of course, of course.
I Have So Much Yet to Learn
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXLVII)
From lavendar on Tuesday, to inhale
Fresh whiffs of apple cidar with a sense
Of all we cherished just in tow on scents
Is like ah! coming home, though that detail
Could never be, and Wednesday shall avail
Itself of applesauce at last? Whilst thence
The bacon sizzles and potatoes hence
Roast in the oven, mists yet gird the trail.
We can but see afar off as it were,
Not nigh, but unto Thee, LORD--is't not true?
Our days here, numbered, aught we can bestir
Is like a dream which passes ere we knew
Its essence. Thus I've lived, and died in tour,
To find that: I'm still here. LORD, I'd see You.
30Apr25a
just water and apples, that's all.
You Ever Had Fresh Applesauce?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXLVIII)
Rain falls, yet only when I maunt from thence
Indulge, nor sleep, but work; write sans avail
On paper soaked by what John Clare'd bewail:
Sweet April's final tears. Catch violets hence
Outside my bedroom window sans fr'intents
Aught fanfare, sweetly smiling heavnward, frail
In white tinged faintly purple as songs hail
From ev'ry nook and corner, like defense.
Sip Barry's as steam wafts up, few astir
Or none in dawn's first light, the waking view
Calm with but songs that flit through and in tour
Remember lo, the Scriptures: our lives too
Are but a vapour that appears as t'were,
To then quite vanish. LORD, that we'd see You.
30Apr25b
Hmm.
But Why Do I Oft Yawn, Eh?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCXLIX)
How Goldfinch merr'ly tease, the grass detail
So lush and green, grey region clouds, blue, dense
And just as Shakespeare oft deplored, suspense
A kitten napping where chill winds exhale
Nor toss the baby leaves' chartreuse, the pale
Eye of sweet April's last hours like fr'intents
John Clare described it, mourning in a sense
Whilst songs so gaily trim the fields t'avail.
My salad of "spring greens" with onions fer
Good flavour, olives, shrooms, tomatoes too,
Seems fresh and light, so perfect. Let as t'were
My soul take chance to rest and breathe anew,
If only I might see afar off, poor
As nary sight of heavn, oh LORD, to You.
30Apr25c
...lest you miss a moment.
You'd Hate to Lapse Into Slumber
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCCL)
Where songs flit as a lull'by as a sense
Of calm pervades, and night is that detail
Which subtly edges closer to avail
The sleepy head of rest, sigh like defense
Is here. How twilight simply wait from hence,
The region clouds more blue than grey to scale,
And distant traffic rushing past, the trail
To yonder's far from here, and but pretense.
How puddles wear a silver mien in tour,
Lights glimmer in the distance...what'd not woo?
Tis soothing whilst songs flit and voices stir
In slow waltz fashion; lo, none wander through.
The grass is thick and lushly green, as t'were
A carpet for a bed. LORD, all praise You.
30Apr25d
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 7th, 2025 08:37
- Comment from author about the poem: Please don't tell me I'm having too much fun. Enjoy?!
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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