Guess that's okay though...
Stinks I Don't Know What Day It Is
(sonnet # MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXV)
Frogs chorus in the depths of night t'avail
A headache nagging as I mull suspense
And try to feign tis naught whilst pond'ring whence,
Dawn half a question and too red for bail,
Rain forecast, Barry's solves the headache, frail
As needing sleep, the shortbread melting thence
Within my mouth, how breakfast for intents
Is crafted in good time, ere rain detail.
Not til I'm halfway thus to Woodman's fer
All that do droplets fall, quite thick as due
And fast. If groc'ry shopping is as t'were
A trip, tis too much fun. We've pizzas, two,
Aye, cake as well, more salads, rain in tour
So sweet likeas sheer solace. I wait You.
25Apr25a
Mhm.
Post Poems and Scroll the Web, Eh?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXVI)
If I had feared the heat, we're spared from hence;
Sweet coolness, til the screen stays oped t'avail
And life lends voice, our fare ah, which detail?
How early ev'ning's calm, rain long gone, whence
Hark as the birds sing oer the leas fr'intents
And dale, geese resting likeas sheep? I'm frail
From pulling third shift, nor much use; derail
Aught plans ere nightfall cuz strength was pretense?
Besides, we've got to rise ere dawn and stir
Me out the door to work at sunrise. Do
The math: I've been up nigh a day in tour
By six. Bed's sweet repose where slumber'd woo:
I'm lost afore the sun sets, shot. Is't poor?
I thank Thee for Thy mercies, LORD, of You.
25Apr25b
...in sweet blue skies or rainy grey?
Did I Put Too Much Stock
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXVII)
If dawn is not, grey region clouds with pale
Light haunting any hope of yonder, dense
Yet with sheer glimpses of blue skies from hence,
How these break through at length, t'anon prevail;
Sweet shafts of golden sunlight to avail
The soul now piercing through grey shadows sense
Of dim foreboding, til behold! Thin thence
With icy pureness, skies are clear, like bail.
A key chain for the first souls come in tour
To wash by midday, we've no chance to do
It cuz they started early. What is poor?
The hope of that where neither'd chance nor cue
Til all was oer. Clouds streaky white bestir,
And what was Saturday that we'd seek You?
26Apr25a
Sure, let's blame him.
Come, Is This Peter Pan's Fault?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXVIII)
Joe Anyways extends his hand fr'intents
Whileas I laugh, the flirting thought of bail
Not mine, but his, divorcees on the trail
To more off limits, and but mere pretense.
If Rachel sweetly begs I hope from hence,
There are no suitors, just this game t'avail
The wasting time, where teasing seems shan't fail
Til I walk off and leave aught sans defense.
Two college lads discuss the girl they'd stir
Hopes of, one saying to th'other, "we can't do
It: she is twenty!" Ah, for romance. Were
We all at odds, how shall men ever woo?
Both Rach and I would marry, yet not her
Nor I can find a decent man. Where to?
26Apr25b
Main's Treasury of English Sonnets featuring his end of April sonnets...
Please Tell John Clare I'm With Him
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXXXIX)
Lo, April's oer as I'm still trying to hail
Its essence, dale and lea clothed once 'gain, whence
Spring knows its lease is up ere I've fr'intents
Begun t'indulge. Behold, blue violets trail
To faerie joys yields up to that detail
Of dandelions, and leaves dance with a sense
Of parties in full swing whilst sparrows hence
With other songsters keep cheer flying, t'avail.
How neighbors feel it too, grills out in tour
And smokey scents a wafting, music too
Like Summer's sent out invites. I'll demur
To cook, serve cold baked beans, chix salad, two
Hawaiian rolls, "Spring Greens" dressed up as t'were
With shrooms, tomatoes, onions, cheese. And you?
27Apr25a
Apparently.
They Call This Living In My Head?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXL)
How Sunday ev'ning owns sheer calm fr'intents,
The parties and loud music oer, t'avail,
What of all that we knew? Lo, that detail
Of Monday looms and nary joy's pretense
Kin find a leg to stand on, sans defense
As all is put away til we own bail--
Next weekend shall have quite the fete. In frail
Next weekend shall have quite the fete. In frail
Excuse, I'm crafting smoothies like tis sense.
Bananas, pine'pple, strawb'rries, cream too fer
Good measure, and I am too full tae do
Aught justice til the morrow. Is that poor?
Oh LORD, redeem us, for we don't seek You
Except we are in trouble, nor bestir
Us even then. Save us, for is't untrue?
27Apr25b
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 5th, 2025 07:26
- Comment from author about the poem: So, anyway. Enjoy!
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
We have all had days of confusion when we don't even know what day it is and then this may contribute to bad decisions based on false information such as a man's intents. Not as predictable as the seasons people are hard to predict. Stick to work schedules and foods they are more predictable. Fun read
My friend, I totally live in my head! 🤣 But hey, my arms and hands cooperate to allow some of that life to spill out on to paper. And thank God for it, right? These are wonderful and vulnerable sonnets, my friend. Your versatility, even within one form, is absolutely broad! Love your work.🌹👏
Oh you're entirely too kind, Tristan, thank you so very much for understanding. My late father urged me to stop living in my head, which is whence that title.
Ah. Makes sense. I have been given that advice too, if you can imagine that? 🤷♂️🤣 You are most welcome, Missy.
Excellent write
Thank you, Tony, you're too kind.
You're welcome
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