This is NOT FICTION. Say what you want, but here it is.
Believe Me, If I Only Knew
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXVII)
He said "they" asked a ton of questions, frail
As aught 'scuse, and were "grilling [him"]--like, whence?!
But I was soaked and it was late, the sense
Of sheer intrigue put off 'til that detail
Could preen itself, but when?! For they'd derail
Me with the question: DID he get there? Thence
T'assure me they ne'er knew 'til I told, hence
What WAS he talking 'bout? and whom? Where's bail?
Bed AFTER midnight thanks to that in tour,
And guess I'll never know, cuz lo, we two
Aren't scheduled to meet 'gain til who knows? Were
There sense for now, guess driving home should do
Since that took too long, and scared me. Bestir
The myst'ry never since I think shan't cue.
19Nov24b
...that the winds are blustry.
Dear Pooh, It's Allus On a Wednesday
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXVIII)
Lo, NOW it's raining like there's no hope hence
Of drier, Tiff's latest birthday should be, (frail
As Lincoln's Land with snow ahead to veil
These 'scapes by Thursday) sunny? as fr'intents
The desert known as AZ owns a sense
Of Summer year 'round. Yet what can avail?
I've been up all night now like that detail
Was brilliant where an interview calls. Whence?
I wonder. If the LORD will I'll pull through
By His great mercies. Breakfast? Let's bestir
Tea, oh I beg, and all that too in tour,
If only. Be with us and give us too
Grace to walk worthy of Thee, LORD. In Your
Light we see light. How black tis now. Where to?
20Nov24a
Where John Keats' sonnet was adult material and rather risqué, the line beginning it came to mind as I reflected on mine own day since passed.
From Rain to Golden Hours
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCMLXXXIX)
I feel like Keats now thet "...the day [sans bail]
Is gone, and all its sweets are gone--" a sense
Of late November's grandeur and aught thence
We knew half ling'ring likeas to avail
Upon my tongue and mem'ry as all'd fail:
The snide remarks from last night where defense
Seemed juxtaposed with naught, to black night's dense
Blank, Patrick's friendly talk; the trucks' detail.
Chicago late morn and the slew as t'were
Of nov'lties thus; burnt yellows midst the crew
Of naked trees, and bright maroons astir
'Neath crisp blue heavns clouds sailed in passage through;
The madness of the traffic; and in tour
Brief hours at home: oh, LORD, let me praise You.
20Nov24b
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: November 21st, 2024 01:56
- Comment from author about the poem: Since I characteristically put teasers above each stanza, what's left to say? Enjoy?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Online)
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