Cheeky Missy

It\'s Called the Friday I Half Dreaded? followed by Well, THIS Went Nowhere, Sorry, concluding with What Is It Really, Eh?

...Go ahead and call me crazy, too many do.

It\'s Called the Friday I Half Dreaded?

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMDCCCLV)

Where pink is virgin blushes on the sense

Of morning, as folk plead that\'s dark sans bail;

And I\'ve but three hours (not of sleep t\'avail)

But merely bed, to go on for intents.

Don\'t ask, lest I now spill the beans til whence

Looks quite askance and runs off in the pale

Sheer twilight of new day. Yet which detail?

I\'s fragile \'spite all protests of pretense.

Can I jist be? and the let the world in tour

Go on its way, half watching or on cue

Erm, dreaming? Barry\'s with yes, brie would cure

Me for a spell, but I\'d not eat. I\'d \'most as t\'were

Pass out cuz I\'m too weak. Save me, won\'t You?

06Sep24a

Frustrated for spilling the beans by half, I tried afresh, to fail. [p.s.Kyle boasted of \"I told my WIFE--\" like, ya, what?! Why\'d you tell ME that?????]

Well, THIS Went Nowhere, Sorry

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMDCCCLVI)

So Kyle sez tea won\'t wake him up to scale,

(And yes, I need six hours at least for sense)

Nor coffee either, but who does fr\'intents

Be honest over joe? Espressos fail;

Italians serve them not ere dawn, whence bail

Is where I canna say. Tis all pretense.

Pull third shift and ne\'er sleep. Talk of defense

In theory, when, in truth, naught can avail.

Mists, likeas Autumn\'s wont, frame sunrise fer

Effect as life seems crawls along unto

What? Worry I\'ve not packed \'nough foodstuffs, poor

As not being able to decide where two

Turned into three within the wee hours. Stir

Hope in the LORD, whileas ye ponder \'new.

06Sep24b

\"...three\'s a charm\"?! [when I literally erased the first 6 lines of this because they were a mess--this sonnet is frustrating me no end even still.]

What IS It, Really, Eh?

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMDCCCLVII)

How shadows play across late morn\'s face, dense

With import by such games, where aught exhale

Is tinged with chill as if September\'d fail

Upon the threshold, aged in one week hence,

Whilst huge battalions of white clouds sail thence

Through blueish seas above as light to scale

Now comes and goes, til afternoon t\'avail

Resolves the issue by but half for sense.

Tis Fall, my friends, there\'s no denying it, poor

As foolish hopes and dreams--we allus knew

Twas so; thus whom shall bravely sport in tour

Last Summer\'s freighted things can say they do

Because it is their fav\'rite season. Stir

In me to sing Thy praise, LORD, lest I rue.

06Sep24c