In Which I Prepare To Help Start A Family

Tonight, just when my work day fin'ly ends,
A charming duty calls me on a trip.
My mission is to introduce two friends
One with a puppy, one who's going to flip
When he meets Poncho Pug, the new recruit
To our small doggie circle. He will join
A motley crew: a collie, two shitzpoos,
A yorkie and another. I enjoin
This doggie-dad-to-be from shedding tears,
(But prob'ly he will anyway) when he
Meets his new pal. We'll all give forty cheers
To have a baby dog around the scene
Perturbing our friend's life and his routine.

Greek Tragedies Do Not Need Translated Into Slang

I may be a curmudgeon, I'll admit,
But I am not impressed by what I learn
About this new translation of, to wit,
The Oresteia. Really, did we yearn
To hear the chorus asking of the queen
If she is optimistic? Talk about
Lese majeste! Like everyone I've seen
Productions in black leather or without
One reference to the Trojan War and such.
They love to reinterpret with a spin
These great old plays, but sometimes it's too much.
I won't go so far as to call it sin.
But Agammemnon does not say "OK."
And I don't have to read it. End essay.

I've No Problem Loving Them Both!

My house's rooms are not full of perfumes,
(Though scented with the smell of antique books)
No longer are they dark and crammed like tombs,
But they are still library-like in looks.
And so they will remain, despite my choice
To buy a Kindle 2 and load it up.
In "dead tree" books I always will rejoice
And hoard them like a crazy miser. Yup,
I love them both, the Kindle and the old
Familiar kind of book, whose pages turn
And is a pleasure just to see and hold:
For that alone I know I'll never spurn
A real book, but I have to say it's great
That Kindle holds 1000, less the weight!

In Which I Dither Over Doggies... Yes, Doggies, Plural

For 'tis a truth well known: a single girl
Who owns a house and has a single dog
Must need another one. So do unfurl
The arguments in favor. Lost in fog,
As far as all my friends would be concerned
Are any thoughts of feeding, walking or
Transporting two dogs in my car. I've learned
That border collies like each other more
Than they like anybody else. And yes,
The dog proposed to join us is one, too.
My Molly is a sweetheart. I confess
To guilty feelings that the times are few
When she has company. My hours are long
At work; I often feel I've done her wrong.

This Lump In My Throat Won't Go Away Anytime Soon

The boys in blue don't stay home on snow days,

Don't get to choose who they help out or why,

No matter attitude, abuse or praise,

The job is clear: whatever goes awry

Must be redressed, at risk of life or limb

If needed. Accident, attack or fire,

Domestic fight, escape, or murder grim,

The boys in blue must suck it up. Admire

Or hate them as you will, you'll still get help --

Or if you're doing harm, they'll kick your ass,

While back at home, their kids and puppies yelp

And wives must give that dinnertime a pass.

So when some bastard shoots a working cop

It's right that civ'lization's at a stop.

Curses! It's Pledge Drive Time

I have a tote and vest and hat; all prove

That I'm a sucker for that time each fall

When all the voices that I'm hearing move

From giving news and info, to a call

For listeners to pony up and pay. 

There are two stations that get my support,

Since both of them get tuned in through my day.

I do rely on them; what they report

Is often inspiration for my rhymes,

And how I start and end my waking hours.

I pay my way, but still suffer, these times,

A guilt that it is quite beyond my powers

To assuage. Oh damn you, spring pledge drive!

Of course I want your stations to survive!

BONUS SONNET: On The Evil Nasa Conspiracy

In space, it's true, no one can hear you scheme
As we now do, ha ha, to keep the truth
Out there where it belongs. This planet meme
About Nibiru should defeat each sleuth
Who thinks he can unearth our evil plan
To make a future for us, should distract
The rabble from our workings, to a man
And keep our dreadful secret well, in fact.
It would not do if ev'rybody knew
That some of us are working toward the day
When humankind strides to the future. Who
Could bear the thought of boundlessness, I say?
Far better to encourage weird-ass fears
That everything will end in a few years.

December 22, 2012

I must confess amusement at the fuss
Regarding one partic'lar future date:
December 21st in three years. Thus,
As near as I can follow this debate,
The world may end according to one crowd,
All time itself, according to a friend
In Saratoga (though she has allowed
That measurement of time is what might end,
All notions merging, globbing to just "now" --
Which I oft think is hap'ning anyway.
The internet has made it so). But how,
The skeptics 'mong us ask, is this the day?
The Mayans' reckoning is old and fine
But is a cycle's end such cause to whine?

In Which I Begin My Second One Hundred Sonnets

Today was bad, and so tonight's will be
A META-SONNET. No, it's not my first.
I've typed 100 to this blog, I see!
I'll let my readers rank them best to worst.
No longer is pentameter my foe;
No longer do these iambs haunt my dreams.
They are a natural part, an ebb and flow,
Of how I think and see the world, it seems.
I look upon this milestone with some pride.
I wasn't sure I'd still be doing this,
Thought sure by now my muse would sure subside,
And inspiration rob me of her kiss.
But something happens almost ev'ry day
That sets me off and winds up on display.

Vernal Equinox, Hmm? Maybe Somewhere Else

Oh, and to think that only yesterday
I sat right here, seed catalogs in hand,
A-choosing plants as though it were near May
And time to sow a garden on my land!
Today the horizontal slow flies by
To mock my dreams and hopes and make me stash
Those catalogs. But I refuse to cry
Or throw those pretty booklets in the trash.
At some point soon this crap has got to end.
I don't believe in Fimbulvetr (or
In much besides, at this point, O my friend);
But know that I have been a damn fool for
The Ides of March, or something. I must wait
Until the real spring comes, as always, late.

Who They Jivin' With That Cosmic Debris?

I'm no economist, nor engineer,
But something in the skies torments my brain:
While it's a given now that with the sheer
Amount of stuff we've launched outside our plane,
A lot of paths will cross in orbit, there.
But lately it just seems that there's too much,
Too many things to track; it turns my hair
Pure white to contemplate. It seems, as such
It might be time to start to do more than
Just bob and weave our stations, shuttles out
Of harm's way when collision threatens. Can
We not begin at least to think about
Removing at least some of it? Or - shock!
Designing craft that throw off much less schlock?

To Be A Way-Station For Friends On The Road Is Another Great Reason To Be A Homeowner!

Another reason that I love my pad
Occurred this week. I had a house guest, who
Is not related to me. I was glad
To put up an old friend, just passing through.
He stayed for just one night. We dined and talked;
And reminisced on old pals. It was good.
He met a newer friend of mine; we walked
Our silly dogs through my new neighborhood
And in the morning, much to my delight
He tuned up Deep Blue so he's at his best
For summer rides (Deep Blue is my dear bike),
Then said good-bye and left for the Midwest,
His destination Brooklyn and beyond.
Farewell, dear Adam, of whom I am fond.

Good Or Bad, It's Ending Tonight...

In one-half hour, the last installment airs
Of Battlestar Galactica, and I,
Despite the recent traits that this show shares
With soap operas and Springer, may just cry.
I will admit now that I sure was wrong
About the last Cylon and other things
(I thought that Starbuck stood a fairly strong
Chance of being the fruit of Tigh's weird flings
With Six, until his wife showed up and made
A miscarriage occur). I wait now for
The big finale, hoping a parade
Of resolutions for plot holes galore
Awaits rather than more complexities.
Just minutes now before the whole world sees!

In Which My Forehead Turns Bright Red, But Not From Alcohol, Tomato Splatter Or Exertion

Tomatoes were to be today's subject,
Since I just bought a ton. They're cooking down.
Meanwhile, I thought, it's time that I Tweetdecked
And what I learned there brought forth a big frown.
My Tweeps at NPR have just disclosed
A set of facts that made me slap my head:
Chris Dodd and our Obama, both exposed,
As having both spent time curled up in bed
With AIG! They're numbers one and two
Among the pols who gladly took a bribe --
I mean a contribution, of course, to
Their campaign funds. It's painful to describe.
Dodd made the loophole AIG then used
To pay its bonuses. I feel abused.

My Mom Said I Could Post Late Because It's My Birthday!

My suppertime was late tonight because
I am a whole year older, just today!
My Own Dear Mother relaxed all my laws
Because thirty nine years ago she lay
In bed on drugs, exhausted from my birth!
The celebration may seem mild to some --
But there has been much happiness and mirth.
We cooked some maple salmon, rice - oh yum!
And drank a lot of wine and danced about.
My parents are among my fav'rite friends.
For drinking, talking, and to just chill out.
And so has passed a lot of happy hours
Not just today - a lifetime has been ours!

BONUS SONNET: Written On A Dare

The gauntlet thrown, of course I pick it up.
A Twitterfriend has double-dog dared me
To sonnetize on Cheney. I said yup,
I bet I can before I'm off to see
How many Guiness glasses I can down
To celebrate this fine St. Patrick's Day.
I hope he won't turn this here sonnet down --
A meta-sonnet is fair game, I'd say.
We all know 'bout the ex-veep's latest mess:
His rush to out Limbaugh ol' Rush Limbaugh.
Dick Cheney, in his great Bitchassedness
Keeps dissing on Obama, won't withdraw.
But what do we expect from Tortur'n Dick?
Was he going to depart the field that quick?

In Which I Sonnetify A Contest Entry

O Bad Astronomer, I'd love to win
A copy of that book The Saucer Fleet.
It's partly 'cause of you that I have been
A-pondering these things lately. That sweet
Abduction lamp that is your avatar
Means I've got saucers fully on the brain.
Not that I would, no never, go so far
As to place blame; that would be quite insane!
A churlish way to say "Oh, choose me please!"
I was brought up to better style than that
By the same Mom who hooked by degrees
On science fiction, space and such. No brat
Am I. Consider this, my humble plea:
Will you assign a good number to me?

Unnessessarry Reebranding Is Kinda Stoopid

A roze by any other name smelz good,
But korprit stuff werks by kwite other rulz -
Or so I thot, but then agen I wood:
I think that sienz fikshun's not for foolz.
But Universal TV disagrees,
And thinks "SyFy" is better than "Sci-Fi."
"Imagine Greater" is there noo tagline.
Iliterasy triumfs. I just sy.
It's televizhun. Duz no good to wine.
Enough! I can't keep spelling things that way.
It hurts my eyes and brain to look at it.
I'm lucky I don't have to; I survey
The science fiction scene but don't submit
Myself to cable; I watch DVDs
And can skip by the logos as I please.

BONUS SONNET: The Bat Of Discovery

Another bat has tried to hitch a lift
Aboard Discovery to outer space.
Perhaps he's seen that show "Tripping the Rift"
Too many times and hopes now to embrace
The Terry Farrel character? Or do
Bats have a mission unbeknownst to man
To boldly go to make a bat debut
Beyond our atmosphere? What's its game plan?
More likely he just thought a shuttle tank
A likely spot for napping, nice and safe.
Whate'er his reason, I'd sure like to thank
Him for the entertainment. This small waif
Stayed on the shuttle till its full lift-off.
To this intrepid soul, my hat I doff!

A Sonnet On Bogus Bonuses - But Not A Bonus Sonnet

Let me say, first: The fact we are at all
Engaging in these bailouts makes me ill.
That we let something get too big to fall,
Though, means that we somewhat deserve the pill,
Though bitter. That said, is there anyone
Out there who's gladly stomaching the thought
Of AIG's announcement? I'm undone
Just sorting out the details of this plot.
But in my naive way I'm fairly sure
That bonuses reward a great success;
Are handed out when matters are secure.
But this time it is WE, without redress,
Who's doling out the dough to reward bad
Decisions and worse management. We're had!

What's My Sonnet About Again?

Piezoelectricity's my theme...
No wait, it's pilots, right, today's their day?
I know it isn't picene; I'd not dream
Of sonnetizing on some tar, okay?
Pirates are always good for some hum-arrr,
As are pinecones, what look like hand grenades,
And clear out drunks when flung into a bar.
A pie plate? No! Bad notions come in spades.
An idea must come soon on down the pike
Or I will pile up bad ones, call it good.
I'm not afraid, for this is nothing like
The demon writer's block, although I would
Appreciate a pica's worth -- I say!
I've got it! Have a happy, great π day!

In Which I Contemplate The Naughtiness Of The Science Of Astronomy, Or At Least (Certain) Astronomers Who Engage In #DirtyScience

When properly construed ev'rything's lewd
So did Tom Lehrer teach, and he is right.
But I am not the type to just conclude
On faith that something's so, and so one night,
With sev'ral chosen friends (well, volunteers)
With all due spirit of free inquiry
And scientific method, and yes, beers,
And a commitment 'gainst casuistry,
We tried to prove the study of the skies
And stars and planets, galaxies and suns
Could be as dirty as we want. Archives
Alas, are incomplete, and so reruns
For future ref'rence may have to take place,
And for posterity, more #dirtyspace.

BONUS SONNET: Why I Watches The Watchmen

The casting call, for the big Watchmen flick
Must have been odd. "Must make a good blue nude."
They found one, though, and Crudup did the trick;
He managed to emote, not to say brood,
From 'neath the paint. But Haley stole the show.
To act under that mask was no mean feat.
And Rorsach in the prison - umm, hello...
Hands down the best part of the film, complete.
A faithful adaptation? There's no doubt!
Down to the wardrobe and the set design,
The detail lavished here just knocked me out!
The novel to the life! A moving shrine!
As to the ending - honestly, I thought
The movie has the better, for this plot.

I Watches The Watchmen, That's Who

I'm glad to say I come down on the side
Of those who don't think this new movie sucks.
Some caveats I won't and cannot hide:
I am a Watchmen nerd from way back. Shucks,
I was a teen when "Cold War" was a real
And scary term, when ev'ry honest kid
Confessed to fear that all of us could feel
That Russia'd help us eagerly to rid
The Earth of life. Into this nervous world
This book exploded with nuclear force.
For kids like me at least, who gladly hurled
Ourselves into its angst - diff'rent, of course,
With superheroes, flawed and human, too.
So yes, I liked this film, and you might, too.

A Turn No Longer Taken

At Hilltop Avenue, I do not turn;
I stay on Dell Range for one more half-mile
To reach the place where now my home-fires burn.
I pass that old left turn with quite a smile!
I smile still more when soon I see ahead
The famous doggie on his famous roof
(A navigation aid I choose instead
Of street names). A contented dog is proof,
I think, of a contented home. One block
Past him I turn; Hilltop now far behind,
And I approach a proper house. The shock
Of knowing that it's mine's still new. I find
It not too hard to bear. It's got that spark
Of joy; gone is the Vertc'al Trailer Park.

A New Reason To Care About The Wooly Bear

O! Pyrrharctia isabella (known
To schoolkids, fondly, as the Wooly Bear,
For its appearance ere it's fully grown
Into a moth)! This caterpillar's rare
Skill set, while not including future-sight
Into how bad the winter's going to be,
Is greater than we thought! That it can fight
Off freezin' through that season, we agree,
Is cool. Now per Carl Zimmer's column, Loom,
An infestation of cater-cooties
Is something they can live through; they consume,
And thereby press into diff'rent duties,
Some plants containing poisons, which become
Their medicine, and suddenly taste - yum!

Did I Really Just Hear That?

It happens to me ev'ry now and then -
I half-hear some mad thing on NPR,
And have to ask myself, once, twice, again,
If, really, what I heard was true. Bizarre,
Diverting news sometimes has this effect,
Like Mager's odd conch-shell Sinatra, but
More often it's a sidebar I reject:
Today a Georgia governor's the nut,
If what I think I heard is what is true:
That in reaction to Obama's move
Restoring normal fed'ral funding to
Researching embryonic stem cells, you've
Got this Perdue guy stamping his two feet
And saying Georgia's stem cells are elite?

Starting To Feel At Home

The Ellis and the Moore are on the wall,
As are O'Brien's aspens and my clock.
Burnett and Breth will follow once the small
Detail of where to hang them's made. The lock
(A combination model!) is now set,
Most of my books are set upon their shelves
(Though not in any order as of yet!),
My insect chimes and magnets are themselves
In place. All this thanks mostly to my folks,
Who came while I've been sick to lend a hand,
And tools, and reassurance it's no hoax -
That really it's my house. They understand,
And tell me I'll believe it when I make
That first full mortgage payment, no mistake!

In Which I Ponder The Virtues (?) Of My Mother's Dog

Wee Missy ShitzPoo is my mother's dog.
A poodle combo bloodline, far from pure
Is hers; a mix of traits that leaves agog
Whomever she may meet. We are not sure
If Missy's fluffy tail is a Shitzu
Or Lhasa Apso trait, but it is cute.
She flounces it around and sniffs, as to
Regain attention lost. She's far from mute
(Just ask the passing cars behind my fence
Whose every move she orders with shrill care).
Her little round-eyed gaze is quite intense
When she wants to join us on couch or chair,
Or start a game of tug-of-war or chase
She knows we can't say no to that darn face.

This Spring At My New House Will Be Especially Interesting

At my new house, we have made up a game,
Regarding all the flora of my yard,
Consisting of attempting just to name
The shrubs and plants that come 'neath our regard.
Spring won't be here for a short while to come
To tell us if we're right or if we're wrong.
A few of them defy us, and then some
Are myst'ries such that we're not sure the strong
Swift pulse of life still surges through them, or
If they are dead and need removed. Perhaps
Some lilacs, maybe currants are in store.
I hope that one's a crabapple. There are gaps
'Tween what I hope and what I'll have at last,
But that's my fun for now, and it's a blast.

In Which George Hrab Leaves Me Almost Speechlessly Chuffed

I had today a pleasure strange and rare:
George Hrab read one of my bits on his show,
Which read he did with brio and with and flair,
And said something which set my face aglow.
His kind of chick, he called me, and likewise
He definitely is my kind of dude.
I feel like I have won some shiny prize!
But pardon me, I know it's rather rude
To crow like this, but please allow this gloat.
A sonneteer earns nothing but the odd
Wee scrap of praise to make her ego float
And float it did, like bubbles in pernod
Or really, in an Alka Selzer Plus
(Yes, I'm still sick, but too pleased now to fuss).

This Sonnet Is Sort Of Late For A Lot Of Good Reasons

If there was an event at all today
That could be called important, I missed out.
Between my cold and new home's disarray,
Deliveries and running all about
Cheyenne on errands, I lost track of time,
I missed the news and missed all of the tweets
That are these days more timely, for my dime,
Than any broadcast show or scandal sheets.
I got a lot accomplished, I may claim.
My kitchen's up and running and I bought
A lot of little things I shall require
A smoke detector -- no, I had one not --
A freezer and the all-important fire
Extinguisher. I'll take on faith that no
Attacks, impacts or meltdowns happened. though.

On How I Would Really Love To Go Home And Take A Nyquil Right Now

I have a *COUGH* slight problem with my voice.
Like marathoners *SNEEZE* my nose doth run.
The Kleenex box is empty. I've no choice,
*ACHOO* cuz I must end what I've begun.
The late adopter of the *SNIFFLE* bug
Is usu'lly the one who *MOANS* the most.
The ones who brought it *STAGGER* home and drug
Themselves and leave the well to coast
On through the week *BLESS YOU* as best they can
Until they, too, succumb -- then it's too late
To go home *HACK&. The job still needs each man
Or woman to keep on *EXPECTORATE*.
And so I tough it out. Can't help but whine
A bit. At least, though, my job still is mine!

BONUS SONNET: On Why No Mars Space Laboratory Just Yet

Dry lubrication's only just the start
Of problems causing MSL's delay,
So I am told, and yes, it breaks my heart.
To see another project gone astray.
I've loved to watch the rovers do their jobs,
And hope to see much more as we improve
Their range and revving pow'r by heaps and gobs,
To let the next gen rovers eas'ly move
Across a wider swath of Mars. And then
There's all the budget wrangling that took place;
Each bureaucrat's and politician's pen
Threw on more zeroes, rules. O outer space!
Our future as a people counts on you,
But not enough agree, which makes me blue.

In Which I Ponder A Happy Chain Reaction

It got its start when Kevin bought a house.
He is a bit carefree, I will just say.
My sister heard the news, began to grouse,
And came to the conclusion that she may
As well do so; if he could so could she.
She shopped around, and chose, and moved right in.
The dial took a spin and stopped on me.
I took the step, though not without chagrin.
I'm glad I did, and anyone who cares
May hear this tale, as did a pal of mine.
She caught the bug and now she boldly fares
Into the market, husband at her side.
Did Kevin start a cycle, or a tide?

In Which A Tardigrade Is Not So Tardy

We learn today of a panarthopod
Who will stray far indeed from its home moss
When Russia sends it spacewards with a squad
Of other creatures, all the way across
To one of the twin moons of far Barsoom.
I will confess that ere this Sunday came
I'd never heard of tardigrades. I fume
A bit to learn that one could claim
To be the first on Phobos. I confess:
I'm on the fence about this. On one hand
A test to see how life forms stand this stress
Is vital to our long-term future, planned
To outlive our wee sun. Still, though, I doubt
A water bear ambassador has clout.