Do NOT give me that look.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMM...)
It's Tuesday. Choc'late smeared on my page hence
Swears I had better things to do, t'avail
Me on this page of French Silk Pie's detail
A mock'ry of the lines I'd mulled, pretense
Now chortling oer my failure who had sense
Enough where I'd no time to scribble. Frail
As writing over choc'late stains, bewail
The loss of pretty lines I'd thought were whence.
What AM I s'posed to know? I'd time as twere
Yet yielded to a fav'rite flick. I knew
That was unwise, but lines hid frae me fer
A time I'd later wish not wasted. Blue
Skies scant these days, grey racks which Autumn'd stir
For flavour what I cherish, LORD, where to?
22Sep26
-
Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 29th, 2026 22:47
- Comment from author about the poem: What's left to add?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 44
- Users favorite of this poem: Fränz Müller
- In collections: None of Your Beeswax.
Offline)
Comments9
An interesting duality in this one, humorous and reflective! Great write!
Thank you.
A lovely recipe that I can taste in worded form, filled with sweetness. Lovely Cheeky
Does the lord like chocolate hymns, i wonder.
Why are Tuesdays dull days.
Days are not always, but frequently, what you chose to make of them.
I usually kill people on tuesdays cos it's so boring.
Chocolate is always worth the detour and diversion!
Yep!
The skies here are as gray as my mood 🥹
Me dearly LOVES grey skies: it's rainy and dripping here, dim and moody, and I'm so VERY glad it is precisely that today.
Chocolate: the undoing of us all.
The End will come not with a Bang, But with a WISPA.
Nice one.
Thank you. It'll burn.
My pleasure.
Dey humor at its cheeky best, dear Missy
Thank you, Ma'am.
always welcome - and no need for the formality [Ma'am] - can address me by name too..
You have to be so careful .. otherwise, it gets everywhere doesn't it .. 🌻👍
Chocolate likes to tell all the secrets; it's a bad lover.
There’s a charming frustration here, turning a French Silk Pie accident and a favorite movie into a mock-tragedy for all those “pretty lines” that vanished before they could be written down. The final “LORD, where to?” is the keeper for me, because after all the playful Elizabethan language and self-inflicted guilt, the poem suddenly opens into something more melancholy: the fear that time, like those lost lines, is slipping away while we’re busy looking elsewhere.
Thank you very much!
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