...guess so.
I Guess It's Called The Morning After?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCLXXXV)
Say "His compassions fail not--" and t'avail
That "....they are new lo, ev'ry morning," whence
Rejoice in His salvation, whose defense
Is all I need. Thus ransomed, which detail
Besides His mercies shall I think to hail?
The black-capped chick-dee's call once home fro sense
And whose else like the answer met me thence
Where spilling Starbucks in the car lacks bail?
If accusations rear their head in tour,
Still Thou dost ransom me, for I ne'er knew,
The pizza party never mentioned fer
All that; Thy mercies e'er abundant through
It all, e'en with the work which piles up. Stir
Me to sing of Thee, LORD, and to trust You.
10Apr25a
Well, I do, rather.
Did I Mention I LOVE to...Eat?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCLXXXVI)
How can a cookie melt in your mouth dense
With flavour, where tis only that detail
Of butter, sugar, flour? Oh, shortbread! Hail
The del'cacy with Barry's for good sense
By Sco'ish folk, and sheer perfection, whence
Craft up the monthly batch likeas t'avail,
Half wishing to indulge straight from to scale
The ov'n, yet must refrain, oh sweet defense.
With mango smoothies next to craft as t'were,
Wash all the dishes, move the drain, peel two
Or four bananas, add a ton in tour
Of mango chunks, yet I can't taste them, to
Effect, is that? Add strawb'rries? That seems poor.
A mango lassi might be cool to do.
10Apr25b
I didn't say anything.
Oh, HaHa On Me Now, Is't?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCLXXXVII)
Mist girds the thought of yonder with a veil
Whose ghostly tendrils beckon, as suspense
Owns sheer mystique, where I would feign search whence
But cannot since I'm outta time, t'avail
My soul oh! how I want on that detail
To go off like years ere on dreams fr'intents,
The aerie realms now half in reach if thence
I might indulge but beckon sans aught bail.
Right back where I was last night, cuz as t'were
What eh? And little sleep for that now too,
Fatigue begs off where I'd do more in tour,
Let me just be. T'will quite suffice. Text to
The supervisor that I'd help, and's poor?
Cuz here I am as promised, whilst mists woo.
10Apr25c
...do you?
You Don't Really Think I Grew Up
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCLXXXVIII)
Mists lingered in the dawning light supense
Trimmed, as I fueled the car to birdsongs, frail
Pink on the East all Friday got, t'avail,
As grey light was the rule til morning thence
Was old, French toast piled high our fare fr'intents,
A wedge of brie with apple slices' bail,
Grapes and a clem'tine, where each last detail
Seems well-nigh perfect likeas in defense.
Then off to Woodman's for our groc'ries; were
There aught excuse for peach pie, marked down, to
Be certain, sells me on't, mixt salads fer
Our lunches by the handful marked down too,
Say I'm not having too much fun, nor's poor,
For's not Thy mercies, LORD, and all of You?
11Apr25a
...I guess.
Tell Friday I'd Ne Other Plans
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCLXXXIX)
Watch as the sun sinks, orange, blinding, pale
Light full of shadows in the motion, sense
Awake, yet I cannot but look fr'intents,
So fragile from the lack of sleep's detail,
It's like a joke. A naked tree to scale
Stands in its eye, stark and bereft, grass thence
So green where I drink in the sights from hence
Of buds and chartreuse baby leaves, t'avail.
Tell later I shall finish this as t'were,
The tender calm and beauty 'nough 'neath blue
Heavns, where the distant voice of traffic'd stir
Nor ever cease, this spot just sans a view
Of all, the interstate full til, is't sae poor
I'd nestle here beyond aught that seems'd stew?
11Apr25b
...tell Friday I wanted sleep.
Can I Renig On One Fine Point?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCXC)
Night is the sounds of traffic racing hence
Is't to and fro? Hot cars so noisy they'll
Be pegged (if only) asking in betrayl
For trouble, which I never want, so dense
I know they would deny it. Dido's sense
Of this world but extolled vacations, frail
As beoing trapped where it'd ne'er cease. To avail
Me of dear rest wants time still for defense.
How darkness, both alive hereby in tour,
And waiting in suspense, owns aught we knew.
Try flipping through Vogue's March 'zine, but tis poor
When yer far too fatigued, or all I'd view
Before, the minutes passing when I as t'were
Do NOT count, as, oh LORD, how I need You.
11Apr25c
-
Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 24th, 2025 10:48
- Comment from author about the poem: So.. Enjoy?!
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments1
Another fine write with a series of sonnets. Nothing like fine food tied to a message.
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