...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
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 6th, 2024 16:54
- Comment from author about the poem: So, I am uncertain what to add after putting in the teasers above every stanza from today, every single sonnet penned today a challange which bested me in that I am literally dissatisfied with every single one, finding no satisfaction. Enjoy?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments1
Excellent.
Thank you for your kindness.
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