Sonnet Playground

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Down the street Mr. Trotta hawks the fine clothes she and I both long to afford. We may now be in disparate circumstance, who knows when that might change for either one. Turn the corner to find the Renaissance — awe; but further on loom the shells of great stores with names of Cincinnati now gone. The buildings still sport their gorgeous facades.

Pop Sonnets | Folger Shakespeare Library

Of this there is no real vestige. Pink bridge over the arcade — memory. The best was the Junior Department right at one end. We shopped like we had never been in a store; and maybe bought knee socks. It played one night and my dedication went out. Our two high schools heard, teased us plenty, but Chris was in heaven.

Sonnet (Playground Dilemma)

His kisses affirmed. Your eyes are a gift to my sweeping skyscrapers lavished in gold lace, floral etchings aiming to please. Walnut Street centers imagination. The Nutcracker plays here now every year. New is the mural of Neil on the moon. He took the world along as we watched him on the tube all cavorting and golfing. Ponderous, the courthouse stands tall in stride with its long, tall windows. Like a lighthouse this beacon of justice points the true way.

Some dreams are accidents, conceived ad hoc spontaneous permanence; three circles. Landmark where visitors can park cars, the unobserved turns into autopilot trust, remains in the shadow of progress. Cuts through the expectation of order, Harder to care about than describe when well kept; the weeds have been recently pulled. Every day life happens alongside hope. Drop puddles on gravel and see what grows, aim for organic and affordable- breathe deep; even with a knife in your hand. Do not dare take a shortcut through sickness, maturity is won hard over time.

A grey galaxy is spinning outside the quiet library. A child rides his bike around the hole to hit the phone pole; black stray cats see. Crackling through the mural, bright blues, greens, brilliant. Another world—not here. Porch strung with lights, always waiting for fiesta. The church for sale shadows Jesus carrying the cross, a fire-escape one cannot reach. Luminous painted trim re vives lifeless bricks by the weeping willows.

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Garbage night and everyone has some here. Word Alive Christian Fellowship never said why wrought iron is so wrought up anyway. No trespassing. Authorized parkers only, though the funeral home is long dead. Karaoke Chameleon blends in well but naming a street Vandal is not right, like calling one Apple with none in sight.

No revelation lurks backside Taco Bell and the front side is not a lot better. Time for that beer. Through red bricked alleys, pooled with morning rain, the neighborhood, inviting, draws me in. Graffiti, tattoos, posters on display, a crazy quilt of movement, sight and sound. Cicada chirring fills the humid air and strands of ivy shelter noisy birds. Storefronts stocked with pitchforks and stuffed bears, treadle sewing machines, repaired guitars. I rest on a blue bench. Two dogs in tandem, sniff and lick my toes.

Pink clovers sprouting from cigar tip.

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Red and black framed door frames red and black clad me. Cicada shell hangs empty from a pole. Skinny white cat shadows skinny white man. Clatter of trash cans, litter of leaves; eggplant, tomatoes in ratatouille yard.

Church for sale. They rekindle my imagination, flirt with me, remind me of girlhood days gone forever.

Sonnets Academy-Lincoln Park Llc

Many memories made walking, shopping, lunching, never to fade. Hot dog stand-smell, a red and white canopy; up in the wrought iron balconies, four ashen- faced figurines in white robes and shawls, their long skeletal fingers beseeching; a sign on a storefront says—Safeguarding the children—elsewhere—Divine love always has met and always will meet every human need; a homeless man, an etching in a stone facade; a pink lotus on a green leaf Saigon Subs and Rolls ; cascading rows of seats in the Paul Brown Stadium; mounting traffic noise, a well dressed man asking for spare change.

I balk, clam up, walk back past four porcelain doll jars with fancy hats for lids, and balloons at the Square—primary colors, primary needs. New streetcar serenades the old Dixie Terminal.

Sonnet 135 - Shakespeare Statue, Central Park

Shop Local says the empty storefront as a single bell peals above jackhammers crumbling the Pogue Garage. Traffic heads north to Over the Rhine and south to the stadium, the bridges, the river beyond. Pay here in advance.

Too late. No trespassing in a grove of gingkoes along the highway out of here. Nothing saved that Savings and Bank. Use revolving door to Available for Less. Deconstruction workers now hard at lunch.

Down the street Mr. Trotta hawks the fine clothes she and I both long to afford. We may now be in disparate circumstance, who knows when that might change for either one. Turn the corner to find the Renaissance — awe; but further on loom the shells of great stores with names of Cincinnati now gone. The buildings still sport their gorgeous facades. Of this there is no real vestige. Pink bridge over the arcade — memory. The best was the Junior Department right at one end.

We shopped like we had never been in a store; and maybe bought knee socks. It played one night and my dedication went out. Our two high schools heard, teased us plenty, but Chris was in heaven. His kisses affirmed. Your eyes are a gift to my sweeping skyscrapers lavished in gold lace, floral etchings aiming to please. Walnut Street centers imagination.

The Nutcracker plays here now every year. New is the mural of Neil on the moon. He took the world along as we watched him on the tube all cavorting and golfing. Ponderous, the courthouse stands tall in stride with its long, tall windows. Like a lighthouse this beacon of justice points the true way. Some dreams are accidents, conceived ad hoc spontaneous permanence; three circles. Landmark where visitors can park cars, the unobserved turns into autopilot trust, remains in the shadow of progress.

Cuts through the expectation of order, Harder to care about than describe when well kept; the weeds have been recently pulled. Every day life happens alongside hope. Drop puddles on gravel and see what grows, aim for organic and affordable- breathe deep; even with a knife in your hand. Do not dare take a shortcut through sickness, maturity is won hard over time.

A grey galaxy is spinning outside the quiet library.