jokes like we've bail.
Did I complain oer...jonquils' yellow tour
Of frilly heads and purple hy'cinth too?
Yes.  I said even ******* laundry's...poor,
Sith Mum is buried.  Taen from me now, who
Shall pity?  Sparrows e'en too distant fer
Aught smiles, I wonder if a man'd now woo.

01Apr17c

(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXVIII)


Snow.  Thick white flakes whose hapless note's detail
As't measures distance their profusion thence
Half mocks, yet draws the careless eye from whence
These mesmerize sans voice within the pale
Light of an afternoon, and lo tis bail
Enow for losing me upon that sense
I maunt pin down, til playing guitar is hence
Forgot, or trips and chokes in sheer betrayl.
And ah.  You know that word, um, chaste?  Oh sure.
Come, roll it 'cross your tongue and hear anew,
Cuz I am sick of being too naughty, fer
The record, and shall leave erm, you to woo.
If only I sit on me hands 'til you're
Quite ready, that should do.  Snow.  I need you.

09Jan16c

(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXVII)


I'm not asleep.  But wakened, tiptoe thence
Through every minute like to dare exhale
Is not allowed, as if to breathe would hail
The end of visions roused to caper whence
No concrete line shall say, whileas suspense
Knows Janry shows our breath in sheer betrayl
As snow feels that chinook's touch, waxing pale
Though I still walk upon its face tward sense.
And hear a distant blue jay's cry bestir
Young Saturday's thin silence like he knew
What I maunt parse out 'til what aye? as twere.
Oh yes, the sparrows' playful calls heard too
Whilst carving out the eggs, and thought in poor
Excuse I'll be half good, erm, just for you.

09Jan16b

(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXXV)


Reft from this earth as Drummond wrote, and hence
Where Missus Browning talked and oft'd bewail
Her own sweet mother's absence, that detail
Of their grief is mine in the keenest sense,
With hours thet drag on tward their vain pretense
I never realized ere.  Nor have I bail
'Cept in the Word of God, to groan in pale
Excuse where Mum can't hear nor solace thence.
Yes, be strong.  Say you're happy for lo, her.
And I feel like a china doll, as who
One rough push shall quite shatter, whiles in poor
Attempts I run cuz we maunt stop, who knew
This is not life, nor here.  Christ is all.  Were
It what?  I pray, but stumble over you.

12Jan16b

Why on earth did Sunday AM's cosmetic ad tout "erasing dark circles with concealer" when that was what the mirror answered I needed done?  Talk about coincidence, or what?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMV)


O!  Watch that greyish lace called firs' detail
Upon the blacktop gently shift from thence
To playful winds, where pavement is fr'intents
Likeas some chalkboard smudged t'effect and pale
In afternoon's more lazy eye, in frail
Excuse, myself dead tired cuz coffee's sense
I maunt resist last night did punish, whence
"Erase dark circles with concealer!"'d hail.
Who gives a hoot that I look nice as twere
Eh?  None but older men, ungodly too
Seek me.  Old scruples were mair strict in tour
But faithful as the LORD Whose Word is true.
Blue skies are warmly clean of clouds; winds stir
These naked boughs to nodding; and what's new?

11Mar18a

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

Pretending, feigning.  I said that was the rule of the day.  cough,cough  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXVII)


If we forgot the merry dance erst thence
Wont to ring in this month which Shakespeare's scale
Of notice put down as not lo, t'avail
As perfect as whom he thus cherished, whence?
The winds are ghostly with a teasing sense
In tour of fragile warmth as sparrows hail.
Then ah, the Goldfinch seems to laugh, th'exhale
Likeas a whisper who maunt love from hence?
Did I swear I was "done pretending" fer
Which moment?  Yet who shall not smile now through
Th'effect of these sweet songsters?  I am blue
And would far rather weep, but tears as twere
Won't come.  A robin scolds and scents astir
Upon the wind's suggestion say twon't do.

01May19a

Yes indeed, oddly enuf.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMX)


Let William Caldwell Roscoe's line fr'intents
Sift to the 'fore while sapphire blue skies hail
In warming black's first light, the moon's detail
Upon day's eastern rim, just as he thence
Wrote centries ere, a sliver in suspense:
"The eastern hanging crescent--" in betrayl
Does not climb higher as he'd said, though how pale
Blue heavns 'gin now to lighten in defense.
And she must have been younger, cuz in her
Love he felt resurrection.  Ah, but to
Effect ist? I shrink from old men, as twere.
Why maunt a young man cherish me and woo?
The moon is lost as surly racks now stir
Rich pink's blush of chagrin.  O what we knew!

13Mar18a

Wonder what on earth THAT designation means, again?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCVII)


O do the violets peer ere yet March fail?
For how the Goldfinch merr'ly sing from hence
While lo, which sparrows woo as Mavis thence,
And robins knew to lilt?  Ere shadows trail
Across the blacktop, doilies to avail,
As blue heavns seem so warm, 'til I fr'intents
Maunt bear to stay indoors, how sweet tis! whence
Read through th'antholgy which auld flowrs detail.
Now I've a taste of Andrew Marvel fer
All he's been touted for his sonnets through
Suggestion I leave off the rules in poor
'Scuse, likeas he did with an extra two
Lines for whatever, I maunt yet bestir
Me to be naughty, tho' I wish he'd woo.

23Mar19c

(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

Tuesday in a nutshell, the week, for that matter.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXIV)


Rain dances on vast puddles with a sense
Of that delicious wetness, where in pale
Excuse I maunt find one spare minute's bail
To steal a chance out where it'd whisper thence
Fair secrets to the listning few.  Note hence
That lightning flashes, thunder's deep exhale
In tow, and how my schedule shan't avail
Me of a chance to breathe for aught intents.
No, run, run, run, mair thankful thus in poor
Reply that lo, Thy mercies are e'er new.
And further, that "man does not live [in tour]
By bread alone--" but by Thy Word, while too
Besieged by what would drown me, 'cept for Your
Great lovingkindness...cept, LORD, cuz of You.

30Apr19b

Dunno why, but I've wanted to write this for days...the first lines, that is.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXCVII)


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?

21Mar19c

Ye never need the finer details so here are a few for mystique.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXIX)


Dad's vacuum coffee *** stands in the frail
And ghastly eye of Sunday's wee hours, dense
Calm not at all asleep, but poised from hence
Likeas a tiger waiting in betrayl
To spring upon the first noise breaching pale
Erm, silence' freighted null.  We don't breathe thence,
Nor shift within our beds...til dawn's bright sense
Of "it's a new day!" draws the curtains, hale.
I slept through his alarm and maunt bestir
Til late, cuz slumber was a thing chased through
Sae many hours, I mourned sleep would not cure
My soul of aught.  And Dad's now grinding, true
To form, espresso beans, tae pull shots per
Our Sunday wont.  What of the dream I knew?

28Apr19a

NOTE:  L4 and on was tricky since you can't very well dictate what the sonnet shall say, but I wanted to note that down for posterity.


(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXXXV)


Mists shroud the thought of yonder, ghostly, pale
White none pierce 'cept by halves, a keen suspense
In tow as traffic rushes on fr'intents
These rain-wet highways; one sports car'd derail
Ere we are out of town, left in betrayl
'Non facing all who'd been in his wake thence,
While box-trucks, dump trucks join the race from hence
As cars, vans, pick-ups and ourselves chase bail.
My niece declares she wants to touch as twere
Thet fragile thing called mists, whose haunting cue
Blots out all we'd known heretofore in tour.
Yet likeas spirits none can finger to
Aught satisfaction, we tell her "That's poor--"
And how our souls maunt see, LORD, 'til with You.

08Oct18a

Believe me, if I knew the reason, I'd give it;your guess is as good as mine.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXII)


Go flip me out like yoghurts lately; frail
Though aught excuse, I'm still here, with a sense
I canna shake, cuz I don't wanna thence
Be is't?  I slept more soundly like t'avail
Me of the mere suggestion could own bail,
Yet such, erm, follies are but cruel pretense.
I neither want this scene nor can from hence
Return to aught I knew, so which detail?
Where pink begins to romance night as t'were,
Find Ian Van Dahl's beat in my fingers to
Drive forward "Castles In the Sky" as poor,
Til ere dawn break, find what 'neath softest blue
Heavns? How Thy mercies new each morning stir
Afresh: Thy sparrows sweetly sing of You.

10Oct24a

Ahem.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLII)


Or...mebbe not.  My "daisy" seems fr'intents
To still have petals:  "he's" been smoking, frail
As noting THAT, most plainly oft in pale
Excuse, today.  My heart--how't wishes thence
Tis cuz I'm not the only one whose sense
Is not asleep.  Yes, that's in sheer betrayl
A sweeter thought, though I maunt, to avail,
Put any stock in it, nor find defense.
Perchance he's feeling overburdened fer
Another cause, nor knows, nor cares I do.
O, does the Cardnal's distant voice bestir
The other morning, April Fool's, when to
Be certain I prayed for a man in tour
In lieu of that auld scarlet lover's cue?

04Apr19e

...or did, as I madly scribbled this hotly down.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXIV)


Dear Friday night, could you arrange fr'intents
Some date for souls that draw the short straw?  Bail
Is sleep cuz I've no better cue t'avail
Me of, not even stars in black depths' sense
Of that which Abraham saw maunt be thence
E'en counted, cuz it's TOO COLD.  Wake in pale
Excuse to oh, the dregs of that wine they'll
Grant might have made me drunk, and whither hence?
My friend was too sweet, and aught hope was poor.
I'm sick of being the **** of jokes, yet to
Nobody's credit, dawn finds me as twere:
Ambiv'lent.  Yes, I realize that won't do.
What's left when I've spent all?  What, to bestir
More than this bitter taste of all I rue?

12Apr19d

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXXXI)


Hark to the sparrows' cries like whither hence
Might have a voice to guide me on the trail,
And wherefore now recall the sweet detail--
How ere small children's voices trimmed aught sense
Of being with happy notes, the hours sae dense
With their 'loved noises I'd hate rooms th'all hail
Could not be heard in, where keen silence'd veil
The shadowed places' lack with aching thence.
Why am I stuck here, left behind as t'were,
Right where I'd oft deplore the folk that knew
Cold silence as their norm? Why maunt I stir
Life 'cept in plants?! I hate this empty view!
Being all growed up was s'posed to be in tour
The ticket to that joy. But not for who?!

22Oct24a

...will you?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMXLI)


They photographed their baby girl whose sense
Of running water was to grapple, frail
As aught excuse, for lo, a handhold, fail,
Yet keep on trying, the faucet no defense;
And now she's left behind, this grasping hence
To just retain whatever slips sans bail
Betwixt those clutching fingers maunt avail,
All like the liquid water, mere pretense.
Lo, watch light trickle out as gloaming'd stir,
But one month til I'm fifty...is that true?
What had I here, whom held I close, in poor
Reply gone far from me, despite love too?
Oh LORD my God Who changest not, in Your
Hand tis to give and take, all I've of You.

26Oct24c