R.I.P. Peter Storer

It's been a while since I quaffed down a beer
With you my friend, and now I guess I won't,
Not evermore, but I resist the tear
I want to shed. Your daughter's right; you don't
Want us to cry. We had a lot of fun
In building our community. You were
A hell of a fun guy to know. I'm one
Of many who will miss you. There's a blur
Now in my eyes, but still to this I cling:
I've memories galore to make me smile,
As do we all. But may I say one thing?
While you had quite a run I still revile
That fate just took you from us. Friend, farewell.
I know that where you are you're raising hell.

In Which I Have A Tiny Panic Attack At Work

Alone here in a fishbowl, full of folk
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.

In Which The Construction Gods Smile On Me At Last

Returned from Saratoga, lo, I find

That Dell Range Avenue is nearly back

To normal, on my eastern end. My mind

much eased by this, I failed to note that smack

Amidst us all, new traffic lights now hang

At Marble Avenue! So that is what

The mess was for? Illus'ry safety bang

In my own subdivision? That's great, but

I still won't fall for it, not on my bike.

Or in my car, or walking. Red or green,

They're still just symbols. Sure we all would like

To think they are preventive, but the scene

Just down the street at Converse surely proves

That head-in-ass is still how traffic moves.

November

The trees are naked in November sun,
Shed leaves are dry and clatter through the street;
Cool browns, dull greys, some golds but only one
Bright hue relieves the muted palette. Sweet,
The year is ending. Dormancy prevails.
Yet deep inside each thing is closely held
That which against all chills' attacking fails.
Not death but strength tones down the colors. Quelled,
Then, should be any talk of loss, ennui
Or sadness. Beauty sometimes takes on stark,
Surprising forms if one has eyes to see.
It's there throughout these days, e'en in the dark.
Take time today; go outside and admire
The bold tenacity that guards the fire.

In Which My Ipod Punks Me Slightly

It was a lovely noon Wyoming drive
To Saratoga after playing chess
With a dear friend. I felt well and alive -
And blaring loud my iPod, I'll confess -
When suddenly my heart stopped; in my ears
Mac Tonnies' voice was murmuring. I had
Reloaded just that morning; it appears
I missed that -- and I won't say this is bad --
His Coast-to-Coast appearance made the cut.
I'm proud of what he did there, though the shock
Of hearing him while driving hurt me. But
Once tears cleared I stopped my car and took stock:
I've him and all the music we have shared
Right there, and it's OK now I'm prepared.

In Which I Geek Out On Some Cool Objects

Those who have seen me 'round know how I love

Two pieces of odd jewelry that I've got.

Each morning these days I dither: which of

These two artworks I'll wear and which I'll not

(The two of them together would not work;

They both are necklaces). The Earth and Moon?

The grasshopper? Sure, you may smile and smirk

But get some Surlyramics of your own

And see how good you are at choosing which

To wear each day! If science turns your crank,

If skeptic witticisms flip your switch,

Then you'll do well to click over and thank

Me later for the tip. I was not paid

To write this, mind. I just like what she's made.

In Which More Good Medicine Comes My Way

As doors open and close, we spin around
And sometimes we lose track of who has come
Through with us. Mostly those we've lost are found
But sometimes gone for good, and we're left dumb,
Confused and sad and lonely, crying out
For someone who's no longer there. That's pain,
But those same doors whose closure gave us doubt
Can also bring just what we need: we gain
In losing. Old friends still along with us
Step up and help, and strangers become new
And wondrous sources for what we lack. Thus
Has gone my week-and -change since something drew
Mac Tonnies from our lives. There all along
Were people waiting to help me be strong.

In Which I Rejoice In Having Lots And Lots Of Company!

Of NaNoWriMo it is Day One; I
Have yet to write a word, but am not blue.
Though precious hours keep on ticking by,
I'm sanguine, though there is so much to do!
Those fifty-thousand words of fiction won't
Just write themselves, but I think I might feel
A bit like they are! Now, dear readers, don't
Go thinking I'm blase; this is a real
Commitment, but this year so many friends
Have made it with me that I'm giddy from
Anticipation. We bust out our pens
(Or typewriter in my case) and succumb
To that old urge, court muses, make our starts
And know that all around beat sim'lar hearts.

In Which I Thank My Medicine Men

It takes strange tools to patch a torn-up heart,
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.

In Which I Don't Even Try To Dress It Up - I'm Angry And I'm Hurting

A week has passed; my tears have mostly dried

But I am far from healed; I'm angry still.

Still can't quite grasp that Mac Tonnies has died,

Keep watching for him, wond'ring what he will

Dig up for us next. Anger chokes my throat

Each time I look and find him gone again.

Did people in his call center e'er note

Just how remarkable he was? But then

How well do I know my work-mates? Something

Has got to change, to stop, has got to give.

That wondrous Mac went unmissed three days? Bring

Me tissues, please; I'm crying more. We live

In heartless times when how someone's first missed

Is by a distant friend he's never kissed.

Friday Flash: No Return To Mount Shasta Is On The Horizon

Sonneteer's note: this is the tenth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here and Part the Ninth here. Wow!

Awake again and riding on the lines

Of monofilment her thumbs produce,

Yectara listens not unto the whines

Of fear or of concern her crew lets loose.

The navigator jerks when once he knows

His station is her destination. He

Makes weakly his salute and vainly throws

His glance amongst his crewmen but all we

See from them is that special empty stare,

Awaiting further orders from their queen.

"To Epsilon Aurigae we now dare,"

Yectara barks. The navigator's screen

Is quickly tuned to seek out that far star

And all the worlds around it. "There you are."

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

In Which A Snowy Day Sets Me To Dithering

Contrary impulses have seized me, and

I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.

I still am sick, could barely lift a hand

To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips

And legs that should do that work - yet I would

So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white

Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -

In Saratoga, so that's out. All right

But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp

With Molly in the park? I really ought

To stay home and get well at last. I stomp

An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got

A poor track record, being sick and then

Undoing efforts to get well again.

In Which I Fidget A Little Over NaNoWriMo

I am a both-feet jumping kind of girl,
As I told a good friend just last week. I
Spoke then of matters other than the whirl
Of furious creation that soon to fly
Into my face: NaNoWriMo doth come!
My life, already out of shape, will warp
Still further, though not quite so much as some:
I have not made an outline, do not sport
So much as one lone character sheet yet.
That feels like cheating, like a lack of trust
In my November self. I shall not get
Into that frenzy 'till I truly must!
Though just here in this sonnet, I'll admit:
My friends who've done so seem prepared as spit!

In Which I Squee For A Wonderful Guy

Today is Seventh Son Day, a long while

In coming. As we watch his numbers rise

With J.C. Hutchins, let us pause and smile

For him and us. At last our poor wee eyes

Partake in what our ears so long have known!

That baby-faced JC is sure no slouch,

That there's no pleasure quite like when our own

Do well. That sprawling out upon the couch

With paperback or Kindle is more fun

When it's a friend in there. Oh, JC, dear!

While Personal Effects was a delight

And brought the chills and of course brought the fear,

It's this one that feels like the triumph of

Your work and friends and all you've come to love!