Cheeky Missy
Aha! Methinks I Spy A Chicken Clearly WITHOUT Its Head
Guess it WAS. [If only ye could see my handwritten sonnets, ye\'d know how little light I was scribbling in when I feebly began trying to pen this stanza, sick with lack of dear sleep.]
I Can\'t Believe It\'s Friday
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXI)
Light steals upon the depths of night t\'avail
Ere aught know what\'s afoot--black depths from hence
Turned grey as lights grow dim, no dawn fr\'intents;
And I\'m too tired, half sick with lack of bail--
Is\'t sheer fatigue? Drag me back home, too frail
From three nights now of third shift and a sense
I\'ll never make it on no sleep, defense
Thee \'lone, oh LORD, whilst I love each detail.
These hours have been my niche for ages, were
There aught excuse lo, I was born unto
My parents this month. Oh, if only poor
Me could jist make it home, is\'t catnap few
Hours til I must go back to werk? Bestir
Hope in Thee, LORD, oh let me wait on You.
15Nov24
... finally. Guess I truly did, unfettered by alarms since I\'d off, finally, until noon tomorrow. But not the true sleep until after dark.
Alas, I\'ll Sleep Today Off
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXII)
It is November. Region clouds whose dense
Grey no shafts pierce own that age-old detail
The changing of guards is\'t? As light\'d prevail
In lieu of dawn, this mournful cast fr\'intents
Too perfect, naked trees by scores from hence
Left standing, yellow burnt to or\'nge t\'avail
With deep maroons yet winking likeas frail
Hopes where I\'m feigning no sleep\'s but pretense.
Tis Saturday, I guess. Though I\'ve as t\'were
Lived all week for this fragile chance to do
What, eh? I can\'t believe it\'s true. Is\'t poor?
Were my plans sketched? Or how shall I review
Aught when I\'m ill for lack of sleep? Bestir
Thyself and save me, LORD. All, all of You.
16Nov24
Only 10 days...
Is\'t Cuz I\'m Turning Fifty in Ten Days?!
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXIII)
What happened ere this point? Where\'s aught detail
Flown on the wings of speedy Time, that hence
How less than two weeks stare us down, pretense
The trickster swearing off the twinkling tale
Of hours before this moment?! Come, avail
Us of what \'zactly now we\'ve lost fr\'intents
November to the dogs? Where is defense?
Thou, LORD, alone art all, our only bail.
A year \'go now I\'d sich dreams, I\'d bestir
Me troubles which still haunt me now. Oh rue
My follies, yes. But how recover?! Poor
As saying I shall, it\'s been a year. I threw
Off caution in the name of who knows, fer
A year that swears I am a loser. You?
17Nov24a
Ahem.
Off-Kilter But Wants Scarlet, Eh?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXIV)
Lo, scarlet bushes answer for what thence?
That note within my veins which swore t\'avail
Me of yes, black-tinged red was that detail
I need. But when? I\'m allus working. Hence
With but spare minutes, come, have I defense?
Is\'t why the crimson dress winked at me (frail
As aught \'scuse) when I felt so late sans bail
In getting back to werk? Now I know whence?
These faceless heav\'ns lost to grey naught as t\'were
Offset by subtler red look as we knew
They should. And wherefore half confused in tour?
My little world\'s been churning sideways to
Yes, upside-down these past ten months. Bestir
A vision of beyond?! Oh LORD, tis only You.
17Nov24b