BarPG: The Sonnet

Hobgoblins, carted off to entertain
The plebes in some arena, soon escape
By jumping through a trapdoor (I'll explain:
It's Player Z at Pauper's: go on, gape),
Then watch their fellows plunge into a pit,
Some landing on a wizard, but are seen
By some old geezer guarding all this shit.
He calls for help but one hobgoblin's keen
Enough to throw a knife into his back!
He turns and fights; they try to kick his balls
And miss! Thank goodness for that brawny Jack
Who made him fall; then Not Sure, poor at brawls
Just slit his throat to bleed him kosher. Not
A bad night's work for woosy goblins, whot?

Thoughts During A Comics Panel On Print Culture

To find a comic book's a special thing;
A message in a bottle, left by one
For unknown others; one has left a string
To mark a path, or made a trail of crumbs.
Online, I must be searching ere I find
Communications. There is no surprise.
I like the ambush, captured and entwined
In thought and story, traps laid for my eyes
In ink and paper, lures and secrets wait
And might just overtake me anywhere:
A coffee shop, a club, an alley, late
Or at high noon. It's very different fare.
Sure, object fetishism is just fine,
But Serendipity's a friend of mine.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Sonnet For The Morning After

Do I regret my choices? Sometimes, sure.
This morning I think we would have been wise
To stop, adjourn our fellowship, endure
The pain of parting sooner. Realize:
Nobody held us hostage at the pub
Except ourselves. But good talk never ends
And we had sev'ral all at once, a club
With no agenda. We all know this tends
To make the dizzy hours disappear,
And so they did. Now here I sit, awake
And ready for some more, but how I fear
That maybe, just perhaps, I've chanced to break
My boon companions. My apologies,
My darlings! Can we start again though, please?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which Is Considered Chronoleptic Tense

While now we talk of future selves, I beg
O Paul, that when you do come to berate
The man you are today, you will not peg
The me who types these lines. This present Kate
Encourages your folly, reckless, wild,
And will be Past-Kate anyway when such
Event occurs, and will have seemed a child
Compared to Future-Kate - oh no! For much
As River and the Doctor might, I've tripped
A chronoleptic trigger! But indeed
We had to have blamed future Paul, who skipped
The niceties of diary-syncing, need
For retro-recognition trumping couth.
He'll make her cry in their shared retro-youth.

Toronto: In Which I Approach Again My Spiritual Home

Toronto! Soon I'll see the CN Tow'r
From out the tiny window of a plane,
Get lost in Pearson, bus ride through rush hour,
Then rumble 'neath your streets. A subway train,
Then stroll up King Street. Fox & Fiddle, you
Had best be ready with some Guinness, then
I'll prowl again your secret paths, sneak through
Your empty spaces with my dearest friend.
Your parks in spring I've never seen and I,
Unique among your visitors, shall feel
I'm going to warm up there -- snows still fly
And frost and ice still crust the ground, for real
In old Cheyenne. But soon I'll see the world
In just one city. Look! My toes have curled!

Sonnet Rant: My Problem with Epic Fantasy

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,
Uneasy is the ass that sits the throne.
This foolishness, in wisdom, we cast down;
Heredity and leadership unsewn
The one, now, from the other. This is just.
It's right that ev'rybody has a chance
To rise to where he will. So I distrust
This love of kings and nobles; the romance,
The glamor. We look backwards and we feel
A wholly false nostalgia -- and some seek
To drag us back to those dark days! It's real.
Who'd be our feudal lords again just speak
In clouded terms. Remember: kings are jerks.
Beneath each politician's smile one lurks.

In Which Spell Checkers Are Not Always The Thing

Spell-checkers aren't the friends you think they are;
They cannot tell you if you've used the right
Word where you should, or if you've gone too far
Describing something when you've taken flight
Imagining. And then there's homonyms,
Those pesky words that all might sound the same
Like "might" and "mite" or all the "to's", the "hims"
That you've replaced with "their" when, no, a name
Won't do again, but you don't want to seem
A sexist scribe. But "their" is plural. Too,
Watch out for transpositions that are deemed
As words in their own right, but aren't what you
Are wanting. "Solider" and "soldier" - such
Mean very diff'rent things. Alas, too much!

Moby-Dick

Oh, so much effort for one shiny coin
The mariners about the Pequod must
Have thought, as watching Ahab bust a groin
And other parts, to spume if not to dust
In chasing his white whale. I make it sound
Exciting, quite a thrilling quest; alas
'Tis buried deep within the book, all bound
Up in a hipster's egotism. Blast!
The captain lost his leg once to a beast
His questing for revenge led him to parts
Far-flung and not well-known. Ah me. At least
I read it on my Kindle, strained no hearts
A-hauling it around, this Moby-Dick.
At last I'm done; now give me something, quick!

In Which @SennyDreadful Hits The Big 3-0

Bend over, Jenny dear, it's now your turn
To get your spanking (do they that across
"The Pond"?). I find you've done a lot to earn
These kind attentions - I'm quite at a loss,
Indeed, to sum you up for readers who
Don't know your work already, that you write
Lovecraftian and subtle, that you woo
The muses with good plonk by dark of night,
That you're a source for finding all the cool
And crazy shows, that ev'ry tweet's a treat
That comes from you. On this, your birthday, fool
Them all! Why yes, you're thirty, but 'tis sweet
To claim you're even older: you will see
The compliments do shower you. Trust me!

MELZERBEANS!!!!

Now ring the bells and blow the trumpets! Let
Confetti fly and faces ache from smiles!
We weren't there to see it all, and yet
We feel the joy e'en 'crossed a thousand miles.
J.J. has added yet another "J,"
And Jenny now has more at home than beans.
Squeenager has another dad; I'd say
A spare of those is good to have: it means
There's more love for to go around. A toast:
The Melzerbeans! I wish you lots of fun,
Success and scribbling, and, what I wish most:
Your marriage be a long and happy one.
i love you all and, yes, there are some tears
As I tap in this sonnet. Darlings, cheers!

Snow Blindness

I really mustn't e'en begin to care
If anyone is reading, but I do;
Just as I know it's best that I don't stare
Out from these windows, just to see if you
Might look back at me, as I risk the fierce
Stab of the blinding sunlight that the snow
Reflects into my eyes. To let these pierce
Into me is the height of folly. No,
I must let neither in. Instead, I draw
The curtains, take a deep breath, and must turn
Back to my work, try to unclench my jaw,
And keep me from the thoughts and glare and burn.
It matters not what's happening outside.
Days such as these, I'm just meant to abide.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sonnet Recipe: @drblow's Awesome Bean Dip

First open up a can of refried beans
(The vegetarian ones are the best),
A jar of salsa -- you know what this means! --
We're making the best bean dip in the West
(Or East). Shred up some lovely pepper jack --
This dip is hardly dip without the cheese! --
And if you find this combination lacks
A kick, a can of jalepenos, please!
Mix all this up and heat it on the stove
Until the cheese melts well and doth combine
With all the rest, till it's a treasure trove
Of smooth and awesome flavor, truly fine!
It's great with chips and also over rice,
And you might find some other pairings nice.

In Which Kenneth Cole Blackens His Own Name

A dark and scary thing erupted when
A clueless rich designer tweeted how
The chaos there in Cairo must have been
Just mobs a-crowding 'round his store right now.
The internet's alive now with the blurts
Of those who mock him, push the boundaries
Of taste as they do so. In truth it hurts
No one; they are just jokes and words, but Jeeze,
To think of all that must have lurked beneath
Polite facades ere this event. I can't
Say that I do not laugh, but grit my teeth
To see this on display. That just one scant
And dumb remark provokes a genre is,
The cost, I guess, these days of doing biz.

No Wonder @Ghostfinder Likes Groundhog Day!

My co-author and much admir'd net-friend
Is now become a slightly older man.
This Groundhog Day, the shadow's not the end
Of what we have to celebrate. A fan
Of Adam's "voodoo steampunk" writings, I
Most certainly am. They've got style and verve,
Lovecraftian and them some, but this guy
Has many other tricks to help unnerve
His readers. On his birthday, I am proud
To sing his praises, though I tap my foot.
He owes me our next chapter. I am loud
And rude to say it here, know he will put
The pedal to the metal just as soon
As he's done with his new novella. Swoon!

Ex Drummer: Ow! And What?

Ex Drummer's something squalid and surreal.
Motier's vast array of camera tricks
And violence and punk rock made me feel,
All through this tale of one guy and the sticks
He knows not how to wield, as though I were
A victim of an unprovoked attack.
That's not to say it's bad. It won't occur
To anyone to shut it off. I lack
The words, perhaps: description's not the thing
For such a film. What lingers is the sense
That Dries manipulated me, too. Ring,
O ears, and blink O eyes; that's one intense,
Kaleidoscopic bout of madness which
I don't want to repeat, but cannot bitch.