Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Implacable, that or the urge to draw.
And at their bidding I answer the call,
As ever I'm an abject slave to hope
That I'll produce something to match the thought
I had on waking, and not what I fear.
Futility and poor work, these I fear,
Twin demons sit my shoulders as I write
And torment me, disturb my ev'ry thought.
To banish them I grab a pencil, draw
An insect or a friend, all in the hope
That I will placate that creative call.
Sometimes, though, what I want to do is call
Out to someone I'm thinking of. I fear
Disturbing him or her; this trumps my hope
That I am in those thoughts as well. I write
Long letters that I never send to draw
Myself from my paralysis of thought.
My life is nothing like what I once thought
It would be at this age. I would not call
Me old, though it is true that I do draw
Near to the middle-age. I do not fear
What it will bring, that stage. I bow and write
Like always, still a-chase after my hope.
That I can do this still renews my hope
That something yet may come of all I've thought,
That one day something that I yet may write
Will place at last that longed-for, unknown call
For peace and calm to quiet all my fear
Before it all must end and I withdraw.
So by the lamplight, late, I sit and draw,
My totem creatures, in each line a hope
And in each empty space a kind of fear --
Of what? I dare not entertain the thought
Through darkest watches. One day it will call
And I will answer, though. Till then, I write.
When sleep eludes me, then I write and draw.
My heart still makes the call to what I hope
Will justify my thought or prove my fear.
Friday, February 26, 2010
He travels west to see his girlie, and
A mighty stench now greets Yectara's nose,
E'en through the mask that she, too, has to wear.
Across her party's path, in one of those
Unfortunate occurances, right there
The corpse lies rotting, of a massive beast
And of one of the red men, still upright
And rigid, limbs asplay. To Vuhl, at least
This makes much sense; he crows out his delight.
"See here," he says. "A mortal wound was dealt
And bravely he stood here and his display
Distracted then the monster, which beheld
It all quiescent, easy then to slay."
He's soon dismissed, though, as another's found
A trace of cord with which Pepi was bound.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Their movements and their natures when they're still.
There's much they can reveal; and careful eyes
May linger long on details. Just those wings
May fascinate with their venation, form
And color, all together in one line.
A kind of prayer it is, within my line,
Observing insects is. I keep a watch
For them where'er I go and form
A judgment of a place based on what still
Is there, take my delight in what takes wing
Around me, an intruder in their eyes.
Minute and captivating, how my eyes
Are strained to take in each and ev'ry line
Of these small aliens among us. Wing
And tarsa, spiracle, cerci - just watch
Each tiny miracle emerge, and still
There's more to see within this strange life form.
My love for them takes on, now, this new form:
I sketch one ev'ry day. Before my eyes
My pencil conjures them, though I am still
A duffer at this art. Each shaky line
That firms up is an offering. I watch
This happen e'en as all my thoughts take wing.
That entropy increases, says this wing
Beneath my gaze, must be a lie. This form
So intricate and tiny; the innards of a watch
Are not more orderly. These compound eyes
Assembled of mere proteins, all in line
Embody order. Hush now, and hold still.
As yet I still must work from just a still,
Unchanging photograph. Gone are the wings,
Just eggs and nymphs sleep underground. Each line
I make is secondhand, but soon each form
Will be there right before my own two eyes
In nature; all I'll have to do is watch.
Till then I must keep watch through the long, still
And wintry chill. My eyes long for those wings.
For now I am content to form these lines.
Friday, February 19, 2010
This time the landing party's to be led
By none but our Yectara. Down they fly
To where they lost her swain, from where once fled,
His captors, with Pepito. Soon they spy
Faint traces of this passage. As they walk,
The science officer shares with her views
On just what kind of species they do stalk.
Yectara bites her lip to hear the news.
"Their warlike traits are nothing but a show,"
Says Doctor Vuhl. "The way that they survive
Is a display they make when harmed. They glow
And hum when death is near, and thus contrive
To hypnotize their predators and call
For help ." Yectara likes this not at all.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dear Rob, you came to me, a parting gift
From someone we both loved and lost, and I
Can't say enough how easily you lift
My spirits when they're low; and when they're high
You send them soaring higher. How I love
Your raccoon stories and your photographs,
Your drawings and your models and above
All else your kindness to us all. Such laughs
I've had from your creations and your tweets,
Those tingles that you told me to await
Come to me every day, O sweet of sweets.
So let me, ere it becomes far too late,
Wish you the best on your birthday, my dear,
Dear Bardorobot. Start a wondrous year!
The use of sound in war is nothing new --
Just ask ol' Noriega -- but now we
May see its workings elswhere. Now those who
Like I do, fear for lodgepole stands, may see
(Or rather hear) some hope for them. Their foe,
Dendroctonus, a chatty beetle, makes
Agression, and/or mating sounds that, lo,
May drive the beetles well apart. This takes
Imagination! Kudos to the lab
At Northern Arizona U, who've tried
This out. If we can keep these tiny, drab
But devastating creatures checked, those fried
And dying trees up in my Snowy Range
Won't come back, but we may stop further change.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Clutched close and sniffed, then put in water, look
More than a bit diminished, though they may
Last days yet ere they're cast away. It took
A moment's thought to get them at the store --
A quick stop, mayhap, on the day's commute.
The hope still lingers, though, that they mean more
Than just some token holiday salute.
Have they been given just to keep the peace?
Would they appear without this odd mandate?
When they fade and are tossed does that release
An obligation for the year? Such weight
To put on fragile blooms, and yet we do
Keep using them to say that "I love you."
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Not as a brand-new species but because
Defense contractors seek to make some use
Of its sulfur-and-iron shell. The buzz
Is 'bout it's layered structure and design:
An inner layer, highly calcified,
A middle that's organic and a fine
And tough exterior: iron sulfide.
To piercing, crushing, bending, this shell is
Resistant as all hell. It would be great
If people could wear armor such as this
When needed - so damned hard to penetrate!
So cheers now to this funky steampunk snail
And to our friends who hope to don its mail!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
What hearing human voices feels like now,
Or having been thrown in a sack of cats
All on the fight; I cringe at each meow.
The purest air still singes at my nose
As though it were an acrid, poison gas.
My ears implode, and just touching these rows
Of keys to type this in's like nails on glass
Or slate. Infected sinuses - a curse.
My temper flares; it's well that I'm unarmed.
A murder rap would only make things worse.
When Mom reads this I know she'll be alarmed,
But she knows it's just something that I do.
I'm worse, please be assured, when it's the flu.
Meanwhile, we left Pepito 'mongst a crowd
Of aliens behaving strangely; they
Emit dull hums that, like their eyes, doth cloud
Pepito's cogitations as they sway
Around him. Now across their ruddy skins
Begins a swirl of subtle colors, and
Pepito's lost indeed; his poor head spins.
A last mojito tumbles from his hand
E'en as the leader's grip on him goes slack.
A pretty scene is this, our hero caught
Within a web of something that we lack
The knowledge to explain well as we ought.
For hours this plays out with not a sign
That anything will change. Is this benign?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Forget about me for a little while.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
I've tried, but I just can't seem this year to
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Were I allowed, I'd cry into my wine
Tonight, but I'm a shift worker who must
Eschew the alchol ere work. That line
I'm tempted, though, to cross tonight. It's just --
Tonight's the last night shuttle launch, which means
We may not have a chance like this again.
I've watched the shuttle's launches since my teens
(Though often had to cheat to do so when
They went up on a school night). Just five left
All told, and we've got nothing to replace
This program. When it's done we'll be bereft
Of any means to send men into space.
There've been a lot of promises -- hot air
So far. When did we lose our nerve? I care!
And ponder on a topic. As I think
I take strange journeys deep within my mind
And memories, until at last I stop.
Ideas are tricky to pluck from the dark,
But till I do I really have no peace.
This one is all about my search for peace.
Twice daily I take time out and I sit -
Ere sunrise, a quick shower in the dark,
While eve'nings, it's my living room, I think
That is best for my effort to just stop
And tame the monkeys rambling in my mind.
For many years, I've given little mind
To anything that you'd call inner peace.
Too much to do; the chore list doesn't stop
Because I'd like to take the chance to sit
Without having to talk or write or think.
Lights out? I'd still be toiling in the dark.
But now I'm stumbling blindly in the dark
Most of the time, just trying to calm my mind.
Just for a little while, just not to think
About what's pressing me, a bit of peace
Is all I want. Still mostly when I sit,
My ass on cushion, I can't seem to stop.
But one day soon, I know that I will stop,
That I will find there waiting in the dark
Some things I need. Until then I still will sit,
And treat with patience all that plagues my mind.
(I'm sure among them is a thought of peace
That's way off base). That's what I hope and think.
I've spent a lifetime learning how to think,
'Twill take a long time, too, to learn to stop
My dwelling on the things that threaten peace
And quiet. But it's quite good to go dark
For its own sake meanwhile, and I don't mind
A little space and time to simply sit.
This poem was my chance to sit and think
About how much my mind just needs to stop
And let the dark sink in and bring some peace.
Friday, February 5, 2010
A writer must have resources beyond
The norm; an editor needs even more
To cope with what comes at her and respond
With grace. Annetta has these by the score:
Wit, humor, fortitude and all the will
She needs to make things happen, as she's done
For many, many years. I'm sure she'd kill
Me if I said how many, e'en in fun
(Not really; she's got too much style for that,
Though for My Little Pony she might yet
Demand revenge. She knows how to combat
Its ill effects, though). On this day I'll bet
She's drowning in good wishes, but I'll add
One more birthday hello. Call it a fad!
A tremulous voice now sounds from behind,
A loyal voice speaks out from love and fear,
"What's stopping us from going down to find
The tracks of those who took him, mistress, dear?"
Yectara spins around now to regard
The eldest of her crew, ancient and worn,
Her limbs ashine with grease meant to retard
The centuries of rust, the white hair shorn
As though with a dull breadknife. "Frelling hell!"
Exclaims Yectara. "At least someone thinks!
We've been aboard ship far too long. Ah, well,
That's why I keep a crew." The elder blinks,
Then sighs, a melting kiss her sweet reward
From her delighted queen, all faith restored.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Whoever said "you hurt the ones you love
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Dismantle something big, unwieldy and,
Refocus it to do just what it should,
No more. Let others take what's out of hand
And run with it. As smaller, nimbler beasts,
Adaptable and flexible they'll make
A better show of what always defeats
The lummox. But each one has less at stake
And less to work with than the big one did,
And must, like buzzards, fight over the corpse.
Now, sure, this keeps them lean and hungry, kid,
But all that competition sometimes warps
The progress towards the goal we once all had.
So I can't help it; this day still is sad.
Possible supporting quote passed on by Phil Plait, the Bad Astronomer: "Quote of the day from space telecon: "If you create a beast so large all you can do is feed it, you've done a disservice. "
A surly girl, but we all know the truth.
No one could make the art we daily see
O'er at your Etsy store, yea and forsooth,
And not know that you're happy, as you make
So many others with your stuff for smart
And skeptical hot chicks and dudes, who take
A lot to please, in science and in art.
Today, officially, you're older; this
Means that you're also wiser, if a bit
Hungover. Amy, dear, I blow a kiss
For this, your birthday, and I proudly wear
A Surly ev'ry day, to make folks stare!
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