BONUS SONNET: Talk To Me, Kindle 2

I've never been an audiobook fan,
I hold no scorn for other folk who are.
I like to read, and do whene'er I can.
One thing alone can make me stop so far:
A migraine. When those come I rush to hide
In darkness near as I can make complete.
I've often thought t'would nice if at my side
Someone could read to me; it would be sweet,
As lying in the dark is awf'ly dull.
I'm not about to buy recordings for
This purpose. I just went through a great cull
Of paperbacks and CDs; want no more.
This Author's Guild nonsense is simply that.
What threat to them is Kindle's voice, so flat?

In Which I Ponder How My 90th Birthday Passed And No One Sent Me A Card...

My books and furniture and chattels, all,
I trundled down steep stairs into a truck
In nineteen hours with a short break to scrawl
My name on many forms. I soon was struck
With pains in knees and forearms and my back,
And in the tissues nestled in between.
My new house is a wonder - I've lost track
Of just how oft I've said so; my joy's keen.
But suddenly I move as though old age
Did overtake me roughly in my sleep.
And spent this morning crying out in rage,
Because I couldn't find my keys, and keep
Forgetting where I'll find my underwear.
I'm living through a pre-senescent scare.

In Which I Actually Use Sonnet-Writing As An Excuse To Take A Break

The Uhaul truck is nowhere close to full.
I hate the sight of boxes and dolly.
Like Sissyphus I push and then I pull.
I'm glad, though, that my border collie
In Saratoga with my parents waits
Until this madness has come to an end.
Between my loads, I check Twitter updates
And check outside to see if I've a friend
(A local one, that is) who's shown up yet
To help or at least talk to me a bit
And earn the beer I bought. C'mon, no sweat,
I tell myself, self-pity is just shit!
Your house awaits, you, homeowner, just think!
And in that house, O glory - stuff to drink!

There Is A Reason Advance Hype Makes Me Nervous

The first reviews for Watchmen have come in.
And what they tell me really isn't good.
I do recall a feeling of chagrin
When I first learned they'd made it. Understood,
I kept an open mind; I'd wait and see
The early shots looked good enough, and I
Will cut some slack for eye candy. A key,
Though, would be how much they'd apply
Themselves to adaptation of a script
That kept the tension and the paranoid
Feel of the book. It will, they said. Now nipped
Right in the bud are my hopes they'd avoid
The risk of making a great bloated mess.
But will I still go see it? Sigh, I guess.

BONUS SONNET: Urine-Sane, Or How We Can't Just Leave That Cow Pee Alone

I have it on the best authority
(George Hrab, that is, though he is really FAR
From being in a small minority
In calling out the notion as bizarre)
That a new drink will sweep us from the East.
A soda pop of cow pee that is meant
To purify and cleanse at very least.
How funny that it's now the start of Lent
As we learn this. Still stranger is the fact
That it's not our first time using cow pee
From India as a prized good. The tract
BRIGHT EARTH by Phillip Ball tells us of old
How mango-leaf-fed cows' pee fetched much gold.

O Noes! I Still Have To Write A Sonnet

I put in sev'ral hours of overtime,
Ran errands all around this crazy town
(Including one last box run. At least I'm
In hopes that I've enough. I'm sick of brown
Cardboard stacked all around me all day long),
Was photographed to prove that I am me,
And got the keys to my new house. A long
Day has been mine, but I am still not free!
There are things yet that still need to be stashed
In boxes or in trash bags. That's not all;
While packing is what's really got me trashed
One more task beckons with insistent call:
It's a new day and this day's spot was blank
And bonus sonnets don't count toward the bank.

BONUS SONNET: Poor Roland Burris Just Can't Scrape Off The Blagojeblech

Said Golgafrincham Captain Dick Durbin
To his Dentrassi pal and counterpart,
"Dude, do you know the mess that you are in?
You'd just resign and leave if you were smart."
Said Burris to his partner "Umm, no way.
My only sin was offering to help
Supply frood food for Blago's next buffet."
Said Durbin, "Fine, you dumb Dentrassi whelp,
Go hang with Vogon Blago; I don't care."
(Apologies, I will admit, are due
To Douglas Adams, though I firmly swear
I think he'd laugh at what is happ'ning, too).
And so as I take in this news, I'm torn
Between profound dismay and snarky scorn.

In Which I Sonnetize An Encomium To Radical Comics And Their First Product, CALIBER

The great Old West n'er had such vivid hues
As given it by Garrie Gastonny
In Radical's first comic. To infuse
The normal browns and greys with what must be
The brightest colors ever is but one
Of many choices I can only praise
In this, a well-morphed tale of man and gun
With the Olde English legend of the days
Of Arthur. More than simply Western drag
Clothes this retelling. Gone are noblemen
And knights and ladies fair; instead rag-tag
And outcast are the heroes in here when
Sam Sarkhar's done with them. The choice is bold.
I long so for the sequels to unfold.

In Which I Commemorate A Moment In History Which May Otherwise Pass Unremarked

This week, I think, was surely the first time
That Twitter witnessed such a thing as this:
A trade of barbs about a slab of slime
(A governor we cast to the abyss,
Whom I already called out as Vogon)
Morphed into reminiscing some about
Past Congressmen that Wyoming did spawn:
Not just ol' Unca Dick, last seen without
Much more to do than scowl in his wheelchair,
But a much less familiar name to most
Our own Teno Roncalio, whose flair
And funniness few now know well. A toast
To you, Ken Rudin, and I must say yes
We're first to tweet 'bout Teno, I would guess.

Though I Did Agree About The Lives Of Others

I gave up on the Oscars in disgust
Before I was a freshman in high school,
When Amadeus swept them; so unjust
To snub Brazil because Mozart was cool
That year. And then things went on to get worse:
The Mission next lost out to that Platoon,
And on the Oscars I called down my curse.
That's just best picture. History is strewn
With many other blunders and mistakes
These voters made. I could go on and on.
The Usual Suspects ignored? The flakes!
And Fargo? Or Memento? How I yawn;
I bore myself each year with these my rants.
Does Dark Knight this year even stand a chance?

Just When I Have Lost My Will To Wait, My Sources Say BSG Is No Longer Worth Waiting For

I don't have cable television; it
Just isn't worth the vast expense to me
To see the two or three shows I find fit
To watch each week. And now I'm thinking three
Is over gen'rous. Patience is one of
My virtues rare; I mostly can rely
On Netflix for the few shows that I love.
But lately I've grown used to a supply
More timely than a DVD release:
Sci-Fi Rewind and Hulu have seduced
Me into feeling anything but peace
In waiting for Galactica, reduced
To wailing like a junkie for her fix -
And just in time, the show's run out of tricks.

I Also Love The 365 Days Of Astronomy But That's Really Hard To Put In A Line

The Internet has brought us wondrous times,
Email, iTunes, Facebook, all have their place.
While Blogger helps me share with you my rhymes,
As does RhymeZone (it's not always the case
That I am ready with just the right word
To finish off a line). One app above
All others brings me joy. You might have heard:
As entertainment, podcasts have my love.
George Hrab, Sandra Tsing Loh, and NPR,
Wil Wheaton, Marketplace, Rebel FM,
The Naked Scientists and Stardate are
Stand-bys; BSGcast... still more of them
Even the president now has my ear:
His address is podcast, and has no peer.

Wishing I Could Do More, I Write A Sonnet

My mother looks as though she fought ten rounds -
The pavement bopped her worse than could Ali.
She's healing but a bruise nearly surrounds
Her mouth, all due to my wicked Collie,
Who took her down like those sneaky X-Wings
Did the Imperial Walker there on Hoth.
She shrugs and keeps on helping pack my things,
For nothing but some love and jam and broth.
A continent away, un hombre por
Quien mi terneza acrecenta
Is down and ill with flu; I can no more
Cure him than I can wipe out all of the
Wounds on my mother's face. All I can say
To either is, te quiero, every day.

I Do Not Beat My Mom, But I Don't Turn Down Her Offers Of Assistance Either

Like Coraline, I found a secret drawer
While starting to pack up my kitchen gear.
I have a turkey lacing kit? What's more,
A blender part and more spoons did appear!
Oh, moving house is ever so much fun,
Especially when one works by oneself.
In candour I've become nearly undone,
Since ne'er did I find magic packing elf.
So to my rescue came my own dear Mom
To help me keep on track and pack more smart.
Alas, before one hour had passed her palm
And face and knee and pride, but not her heart
Were torn and bleeding. Yes, she took a spill
On ice and asphalt. Yet she helps me still!

A Second Viewing Of Coraline, Made More Fun By Watching My Friend Watch It

"I feel like I'm on acid," said my friend,
As we put on our 3D glasses while
The previews spooled before us. "Do attend,"
I said. "The film will even more beguile
You with its lovely 3D trippiness."
The needle poked out and she jumped a yard
Above her seat with adm'rable finesse.
With that we had her absolute regard.
All softened up she watched the film enrapt,
The visuals and story held her keen
Attention. Like two kids we squealed and clapped
As wonders beyond count filled up the screen.
To say that she and I liked Coraline
Would be like saying roses like sunshine.

There Is No Broadband "Bridge" To ANYWHERE, No Matter What Michael Katz Says

The internet is suff'ring from a plague
Of metaphors that, all of them, are crap.
A "bridge" or "pipeline" doesn't sound that vague
But words like these bait us into the trap
Of policies and practices, all based
On faulty rhetoric. It's bad enough
That rural folk tradition'ly have faced
A lack of access to the kind of stuff
That upscale urbanites take as their due,
And friends of mine must travel 80 miles
Round trip to see a film or buy shampoo.
It will incur some extra cost and trials,
But in the end society will find
That what is being joined is mankind's mind.

A Meditation on Winter's Sharp and Painful Beauty

In wintertime I often am inspired
To lyricism when, so late at night,
It starts to snow. It sometimes has transpired
That, although I'm not overfond of white,
I find myself quite nearly overcome
By all the calm, still beauty of the scene.
That's only when the wind has refrained from
Refining those snowflakes to razor-keen
And wounding missles -- or when, unlike now,
The glare bounced off the snow won't leave me blind
Just as my feet hit ice and, like a plow
In grace, I slide a yard on my behind.
At least, so dazzled, I don't have to see
Who all is there to watch and laugh at me.

The Feast Day of the Patron Saint of Beekeepers, With An Excursis On Colony Collapse And A Possible Cause Thereof

I must admit I fail to comprehend
What's up with all the fuss and flow'rs and hearts
When hives and screened-in hats would better send
The message as we celebrate the arts
Of apiculture. Honey, it's the day
To laud the work of those who keep the bees,
Much harder work these days, to our dismay.
It could be an endemic bee disease,
It could just be some mites or pathogens,
We still don't know where blame is to be put
For colony collapse that leaves these dens
Bereft of bees. A mystery's afoot!
But I submit: perhaps it's Valentine
The saint of plagues and keepers, who's malign.

In Which I Celebrate A Certain Member of the Lycaenidae Family

It makes me glad when insects hit the news,
No matter if that news is good or bad.
This week a caterpillar chased my blues
Away when it became the latest fad.
It lies in wait for an ant hunting group,
And dabs itself with just the tricksy scent
To cause the ants to scream a frightened whoop
(A metaphor) and say "THAT's where you went,
You silly queen, we'd better get you home
And feed you up and keep you safe and sound!"
Henceforce, not only does this cuckoo roam
At will within the anthill underground,
And dine on choicest ant-food as it likes,
But it's fed larvae when disaster strikes.

There's A Reason I Was A PRINT Journalist

I'm often told my voice makes me ideal
To sit behind a mike at NPR.
I will admit the notion has appeal,
But listening to me would be bizarre.
I am a giggler, a bit juvenile;
I am a gloater, and can never hide
My glee at things that bring on a sick smile.
Too often would these tendencies collide
With my responsibility to air
The news - as I can write up very well.
On paper no one sees it when I swear
Or laugh out loud at what I have to tell.
Just take, for instance, the word "stimulus":
I'd waste a lot of tape; I'd laugh, then cuss.

Ladeez and Gentilmans... The Wurld's Furst LOL Sahnet

Oh hai, no I no haz NE kitteh,
De allergeez, dey ar dooin dem rite.
Mai goggie, she haz 2 much digniteh,
To show up and be seed like dat. She mite
Sumtimes mak funneh noize but dat is all.
She never rides uh invizibul baik,
Or dribbles uh invisibul red ball.
She cud haf wrote this sahnnet if you laik.
So Iz just beein lurker over der.
Teh possibiliteh, tho, always looms
That sumday on teh fail blog, if U cair,
U kan C wut she doez to all mai rooms.
Her NME is mai vakume kleener,
And with each new 1 she just gets meener.

Is This Really Happening? To Me?

At what point may I start to say "it's mine,"
About this house I put my offer on?
It's been accepted, that part went just fine.
Does that mean the conclusion is foregone?
The underwriter still could turn me down;
The plumber or electrician could say
No way is this OK, not in this town.
But, for that matter, it could blow away
Should a freak cyclone rip on through that street.
The cyclone is more likely, my pros say
(My Realtor and mortgage lady sweet).
They told me to switch over my accounts
And have a moving crew ready to pounce.

Part Two of a Sonnet-Form Review of Brian Keene's Castaways, With Perhaps An Excursis On Keene's Place In Literature

I am a jerk, I'm willing to concede,
At least when it comes to the fate of folk
In novels. It fulfils in me a need
To laugh at gory deaths as at a joke.
Which is how Brian Keene's fam'ly stays fed.
I chortle like a ghoul through all his tales
As characters galore just wind up dead,
And each attempt at rescue just plain fails;
Not one of them will e'er escape his doom.
His stories are intended more to scare
Than to make my rude laughter fill the room.
I'm pretty sure, though, that he doesn't care.
He writes, we buy, both sides end with a win.
And, satisfied, we do it all again.

BONUS SONNET on Brian Keene's New Novel, 135 Pages In

Is Brian Keene a rabid Tom Waits fan,
I'm wond'ring as I'm half-through Castaways?
He's got a villain who completely can
Be taken for the "hero" Tom portrays
In one of his Mule Variations songs.
"What's He Doing In There" is Matthew's theme --
All 'bout the kind of guy who ne'er belongs
On a suburban street, whose ev'ry scheme
Is analyzed by neighbor types, so sure
That what he's doing there just isn't good,
His motives cannot ever be quite pure,
Just look at him, a creepy spaced-out hood!
And in the book we see that they are right!
As he commences murder in the night!

Procrastinating On My Procrastination, I Pontificate Upon It

Last night, instead of packing up my stuff,
I spent an hour or so just making jam,
And when that did not seem to be enough
Procrastinating - this is how I am -
I calculated taxes, got them filed,
And then at last was tired and went to bed.
Meanwhile all the belongings I have piled
And stacked and gathered all danced 'round my head.
So much for rest. The irony is, though,
I'm putting off what I've used to put off
Preparing something I promised to show.
Some readers now will bellow, nod and cough.
I wrote a novel back when it was Fall.
It's still in longhand, ne'er been read at all.

Though The Fact It Got This Far Is Rather Detestable...

Our Rancheslature made me somewhat proud
This week by choosing not to pass along
A spiteful measure that would have allowed
Our state to be a party to a wrong.
Amend our constitution, just to say
That even if one goes to other states
To marry, if one happens to be gay,
Wyoming will say pooh, you are not mates?
It's Cowboy but it's not Equality,
And would have covered all of us in shame.
I speak not just of the publicity,
But also of the hate it would proclaim.
And though I do have neighbors who'd vote in
This measure; I say so to my chagrin.

In Which I Muse on the Penalty for Pack-Rattery

I've lived in this apartment for five years.
Well short this is of the old psalmist's span.
The volume of the stuff that here appears
Belies that some. To move, I need a plan.
The Collyer brothers would be right at home
In here, but they might find it much too clean.
The jumble though, through which I now must comb
Would be to them a most familiar scene.
For what I lack in high newspaper tow'rs
I make up for in furniture and books;
To say naught of the clothing heaped in bow'rs
By my dog, or the gadgetry for cooks.
I start to pack and then I lose the heart,
Still paralyzed on how or where to start.

Yes, I've Deformed My Schedule for Midnight Magic Madness

I've lived this day just slightly inside-out,
This day I call my second Saturday
(In pref'rence to first Sunday). I'm without
The means with which to mend my disarray
As twighlight gleams its last out in the west.
That's not to say I simply stayed in bed,
As my supportive parents did suggest
(Supposing that I'd ache today in head
And body from the prior night's debauch).
I rose and did some things I had to do,
At noon I spent, according to my watch
At least an hour on signing papers, too.
But then I napped, and soon will nap again.
At midnight I must play a game or ten.

And All I've Done So Far Is Make An Offer...

My sister dear, at this point in the game
(That game, of course, is buying property)
Predicted that the phrase I'd most proclaim
(And with this my homeowning friends agree):
Would be a variation on this one:
Oh holy cow, just what did I just do?
That's not to say the process isn't fun,
But with each stage it's harder to subdue
The urge to freak out, scream and run away.
The house is one I can afford to buy,
And also own. I've not been led astray
By anyone. The numbers say that I
Can do it, and I've certainly the will.
But thirty years of payments! I feel ill.

One Way In Which My Job Is More Fun Than Most -- And I Hope My Mother Shows This Sonnet To My Father

I work for the same outfit who employed
My father through the years I was a child.
There are few left who knew him. Most enjoyed
His presence, voice, laugh and the way he smiled
His way through all, even the roughest calls,
E'en when like a defensive line they heaped
Upon and buried him. Each one recalls
An anecdote about him. All are steeped
In humor and in long-forgotten lore
From days in which the difference was great
Between what was and was not proper for
A worker for our great ol' Cowboy State.
Today a few old farts came by , so glad
To see me and to pass on jibes at Dad.

In Defense of Social Networking Sites

I know some people love to brag about
Deleting a Facebook or MySpace page.
And print and broadcast pundits boasting clout
Just love to act bewildered that the age
Of Twitter has arisen. We're all dupes
Or followers of some pied piper's song,
Fashion victims, or just simply snoops.
The fact that we're ungodly numbers strong
Newsweek et al point snidely to as proof
Of herd mentality, or just no life.
I say let's let the snide remain aloof.
These media are lovely, ripe and rife
With opportunities unguessed to find
New friends, old loves, life weirdly redefined.

BONUS SONNET: I Knew Silent Springsteen Would Be Weird But I Didn't Know How Weird

Bruce Springsteen with the sound off is no fun -
(Though he is not my fav'rite singer, no)
Alas the workplace rulebook's will was done,
All through the Super Bowl and halftime show.
A Broncos fan am I, if fan at all.
This season, though, they lost me early on.
Once that occurs, I ignore the "football"
Or "handegg" as the wags among us yawn.
So this year's Big Burrito Bowl was not
Of much concern to me, so I just did
My usual job, in Sunday's usual spot.
But then, and quite perchance, I flipped my lid.
A foolish notion came to me to watch
A play or so, then there was BRUUUUUCE's crotch.

In Which I Expose the Darker Side of National Novel Writing Month

Just 50,000 words in 30 days,
A challenge I've accepted several times -
That's how I spend November, in a daze
Of scribbling. But at least no thought to rhymes
Must trouble me. The word count, that's the thing.
A friend once said to just go write crap fast.
That's what I did; my thoughts and pens took wing
(I pluralize because this year, at last
I stole a trick from Neilhimself's own sack:
As different hues of ink let him compare
Today's hard work to yesterday's dead slack),
Neglecting all, I wrote without a care...
So now I've got a massy glob of prose.
'Twill take a lot of polish 'til it glows.