In Which I Lose Ignominiously To Three Female Authority Figures From My Past

The new Mah Jong card for 2009
Was extra-new to me as I sat down.
My Girl Scout leader and dear Mother Mine
And Mrs. B, a sub of some renown
All grinned at me like three sharp Mah Jong sharks.
And so did our first Charleston portend:
They passed the tiles and made their tart remarks
At speed while I was left to just pretend
I'd found a pattern with which I could win.
Each game I did at last find something like
A playable plan, but my own dear kin
Or life-long mentors gleefully would strike,
And dis-tile quite instinctively the tiles
I needed to outwit their wily wiles.

Lines Written Upon Seeing Elk Mountain For The First Time In 2009

As house-hunting, then moving, both have kept
Me to a small, small circle in Cheyenne,
It's been more than four months since I have slept
In any other town. I've had a plan
This week to hit the road at long last, and
Partake of my hometown's delights and see
My folks and friends and survey how this land
Has fared through this sere winter. Glory be!
I packed my car and strapped to it Deep Blue,
And loaded up a certain glad collie
And put Jack's tires to pavement, barreled through
A hundred miles of wind, then with jolly
Wild shouts took in a gorgeous, welcome sight,
Snowcapped and lovely in the noon sunlight.

In Which I Decide Not To Wait Until Issue #5

I've only seen a mere twenty percent
Of this new book but I find I can't wait
To share my admiration of that bent
Old Warren Ellis and to here relate:
Ignition City's taken o'er my mind!
It's sick in parts - for instance much concerned
With pellet food once it is left behind
Well-used in chamber pots (yes they have spurned
The shiny Gernsback world in lots of ways) -
But artful. Where do spacemen go to die?
Per Warren and Gianluca, to a place
Where they can only stare up at the sky
And drink away their memories, and gape
At Mary Callipygia Raven's shape.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Channel A Beloved Fantasy Island Character

I hear tell of an island where occurred
A great commotion all 'cause of a plan
To get a brand new photo of a bird
Called Air Force One, or so it all began...
As it did loom o'er sunny island skies,
It surfaced soon that someone had forgot
To tell the man in charge - and this surprise
Has sent him in a rage I'm told is hot!
Oh, Mister Bloomberg/Roark, such a mistake
As this must be a partisan wet dream
Come true. Too bad that you did undertake
To absent your good name from either team.
So as it stands, this flyover's in vain.
All we can do is scream, "The plane! The plane!"

In Which I Share My Cure For Earworms

It happens now and then to one and all:
A song plays in our brains in endless loops.
It's rarely one we like but we're in thrall
E'en worse when one we hate makes us its dupes.
Sometimes inflicting them becomes a game
(As Netta Ribken oft accuses me),
In which one tries to implant the most lame
Tune of them all with much unholy glee.
However, I am armed 'gainst these attacks.
The secret arsenal within my brain
Has Schubert's "Trout Quintet" upon its stacks.
Not only does it cancel lesser tunes;
It well evokes an angler's afternoons.

BONUS SONNET: Night Of The Collie

A normal night was how this ev'ning seemed;

I even had a good ride on my bike.

But then in Molly's eye a blood drop gleamed.

Her patient gaze tore through me like a spike.

Good old Cheyenne, on Sunday night no vets

Are taking calls; to Fort Collins they say

Must after hours folk with injured pets

Repair or wait til 9 a.m. next day.

She start swatting at her injury

And seemed to tear it open that much more.

So off we went, two pals, my dog and me

On south to find the truth behind the gore.

It's minor, I am glad now to report.

But getting home was its own winter sport.

Who Busted Out A Time Machine When I Wasn't Looking?

A baby down in Oz has died because
Her neighborhood was seething with disease --
Not AIDS, Ebola, swine flu -- I must pause,
And scream before I go on; pardon, please.
'Twas whooping cough that killed this little girl:
Preventable since 1925!
She was too young for shots herself, but (HURL)
The neighbor kids are why she's not alive.
Their parents were convinced that a vaccine
Would be much worse than death on needless scales,
And so this bug broke out again. "Obscene"
Is not a strong 'nough word for these sad tales.
Autism is a horror, yes it's true,
But vaccines do not cause it, K? Thank you.

In Which I Parrot CDC Advice About Containing The Swine Flu

Please wash your hands with water and with soap,
And if you're sick already, please stay home.
If symptoms get too bad, don't be a dope:
Do get thee to a doctor. Please don't roam
About and spread this swine flu crap around.
Your mom's advice when you were young applies!
If you must cough, then cover up your mouth.
And really, wash your hands. These are not lies!
Our latest tourist from the sunny south
(That's Mexico, not Dixieland - not yet)
Need only be pandemic if we're fools.
While economic fears and such abet
Our going forth to work and to the schools,
Just ask yourself, if really it is worth
A few bucks to risk everyone on earth?

Here Come Some Special Boys

I realized to my chagrin this morn,

As I was listing off those who've inspired

Some sonnet silliness when I, forlorn,

Did find myself too clueless or too tired

To think of what to write -- they've all been guys!

Not one tweepzilla girl has helped me out!

So I put out a call to them. Surprise!

Not one has come through yet, but with a shout

Mike Oliveri in falsetto tones

Came gallant to my rescue, and his friend

Was man enough to dress the part. He owns

A sonnet once again. I won't pretend

I wasn't just a little shocked to see

John Roling's Hooters drag, though. Mercy Me!

Making Friends On The Blood Bus

I feel so light; in fact I'm a pint shy,

And learned today's that Kev's a sonnet pimp.

While in the canteen talking to some guy

Who'd joked along and raced me to the crimp

('Twas blood drive day down at the BLM

And I, again, was called in to make up

A short projection). As the two of them

Sat with me while I sipped about a cup

Of juice, my worst friend gleefully did spill

The beans about this blog to Marty, who

Thought that it sounded cool, and said he will

Try looking at these sonnets. If you do,

Then, Marty, you're a cool guy and I'm glad

I bled beside you, and spoke up, I'll add.

My Favorite Holiday Comes Every Week

I know today is Earth Day, but I try

To treat each day that way as best I may.

As bins of cans and bottles testify,

As my low power bills do, too. Today

I celebrate a weekly cause of joys:

A reason to desert my hearth and home

And collie for a trip to see the boys

At Heroes Only. It's not far to roam:

Just 'crost Cheyenne, a couple miles all told.

But in imagination it's light years,

For Wednesday is NEW COMICS DAY. Behold:

New tales to tempt my thoughts and stir my fears!

And though these tales are printed on dead trees,

No landfill ever sees them, if you please.

BONUS SONNET: Everything Is Better With AIR

"Hey lady," called out sev'ral local sprats,

As I did huff and puff on down the street.

"Your tires are flat!" Oh hey, so maybe that's

Why one mile felt like forty. To complete

My shame, I did quite fail to bring along

My bike pump. Like a chorus, then, did sound

The gleeful and humiliating song

As I bore down and pow'red my way around

The Greenway to the exit on Ridge Road.

With gritted teeth I thanked each helpful soul,

Accepted each outcry as one more goad

To keep me moving onward to my goal.

The sad thing is, I think that yesterday

A kid yelled out the same thing. Oy and vey.

An Overdue Reunion Is Not Without Its Costs

Deep Blue and I, together once again,
And weather once again allowing us
To re-explore the Greenway in Cheyenne,
We rode on out with very little fuss
(Deep Blue's my bike, I should perhaps explain
A Jamis 2.0 Commuter star).
And so began my new '09 campaign
To be in shape by June to ride as far
As work and back each day and burn no gas:
An Eight-plus mile round trip I love to make.
I'm starting near from scratch, alack, alas:
Last night one mile was all that I could take,
As my poor thighs and flanks refuse to cease
Reminding me. O Tylenol! Some peace!

BONUS SONNET: A Day In The Life Of Oliveri

Triumphant from refinancing his home,
Mike Oliveri pauses now to gloat,
And suck on ice cream 'neath a plastic dome:
A Reese's Blizzard, or so he just wrote
On Twitter -- also how I know that he
Has found a use for Tower CPUs:
As fancy doorstops. And I read him see
A "douchebag's car" displaying drug abuse,
And call down hail upon his widdle head
Though his renaming of a doctor's role.
Yes, quite a day for Michael, as he's said:
But it's not done, for here my sonnet droll
Will surely touch off more witty remarks
For now I've fed him to the sonnet sharks.

More Wishes For Recovery!

He talks a lot like my old Macintosh,
And like that gadget, he has blown my mind.
Today he's in the hospital, awash
In well-wishing from, I'm sure, all mankind.
O Stephen Hawking, much you've had to say
Has lit'rally and figur'tively, too
Gone over my wee head (but that's the way
I like my thinkers!). I will tell you true:
I sometimes feel like I'm a small black hole,
Per No-Hair, garbling info I take in.
I won't, therefore, make quoting you my goal
In this, my sonnet, sparing all chagrin.
I'll only share my admiration, and
My awe at your life's work that's beyond grand!

BONUS SONNET: A Get-Well Greeting For A Stranger

O Uncle Hrab, I hear you're just a bit

Less well than you have been in days of yore.

Your nephew, George, has told us all that it

Might cheer you up if messages galore

Could come your way from parts all 'round the globe.

For fondness of your George, and Roman's art,

And all the good they've done my frontal lobe,

(That painting's like a Cornell box, so smart!)

Do add me to the teeming masses who

Are hoping that you get well very soon!

You've surely got a lot you want to do

And folks to see of a good afternoon --

Preferable to languishing in bed

And hearing second-hand what folks have said.

By All Means Read The Fine Manual - But Make Sure It's The Right Fine Manual

In retrospect, I really should have known
When, though I tried, I simply could not make
The drawings that the manual had shown
Match up to my real furnace. My mistake
Compounded as I trusted, yes, by gosh
The booklet's claims about the filter set
As ones that simply need a wipe and wash,
And no replacing. How dumb could I get?
Fast forward one more day and Mother said,
It's really cold in here, is something wrong?
I went to work; meanwhile, with bowing head
My Dad and Realtor hunched back down along
The crawlspace, and the Realtor showed us where
The filters go and are. A quick repair!

In Which I Scoff Like A Nordic Atheist Would At These April Snowstorms

Three roosters have to crow in three locales:
Fjalar, Gullinkambi and the black,
Ere I start to believe those rationales
Which say that summer's never coming back.
Garmr's still chained and quiet in his pit,
And Jörmungandr's still wet and asleep!
Naglfar still is harbored and that shit,
Old Loki, still is chained up way down deep,
The serpent's venom burning up his face
When Sigyn pauses to clean up the mess.
No, there is still no cause for me to pace,
Though snow does stymie April's spring progress.
The three years' winter is not yet at hand;
No matter what the bards say 'round the land.

In Which An Idle Ass Keeps Getting Kicked At Work Or Play

My dad is here to visit, and that means,

A restless, wild work ethic with two feet

Does stalk my halls and rooms in ratty jeans,

A tool in hand and goals he seeks to meet.

We've leveled up my old washing machine,

We've tried and failed to clean the furnace vent,

We've shoveled so much snow it seems obscene

(Especially for April!). Now I'm bent

And sore while he keeps asking, well what more

Should we be doing with this idle time?

Hooray for Mom, who said pinochle or

Some dominoes, would that not be sublime?

We played a while, and they both kicked my ass,

Thank goodness it's now cocktail hour at last!

At Suppertime, I Muse On My Crock Pot

My parents are still here due to the snow

That's falling fatly on us in Cheyenne

And to my invitation to do so;

Round Two of hospitality's the plan.

It's cocktail hour as I start to wind up

The preparation of our fine repast:

A chicken dish with apples I've lined up

Since 'round the crack of noon. I cut up fast

An onion and some garlic cloves; I thawed

Some frozen chicken and some orange juice;

I mixed that juice with spices and, no fraud

Dumped all into a crock pot, turning loose

The slow heat on the food, right then, at noon.

Now to add in some apples; ready soon!

Late But Not Forgotten

Well technic'ly, it still is suppertime --

My table groans with fruit and cake and stuff.

And folks still graze, sip beer and slice up lime

(To make cocktails); and there is time enough

To sonnetize. The party a success,

And stragglers still conversing while they drink

I smile kick back, and feel zero distress

About my sonnet date with you. I think

My house is well and truly warmed. A good

Time has been had by all, and all agree

I chose a damn fine place to live and should

Be happy here a good long time. I'll be

Quite glad to post some photos of the bash,

But now it's coming up on time to crash!

In Which I Allow Myself A Tiny Puff Of Smug

Although I will admit it's mostly due
To my big purchase in the month of March,
E'en still I get to chortle now at you
Who eye tomorrow fretfully. So arch
Am I because my taxes are long-done,
The refund gained and spent on little things
Like pots and pans and freezers and, yes, one
Or two more friv'lous bits. A new house brings
The need for such as these. I knew it would,
And so I did my taxes just as soon
As ever even possibly I could,
Full knowing the refund would prove a boon.
Regardless of the wherefores or the whys,
I get to gloat while you all strain your eyes!

In Which I Face The Fact That I Have Far To Go

Confronted as, I've been, today, anew
Quite baldly with the fact that while I did
Achieve a NaNoWriMo win, I, too,
Did build a teet'ring tower of - I forbid
Myself to name the substance I've in mind
(It's not the truth; there's something I can save.
It's true that to oneself one's rarely kind -
But also true that this will draw no rave
Review from any reader I'd respect).
The talking heads are filler; they can go,
Or morph into some action. I'll reflect
Some upon this ere I rashly throw
Them ALL away, of course; the opposite
Would be as dumb, or dumber, let's admit.

Because I'd Probably Still Be In The Lifeboat, Crying For My Mommy And Daddy

I'm glad that Captain Phillips is now free,
I wonder what I'd do in his deck shoes?
I've never faced coercion, and don't see
Where I will any time soon. Would I choose
Cooperation or to fight should some
Strange pirate-types show up to raid my ship?
A hazard known they are, unless you're dumb,
But still to really be attacked - I'd flip,
I think, but I can't know I how I'd react
For sure. I live a modern, cushy life.
I'm just the sissy target to attract
Such predators - but Wyo is not rife
With sea-borne crooks - less, sure, than you'd expect!
So Captain Phillips has my real respect.

With "Apologies" To Oscar Hammerstein II

When I am forced to pop Midol like gum,
And to make sure my trousers' hue is dark,
My disposition tends towards the glum.
To be a girl is nothing like a lark.
It's not the pain, though that is not a perk;
It's not the mess, though that's annoying, too;
It's that my patience wears out. I'm a jerk
For sev'ral days a month, and would eschew
Society if that were practical.
Alas it's not. I hate to be a girl
At times like this. I feel like I'm as full
Of bile as a gall bladder, want to curl
Into a ball around a heating pad;
Instead I'm here at work. And aren't we glad?

A Coffee Mug By Any Other Shape

There might not be a demitasse in space

But thanks to Don Pettit now there is this:

A coffee mug that surely will replace

The sack and straw in orbit. Naught's amiss:

It holds the liquid e'en in zero gee

By virtue of its shape, which does exploit

A weird and wondrous liquid property -

That's surface tension. What a mad, adroit,

Solution to a problem ere its time.

Someday, might dwellers in a habitat

Regard these things as normal, not sublime

And weird new artifacts, for tea and chat?

I kind of think I'd like one of my own

Though space is somewhere I'll not get to roam.

SONNET GAUNTLET: The Quest For Truthiness

I must admit, I lied a little bit

When I claimed to be sanguine 'bout the loss

Of NASA's poll to that - I won't say twit,

As that has connotations, and a gloss

Of coolness that do not apply to him -

Let's say "showboat," Colbert. I'm a bit mad,

But just a bit. My own prospects are dim

Of having my own cult like that. For shame,

I'm jealous, and I've lied in sonnet form!

My nose is too long and it's growing now;

My temper is too short. So I perform

A sonnet mea culpa (on a dare).

O Ommus, really, you had not a prayer.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: The Bitch-Goddess Slaps Me Still

Her sister Dawn gives me the finger soon

And still I sit awake at my laptop.

I had some laughs, and heard a brand-new tune

(To me at least), but this has got to stop!

I didn't want to take a frakkin pill,

Not on my Saturday, that seemed so lame.

This maybe was a poor time for my will

To be so strong, but what else can I blame?

Insomnia has slapped me all night long;

I have the red face and the bleary eyes

To prove that point. Of course, I may be wrong.

That bitch-goddess did not fire up the 'net.

I did that on my own. That's what I get.

BONUS SONNET: A Friend I Wish I Did Not Have

I have a friend who only comes at night

(And not that kind of "comes," O dirty minds),

Informally; I never need invite

Her in. She's clever, and she always finds

A way around my booby traps and snares,

And takes her tiresome seat beside my bed,

Says "You're awake! Oh good!" and calmly stares

And waits for me to pay her mind instead

Of sleeping tight. She thinks it's much more fun

Regaling me with past misdeeds and gaffes,

Or taunting me with things I've not yet done

And prob'ly never will, and cruelly laughs.

"INSOMNIA, bitch goddess, get thee gone!"

I cry. Then morning NPR comes on.

A Module By Another Name... Is Still A Module

While I am one of those who'd gladly name
The third module of our dear ISS
Serenity (a Browncoat hath no shame)

I really do not share in the distress

Of those who watched an upstart named Colbert

Steal Joss' thunder and round up more votes.

I laugh instead, for during this affair

Ron Paul's folks also earned themselves some gloats

And stole Ken Rudin's presidential poll.

These "scandals" move me equally. They're meant

For fun, as are, say, psychic friends. How droll!

So go ahead and fuss, Browncoats, and vent.

Then think about how cool it all would be:

Serenity: The Lunar Colony!

I Love Living In The Future...Most Of The Time

The batteries, they all need to be charged
On many of the things I use each day.
I won't complain; my life is much enlarged
By laptops, cell phones, and my Kindle. They
Have let me do my thing 'most anywhere.
But ne'er before was there a pefect storm
Of power loss as right now. It's not fair!
My work PC, I regret to inform,
Restricts my freedom while my laptop sleeps.
My phone at home, an cool old candlestick
Works all the time; my cellie not so much.
As for my Kindle, right now it's a brick.
It lasts a week on one charge but, as such,
One has to charge it sometimes. I'm so glad
I bought a back-up dead tree book. Not bad!

Why I Don't Want To Win A Special Edition Helvetica Moleskine Notebook

I have no love for that sans-serif type,
Helvetica, nor for the foreign-made
Moleskine notebooks. I do resist the hype
Around them (oh no! I have been betrayed
By that small stack of them upon my desk,
My NaNoWriMo project for '08;
Ignore that, please). But I'll join the burlesque.
In these hard times I tend to place more weight
On where a thing is made. Take those FIELD NOTES!
They're tiny, practical, FUTURA BOLD
And made in this here country where I votes!
But Moleskines are pretentious, boasting old
And arty, famous use, a pedigree,
A lineage that's better off, sans me.

My New House Had A Surprise In Store For Me

The month of April's cruelest, Thomas said
(By Thomas I mean Eliot, T.S.).
While he meant more its goading from the "dead"
The dormant plants and flowers, I'll profess
A crueler face of April is by far
The storms of spring, the snowfall and the wind
That drives it into drifts, buries one's car,
And barricades one's house. Have I so sinned
In gloating o'er the beauties of my home
That I should so be cursed and have to dig
Through waist-deep snow to leave? Oh how the foam
Did fleck my face as I fought 'gainst those big
Waist-deep drifts with a less than perfect tool
A plastic shovel! Yeah, I'm super-cool.

In Which I Relish The Stories From Far Barsoom

I can't get over how much pulpy fun
Is to be had in these groovy old tales
Of far Barsoom. I'm glad I'm not yet done
With all eleven books. Amazing fails
As a descriptive term. While all cliches
Of pulp at its most base appear herein:
The manly men 'pon whom the damsels gaze
In helpless admiration as they win
Each battle, by their arms or wits and beat
All odds; the ugly, evil foes who lose
Each time... Simplicity deceives. Too neat
A story seems, but look again and choose
To see beyond the pulp into the wise
And wry comments on people and their lies.

In Which I Ponder The Fairness Of Horse Trading

I'm not a big sports fan, ev'ryone knows --

But even I know when to cry out foul

(With help from Kris and Kevin). I oppose

This trading of Jay Cutler, join the howl

Of disapproval of this trade (though I've

A tiny snarky smile)! The drama of

Who didn't get along with whom -- I strive

To keep from laughing out loud, for all love --

They sound like spoiled, squabbling kids and one

Just picked up all his toys and went to find

Some other kids to play with. I'm 'bout done.

The Denver Broncos only cross my mind

When they've done something stupid anyway --

So really this is just another day.

In Which I Ponder April's Limited Backyard Entomology

Boisea trivittata is the sole

Bug visitor I've seen around my home

Thus far who's made appearance. I control

My disappointment, thus far, as the loam

Is mostly frozen yet; still under frost

Is all my lawn and garden. And these bugs

Are still a nice diversion for no cost

(No cable needed, and no need for drugs).

Box Elder bugs are what you prob'ly know

Them as; they're black with rims of red

Like piping on their jackets. They've no show

Or flashiness about them, nor much dread.

They're harmless to the struggling daffodils

Whose bed they share. They're simple, with no frills.

In Which I Enjoy My Easily Amused Birdie Brain

American Tree Sparrows like to hang

Around the cheap tube feeder just outside

My window, and they, too, like to harangue

Me when the feeder's empty, though they hide

When I come out to fill it. Once a day

At least, I find they've eaten all, or spilled

The seed I've  poured inside it. I obey

Their shrill demands, because I'm really thrilled

To watch them so cavort where I can see

Them at their birdie doings all day long.

I know the show they put on's not for me

Expressly, but I ask you, what is wrong

With staring out my window, oh, for hours?

When spring comes then I'll also watch the flow'rs.

BONUS SONNET: The Night Of The Pug

The pug that will be Kevin's lives quite far

From Cheyenne town; to see him took a trip

That we were glad to make in Kevin's car,

But Michael took his own 'cause he's too hip

To wait around to watch us old folks coo.

'Twas fine until we made the journey back,

And Michael slid right off the road and through

A fence. Looked like a crash! My heart attack!

Call 911! A deputy arrived,

With wisecracks in his police car, and coached

My boys through their first tire change, contrived

To make it all quite funny. Then he broached

The subject, pouring on the drawling flatt'ry,

Of just how dead was our poor Kevin's batt'ry.