Purple plaque plugs these rose drowsy lines
Cowled slugs slow tunes wet needed nibbling speech
Crawls to neck to nip & gnaw ear snack signs
Where moons have placed your pierced panache.
One day we’ll dance this sonnet for Monet
Gather green garden bonnet bright flowers
Moist morning your sweet toes curled sachet
& place feathers in quick fallen embrace.
Breathless word sighs don’t keep us paced spoil
Rhyme misalign pillows cockeyed up side
Down marigolds spill orange & yellow roil
Lemon grass whispers timed noir ride:
Crimson lisps smear across smoke screen gloss
While robed within plush toilet rinse & floss.
The Coming of the Toads 
Fascinating sound lines. Guessing at a context, rusty downpipes, the gutter, cowled urban slug creatures dreaming of a feast like Monet’s garden?
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The 3rd & probably last in a short series of sonnets that volunteered, rose to the surface. Recently challenged with the difference between subject and content, more of a painterly idea, while also reading some of the Bard’s sonnets, which always seem to hide as much as reveal, and Blake’s idea of the “invisible worm that flies in the night, in the howling storm” whose “dark secret love…does destroy.” And thinking what would the worm have to say for itself? Nothing, of course, being invisible, it must also be mute, but the evidence is there in the visibly “sick rose.” But the downpipes & gutters, and the slugs loving life under pots. And working without articles, mainly avoiding ‘a’ and ‘the’ etc. by substituting additional noun or adjective does something more than merely marking or that ‘gives more information’ – subtracts as much as adds. Anyway, something like that.
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