In Which I Enjoy My Flash In The Poetry Pan

(Click to SONNETSIZE image)

I know that this is really just a fluke

Of Amazon and of my awesome friends

Who jumped today to go and buy my book

(It's there now, just like Smashwords). This portends

Not one thing for the future, but today

My sonnets were on this bestseller list!

My name was ranked with Whitman, Poe, hooray!

I feel as though the Sonnet Fairy kissed

My forehead. Thank you all. This gives to me

More motivation, now, to finish work

On getting out that print edition. Whee!

Next week just watch me go all-out berserk

To get it done. Now off to have a drink

With local friends. I've earned that, don't you think?

In Which An Ebook Is Published!

At long last, I am pleased to offer here

(At SmashWords) and on Kindle just as soon

As Amazon does what it has to -- dear,

Oh dear, watch out, your sonneteer my swoon! --

An ebook of these sonnets. Later on,

In hot July, I'll make available

A print edition you may feast upon

And hold in your two hands -- I wouldn't pull

Your leg on this! But if you just can't wait,

And have an e-device on which to read

Some silly poetry by your pal, Kate,

You needn't! And the cost is low indeed.

And dig the art, by M.R. Neno, who

Did quite a job, I think! How about you?

Empty Nest

The ice that's in the trays sits undisturbed.
No random power tool noise fills the air.
My collie's 'thusiam 's somewhat curbed;
Her fav'rite human (my dad) isn't there
When she comes back indoors from her patrol.
The kitchen table's empty and quite clean
(Apart, that is, from artichokes mom left --
By accident or charity? I mean,
They're artichokes, of which she's oft bereft
In Saratoga!); the spare room is, too.
Just when I'm used to sharing, I'm alone
Again. Another visit now is through,
My mom and dad are now safe back at home.
I have, of course, a great big load of stuff
To tackle in their absence, sure enough.

Cruisin'

It's summer; school is out, the kids are free,
And they go screeching by in all their cars
As though it were a Friday night. When we
Were that age we were just the same. The stars
Glowed high above us, burning, dying, while
We paid them hardly any mind, except
When we were waiting, sometimes with a smile,
Sometimes with bitterness, for those who kept
On telling us "just one sec." Being out
At night time was so new, so glamorous,
E'en if it just involved a car, a route
That took us back and forth, some beer, some fuss
O'er what to blast through speakers. Life is short,
Especially when you're seventeen. Cavort!

In Which We Watch This Space For Details

Phil Rossi (and some others), long ago,
On learning of this foolish project which
I'd undertaken, said to me, "You know,
This has to be a book." I've had the itch
To make one of them ever since, and soon
Such shall be ready to be crassly bought
At all the normal outlets. From the Moon
To deep beneath the soil, to where one ought
To don some gloves and goggles, there's no place
My sonnetizing has not gone, and when
My format-angel and my artist grace
Me with the final touches, darlings, then
I'll put a sonnet ebook up for sale,
And then a dead-tree version, without fail!

In Which I Cheer On A Cool Idea

Plusoneme's time has come; life is a game
And all of us do play it. When we score
Folks should acknowledge it, if not by name
At least by handle. Whether it's a chore
Appreciated, a performance that
One's much admir'd or one wants to thank
In public fashion one who went to bat
For someone's fav'rite cause, bump up his rank
By one in any category. I
Have boosted some already. Thanks to Jane
McGonigal for sharing this; I spy
A lot of ways to use it, in the main.
Did someone show some awesome lately? Go
And take a moment now, to let him know!

To Whom It May Concern: In Which A Better Mathematician Is Recommended

I don't suppose that I hold any sway
'Mongst eschatologists, but if I did
This sonnet would go quite far in the way
Of recommending Nemo for the bid
Of doomsday calculator. Here's a guy
Who draws a perfect circle with no tools
Beyond a pen or pencil. You and I
Would need a compass at the least; such fools
As we have no innate grasp of the laws
Of mathematics as our Nemo hath.
With confidence and without any pause
Could we accept this strange, rare artist's math
And plan to board our pets, know what to wear
For Rapture. Hire him that we may prepare!

BarPG: Hobgobthropology

Repurposing a corpse is what we learn
As soon as we can walk or speak HobGob.
How best to render corpse-oil for to burn
In ribcage-lanterns -- or to do a job
Of lubricating hinges. How to chuck
A severed head to kill or just distract
A concentrating foe takes more than luck;
Indeed, no Hob should fail because he lacked
A tool that could be made from dead folks' bones
Or teeth or hair or dangly bits. A bit
Of sharp corpse-jerky, thrown with skill, alone
Can kill a fresh supply of parts, then it
Is just a matter of some time and thought
(But not so much the raw materials rot).

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!