Friday, July 31, 2009
Inspired by a cricket as I am.
And what a cricket: blood and guts and squee!
(That last is me, though I suppose it can
Make noises like that if it likes). This one,
Acanthoplus discoidalis cannot
Fly off or fight too well, yet has a fun
And fabulous defense when it is caught:
It bleeds green nasty goo, then vomits all
Its last meal so the lizard spits it out!
If other lizards see this wherewithal
They leave the bug alone. Let's give a shout!
For, e'en if it were chocolate-coated, it
Would be a poor hors d'œuvre, you must admit.
Engage in navel-gazing, by my friend,
Ol' Ommus, who it seems could not abide
That I should write 'bout puking bugs; forfend!
Instead a diff'rent bug is on our minds:
The comics bug, which bites and then takes hold
Until no matter where one looks one finds
A item, figure, notion new or old
That just might make a comic. It's true though
That as my dear friend Walter doth point out
Not ev'ry story needs that treatment, so
It must be a discerning bug. Hold out
I do for tales whose vivid imagery
Demands both words and pictures. That's for me!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Called Heroes Only; it deserves the name.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
I'm e'er to have some list'ners to my show,
Which want I must, else why do all this? Sniff!
It's lonely there without you all, I know!
So when you've done delighting these, your ears
With this program, whyever won't you click
On over to hear Kate of Mind? Your fears
Are groundless, I assure you. It's no trick:
Just iambic pentameter for us,
The modern generation (mostly nerds).
You know you want to listen. What's the fuss?
Some science, silliness and made-up words
In sonnet form are surely what you need!
Your weekly dose of geekdom's in the feed.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
At once, yet it is hard now to avoid:
When passing time with certain folk my gaffe
Is oft repeated, till I'm quite destroyed.
Michelle Bekemeyer, I'm looking at you.
E'er since Mister Roboto reared its head,
My nose has passed such fluid volume through
As might just drown me. I may say instead
That it just makes me stronger. Ah, but if
It weren't for this it would not be as hard
To listen to your podcast romance riff
While straight of countenance. So now: en garde!
Be careful what you ask for, silly girl,
Lest I another sonnet-snarf unfurl!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A pile of photographs I once had mailed
Home to my parents. From within this stack
Smiled all of my Brazilian friends I've failed
To keep in touch with. Once they taught me bits
Of Portuguese - that mostly over drinks
With the result that my command's the pits
When sober. Time passed faster than eyeblinks:
Years later I'm on Twitter and, for fun
I try to talk to guys from Portugal,
About books, stars and things in their own tongue.
They're kind, amused as I bust out my skull.
Fernando Fonseca and dear Jorge
Candeias, thanks seems not enough to say!
Though I've not met you, I am pretty sure
We're life-long friends. I do hope you enjoy
Your special day and do more than endure
Your moving ordeal. Once in your new place
I do expect more music and more tweets
About what fun it is to be you (pace
The sours that do come with all the sweets).
It seems a long time yet before we hoist
Our beers in celebration and I learn
The tale behind "Daecabhir" but my choice
Is waiting til then. It is good to yearn
Sometimes. So until Balticon next year
Just keep in touch and smile for me, my dear! \m/
Friday, July 24, 2009
But I do so as Shakespeare might have done
(Well, if he was reborn now as a dog
Or typing monkey - but it's all in fun!).
And Bootsy yes, I am a funkateer
Though a white girl who calls Wyoming home.
How glad I am you've joined the Twittasphere
To funk it up. Wherever else I roam
I have you and your peers well on the brain,
Thanks to the iPod and to sim'lar tech.
On bike commutes, long car rides, I keep sane
In no small part due to you and your tunes' help.
So thanks for all the music and the smiles
I still enjoy while eating up the miles.
Of late our girl has been on quite a roll
As she cranks out her novel. Then again
Her temper she has kept under control.
Yet all that passion had to go somewhere
The gallbladder is where that tends to go
(At least per Great Hippocrates). Unfair,
I say it is! Now, what took place next, though:
(Besides the ambulance and surgery
And stay in hospital) was a near-brawl
Twixt Netta and, there in endoscopy,
A doctor -- that, I cannot help but call
Hilarious! As I've been there as well,
How glad I am that Netta gave 'em hell!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
As though I have been gone for weeks instead.
The grass unmowed out front now also screams
For watering, as do the hedge and bed
Of irises and lilies. Welcome back,
Says my front yard as I arrive, so tired
From driving in the blazing sun in black
(Car and attire). See all that has transpired?
There's dust to dust and vacuuming to do.
Out back there's weeds to pull and trim as well.
And by the way when all of that is through
A podcast still needs edited. Oh, hell:
You're worthless as you slump into that chair.
Fine, take a nap, but then to work, I swear!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
This afternoon, a tree is coming down
Beneath whose boughs my childhood swiftly passed.
I'm sure it's quite as old as my hometown,
This cottonwood. On av'rage these trees last
A hundred years, then die within their hearts
And slowly rot from inside out, then fall.
The neighbor's house would take the hit. So starts
An afternoon's work: best to cut and haul
The tree, in parts, away. Thus, soon, the sky
Above my parents' yard will miss a piece
Of long-accustomed scenery. Good-bye
Grandfather Cottonwood, good neighbor. Cease
This mourning now, though, Kate: there still is shade
Beneath the clones and saplings that he made
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Persuaded once again to trade my blood
For something else, though I do not believe
That mine will save, except one life. A flood
Of fear doth overtake me ere the poke,
Though I donate my blood so often that
A spigot in my arm would be no joke.
My favorite phlebotomist at bat,
I finish up in record time, and make
Direct pressure sieg-heil before quite ten
Swift minutes pass. That's how we work to slake
The thirst for blood. And then, as it's July,
I find I've traded mine for homemade pie.
Monday, July 20, 2009
A-sending me announcements such as these.
You know I'd be there were it not so FAR.
Alas, my accolades will need a breeze
Of gale-force just to bring them to your ears.
But know that I shall call out all the same
To hear that мавпа song. Admist the cheers
Imagine mine, too. This do I proclaim:
Someday I'll see you live and make some noise,
And then you'll wonder how you did without
The fangirl squee that tells all of the joys
Of hearing smarter music. Oh, I'll shout!
Till then, dear Geo, go and knock 'em dead.
I'll be there with bells on inside my head.
Last Friday, Jupiter and sev'ral moons
Had me transfixed; I'd still be there, my eye
Pressed to a scope. Nights turn always to noons,
Though. Now today the world is looking back
To when our moon first felt a human step,
But some of us are also keeping track
Of Jupiter's black spot. I did not get
To see it Friday night; no black spot was
There to be seen back then. It might be so
That just ere that astronomer from Oz
Observed it that a comet struck a blow!
Meanwhile the men who first trod Luna's dust
Declare that now our job is Mars or bust.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A world where Henry Purcell was its God.
'Twould matter not if actually He
Existed or not. If real the facade
He'd place on His creation would hold fast
To fine ideals we'd strive to emulate.
If just a figment, still his unsurpassed
Oeuvre we'd dreamed up sure would mitigate
The flaws we have as creatures. And the spheres
Would elegantly vibrate -- this although
Our understanding snagged up on the gears
Of Nahum Tate's plumb awful libretto.
An artist who can transcend stuff like that
Could knock Jehovah into a cocked hat!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
As ne'er I get: to peer through a great scope,
Joe Haldeman, my guide, there to enhance
My view of Albireo! How I hope
My life is long, such wonders it has brought!
Gord Sellar, Andy Duncan, Sigler too,
Stargazers with me. Oh what lives we've got
Beneath such wonders, there in orange and blue!
That to Wyoming Julie Jones was drawn
Along with all these others stuns me still.
I could have kept them chatting until dawn
But they have greater pow'rs of mind and will
Than I as yet can muster. So a toast:
The Launch Pad, and Mike Brotherton, our host!
Sonneteer's note: I had the unique opportunity last night to attend a party associated with the University of Wyoming's writers' education program, the Launch Pad. One of the attendees is Scott Sigler. Over Guiness and on the spot, he cheerfully agreed to compose this with me. As with prior sonnet interviews, we traded lines: I asked impertinent questions and he gave them the answers they deserve. The video above was shot immediately after he finished his half.
O Scott, how is Wyoming treating you?
Quite well; the Cowboy State is a nice place.
I hear Phil Rossi scares you. Is that true?
Not so. I want to punch him in the face.
What has the Launch Pad taught you all this week?
Stardust and suns and some spectroscopy.
And are you finding all that you did seek?
Lessons of math bring certain gravity.
The Crypt intrigues us all. How will it change?
More murder, rape and raw butchery.
What do you hope from it besides some strange?
Some nightmares for you and cash for Daddy.
So when you're Overlord, what will you do?
What else? Let's line up hot goth chicks and screw!
Friday, July 17, 2009
The subtle signs of planets far in space
That circle other stars. Is Earth unique
As an abode for life like ours? This place
Which some believe's created just for us
Might not be all that special, all that rare.
But then I ponder on Copernicus,
Who laid the Ptolemaic theory bare
And proved to all the Earth goes round the sun.
It took hundreds of years before some folk
Accepted this, unbanned his book and one
Suspects that out there still, like some great joke
Are people who'll insist his work's all lies
And exoplanets naught but fireflies.
Inspired in part by some strange public art
Depicting a rare creature that, I'd say
Shows taste and style and signs that it is smart:
The Pabst Blue Ribbon Squid you may see here.
Now, I'm not sure just what it is he seeks:
To cop a cheap feel or a sip of beer,
But it's the oddest thing I've seen in weeks,
And worthy of some poetry of sorts.
Called "I Am Pabst" this mural may not be
An image of what we call indoor sports
Or what looks like some bestality,
But then again it might. Let each decide.
Assasin Grrl may judge while I go hide.
I'll soothe it by consid'ring now an ape,
The "old man of the forest", who, it's said
Trades favors much like humans do. I gape
At what we've learned about them recently!
We've also seen them harness water as
A tool to float a peanut prize. I'll be
Surprised if that's all we learn, for there has
Been much more research started here and there
On symbol acquisition, and if what
Sounds much like laughter is just that and where
They might yet thrive as habitats shrink. But
What'er they find, Neil Richards gets his prize:
A made-to-order sonnet. Feast your eyes!
Among your uses is denoting a
Coordination compound's charge in lieu
Of what its ligands add. Now ligands, they
Are atoms bound to metals which donate
Electrons, not from kindness but because
Its nicer to be neutral - not a state
To scoff at, for it's stable by all laws
Of matter that we know: To have a charge
Is to repel like, draw unlike and to make --
But I digress; this topic is too large
For fourteen lines of poetry to take
A proper survey of, at least for me.
Oxidation numbers, I flee from thee!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
To celebrate two hundred fifty years
Of brewing nectar quite beyond compare
The Guinness brewery brought me to tears
Of joy. I still recall my first small sip
Of Guiness Stout; 'twas nineteen eighty nine,
I was away at school, on a short trip
To Rhinebeck with some friends and feeling fine.
Between us and the swanky restaurant
Lurked BevWay, and we stopped there to restock
Our beer supply. I mentioned that I'd want
To try that stuff someday. My friends in shock
Bought up a bunch and we dashed back to school...
For Guiness ever since, I've been a fool.
In Which I Trip All Over A Pile Of Superlatives Cluttering Up My Office Floor, Or Guiness Is REALLY Good For You
To me that this was going on. Hoorah!
Forget the Cylon Toaster. I've a new
Obsession: winning this. I'm filled with awe
To be alive for this event. That my
Most fav'rite brew, Guiness, and fav'rite place
Can come together in this way means I
Already feel I've been launched into space.
My thoughts race at near-orbital speeds and
I all but scream my joy at the mere thought.
My eyeballs roll, I grab on with one hand
To steady myself at my desk. I ought
Not to be too surpised that it is they
Who'd think to celebrate in this great way.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Approaches now Shark Week 2009,
When we all celebrate a great success:
The Selichimorphae. It would be fine
Enough all on its own, but then there's -- yes!
The notion of some sharks as astronauts.
Now, don't you laugh - it makes a certain sense.
Survivors they are, tougher than robots;
Relentless, they are, too, and quite intense.
Accustomed, too, to move in vast 3-D
Environments, near-weightless, and they're smart,
With ratios, brain-to-mass, that, we can see,
Match many mammals'. And then, the best part:
To make spacesuits for sharks would be a breeze:
No sleeves or pantlegs needed. Do it, please!
Sonneteer's note: this one was commissioned by the great and mighty Ian O'Neil of Discovery Space, who wanted some way to get in on some of that sweet Shark Week action while still remaining true his official purview, which is, of course, space science and astrophysics. It was Ian who cooked up the artwork accompanying this post. Just so you know, your sonneteer is not the only bozo on this bus...
Sunday, July 12, 2009
In crazed formations that it hurts to trace,
I know that feedback screeches I despise
Will fill my ears soon and I'll feel my face
Is far too small as is my viselike skull
Which someone cranked too tightly round my head.
The pain comes slowly; at first just a dull
Throb. Soon, though, I'll just want to go play dead,
Lie down in darkness, holding very still
And hoping that the harpies find me not.
Of course I'm caught flat-footed, not one pill
Of Imitrex is in my house. It's hot
And stifling. My poor dog knows something's wrong
And curls up by my bed, suffers along.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
As it was Tesla's birthday and did he
So much to bring us juice to make things go
(Of course I'm talking of 'lectricity),
That lightning struck the mast on 39-A,
The launch pad 'pon which our Endeavor poised
In Florida for hopeful launch today.
That launch is canceled, but I'm not annoyed
With Tesla. As my friend Nicole reminds:
Causation should not ever be inferred
From correlation. Still my heart it finds
Much fault with Thor, that surly, churlish turd.
For LRO/LCROSS I offered wine.
That tantrum, though, means this time it's all mine.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Each summer comes a time when it's like hell.
At first in June the streets are torn up so
That bike commuting's best, though a hard sell
For folks who love their pickups as these do.
Post-haste a summer's worth of work is done
In preparation for an onslaught. Coo!
Frontier Days brings all, under one hot sun,
That I like least about Wyoming life:
Fake cowboys, amateur drunks, strafing planes,
Loud music that goes twang and redneck strife
(Thanks, Walter, for this dare to list my banes).
At least it leaves the mountains free for those
Who like Wyoming for its sweet repose.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Today we help his book rush up the charts
At Amazon. It's just reward for deeds
Of podcast novel promulgation. Hearts
Have raced and pulses pounded as he's read
His creepy sci-fi tale to us online
For free. That Crescent's sure messed with my head.
And I can't wait to hold its weird, malign
And creepy goodness in my hands. I'll wait
Till thirteen hundred hours, E.D.T.,
Click over, order, then, O happy fate,
Go watch his online concert! Cover me
In happiness on his behalf. Go buy
His book and dig it. What a guy!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
The ingenuity of the artistes
Who make them. I have tried, but quickly tire;
To push down crops is hard work, and I cease
Long ere my handiwork takes on the scope
Of such as these, whose dire significance
Would seem all doomsday sayers' greatest hope.
Upon these wacky claims I look askance.
Ultraterrestrials (to use the late
John Keel's term), if they really did care
Enough to warn us of a baneful date
Would, I feel sure, find a clear way to share.
And yeah, the hole in our magnetosphere
And CME threat are explained right here.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Should n'er complain at Fourth of July fun.
But last I checked, a date was one day. Fie
Upon my neighbors, each and ev'ry one
Whose infinite supply of crappy booze
And caps to pop and hoot at like dumb apes
Keeps me awake long past the hour I choose
To call bedtime and pull closed all my drapes.
At least my dog, she gets some exercise,
A-jumping and a-shaking, startled at
Each wee explosion. I would not despise
This jubilation were it just on that
One special day and night, but let's be real.
The holiday lasts weeks now. What's the deal?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Adorning so his first, most famous book,
Has quit her job of making people hurl --
At least from Juneau's mansion. What it took
To make her stop, I really do not know.
I fear she's after Zaphod's job for her
Grand Krikkit party. Please can't someone throw
Her back into the Slo-Time? Or transfer
This real-life Humma Kavula away
To Frogstar Planet B to meet her fate?
O Sarah Palin, what else can I say
That you've not said much worse? I can't relate.
My fluency ain't what it used to be
In Gibberish, and when you speak, I flee.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Today (cockroaches), fat bodies appear
As nothing so much as some well-whipped cream.
These organs do a lot; they don't just smear
The lab bench. Cockroach fat is on my mind,
Now that I've learned that roaches lard up, too,
When fed a diet that we have maligned
As bad for people. It is also true,
It would appear, that nymphs are most at risk:
A young one, poorly fed, will soon become
A listless, fatty adult with no frisk,
Slow to mature, to mate, quick to succumb
To ennui. An idea for roach control
Does then occur: just share the Fritos bowl!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
I'll kick you hard whene'er you miss your goal.
Your word count I shall watch, and I'll demand
An update ev'ry day or else extol
Your failure here in public, sonnet form.
It is the very least that I can do
To thank you for the Goblin Market. Storm
The castle, swim the moat, just burst on through
Each day if you don't want to feel my wrath,
Which burns as hot as human fat inside
Your leg-o-lamp. With such set as your path,
Such shall be your success. I am your guide
To boasting rights, completion, to the end
Of your weird quest. I have that time to spend.
Raindrops on Kittens
- An Experiment in Chronology and Method Comics Making by Paul Laroquod
- Escape Into Life - A Marvelous arts & culture webzine
- Field Notes - Made in the U.S.A.
- George Hrab - musician, blogger, podcaster, skeptic
- Heroes Only - My friendly local comics/games store
- Isoban's Journal - Illustrations, AudioBoos, Videos, More Geektastic Goodness Than You Can Handle
- National Public Radio - my source for almost everything
- Podiobooks - Awesome free audiobooks of all genres
- Posthuman Blues - A Feast of Forteanity & Futurism by Mac Tonnies
- The Goblin Market - A Podcast Novel by Jennifer Hudock
- The Invasion & The Zombie Chronicles - Innovative zombie fiction by James Melzer