In Which I Dash Off To A Greek Festival -- But Not Without Writing A Sonnet

The Greek Festival is my yearly excuse

To summon forth my Saratoga babes --

Punk Martha Stewart, and another muse

моя сузитчка. All of us are slaves

To music, food and dancing, and, yes beer.

It's one of those rare times when old Cheyenne

Is truly fun, this special time of year.

We also celebrate the growing span

Of years that PMS has lived -- you know

It was her birthday just this week -- why hold

A party when a big one's on? Hello!

With better food and music, lots of cold

Bud Light, and then the three of us, amuck.

Excuse me now -- the Greek food bug has struck!

For Susan Marich, On Her Mumbleth Birthday

моя сузитчка*, Happy Birthday, my

Sweet friend, now twice as old as she appears!

Don't let her grave face fool you: from her eye

More twinkles have danced forth over the years

Than folks have gone to sleep beneath her hands.

A teacher and masseuse, yes, she is both --

And more besides: a hunter who demands

Attention to the ecosystem's growth,

A fancier of insects, singing, wine,

Of stargazing and raising kids (and hell!).

Her presence at a fete means that a fine

Time will be had by all and I can tell

No more. This sonnet's going to make her blush,

Then giggle hard and tell me "Oh, you hush!"

*моя сузитчка = My little Susan