Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Have Amazed Myself

December thirty-first, Two Thousand Eight

A crazy resolution came to me

A daily sonnet -- wouldn't that be great?

But could I do it? I would have to see.

The first one concerned chicken soup I'd made,

And was my very first of any sort.

A year has passed; it's now a stock in trade

Of mine, composing sonnets, fast and short,

And far more than just one a day has come

Forth from these typing fingers, thanks to dares

And birthdays, and late-breaking news of dumb

And wondrous things, and as of summer, there's

The Interstellar Feller, too. What fun!

As New Year's Resolutions go, I've won!

In Which I Berate My Procrastinating Tendencies

The year draws to a close and I prepare

To finish something wonderful, and yet

Today all that I've done and all my care

Has brought forth little. Little shall I get

If I don't stir myself to soldier on.

An opportunity has come my way

That never I expected. 'Twill be gone

And all the effort I've put forth, I'd say,

If I don't stir myself to do, at last,

The editing I've known that, from the start

Must needs be done and now, must be done fast,

Lest time escape and I break my own heart.

I always do this, wait until I can

No longer. Then I rush forth with no plan.

In Which A Conspiracy Is Unmasked

Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab has
Done all of us a service; he's revealed
A further element of razzmatazz
That heretofore was cunningly concealed:
The TSA has always been in league
With those nefarious Underpants Gnomes.
The one to make us lie, cheat and intrigue
To wear, the others to steal from our homes
Our undergarments. First the little guys
Swipe what we have, then screeners take away
What we dare wear to airports. Then, surprise,
Once pantless at our destination, hey,
A posh airport boutique is there to sell
What we must simply hope was laundered well.

In Which I Channel Billy Pilgrim

I do not feel that I am really here.
A flash occurs, and I am lost in space
Or time. So vividly another year
Dwells in my brain I'm not sure in what place
I'd find myself if I could know for sure.
In Boston I once lived and worked and walked,
And in the next-door universe I stayed.
Last night, in dreams, in Bethlehem I talked
With Donna; all this morning I have strayed
Back to that town where I have never been,
Then home to houses that I never bought
But looked at while I chose the one I'm in.
It's not that I'm unhappy where I am
But somehow all this day has seemed a sham.

In Which I Ask For Your Help

A print edition shall be in the works
Of these, my sonnets from this wondrous year.
I turn to you, my readers, offer perks
A-plenty, if you'll help me. A severe
And daunting task is looming. I must choose
Three hundred sixty five of these to place
Within that book, and really, I could use
Some input on what to select. I face
This task with shoulders squared, but truly find
It daunting. Some are easy to rule out:
The birthday cards, for instance, but, combined
There's still so many hundreds, and I doubt
They're all worth killing trees. So drop a line,
And tell me of your favorites? 'Twould be fine!

(Send suggestions HERE)

In Which I Just Don't Get It

I think that I would take it as a gift
If all of nature did seem to conspire
To keep me home, if you can catch my drift.
That's not to say I'm seeking to hang fire;
It's never fun to be stranded. But hey,
It's Saturday, and there should be no rush
To leave a cozy home and hearth today.
The roads are closed; it's no one's fault. Why crush
Another's spirits, focusing on what
You cannot do or where you cannot go?
It's Christmas 2.0. Why not just shut
The door and snuggle up, let someone know
You love them, rest and smile and call it good?
Your work and toil will wait, as well it should.

In Which Sister Kris Gets A Shivery Send-Off

A dirty, chilly night howls on outside,

And into it we had to go to send

My sister on her way back home. The ride

Was merely blocks, but then we'd spend

Some time with her ere her flight was to leave

On board a puddle jumper flight. So far

So good but ice and show and wind this eve

Meant ev'rything was late and cold. A bar

At Cheyenne's airport was our roost

As we did watch and wonder if she'd go --

Deicing's never easy, and night loosed

E'en nastier conditions, blowing snow

And cold, bone-chilling. Shivering we watched

And worried. Thank Bog not a thing was botched.

In Which The Holidays Bring Mixed Emotions

It's Christmas Eve and all throughout my house

I've family and doggies underfoot.

Th'exuberance we have nothing could dowse

Not after our Cowboys went down and put

Those Fresno State curs in their place down in

New Mexico. I hope that ev'ryone

Who reads my stuff, who happily has been

Along on this weird sonnet ride's had fun,

And is as fortunate as me tonight.

I pause and think of families who've lost

A dear one, as the Tonnies did, and fight

The urge to cry. All pleasure has a cost,

I guess. But know that whatever you do

Tonight I'm thinking fondly, yes, of you.

In Which Death Star Shortbread Is Baked

The kitchen's why the KATE STATION is mine.

Today we put it through its paces well.

While no-knead beer bread is a staple, fine

Baked goods are most uncommon here. I'll tell

You this: my expectations have been met!

A galley-style has always seemed the rule

Wherever I have lived before, which meant

A "one-butt" kitchen; more butts would be cruel

(That's people and not cigarettes) and we

Just get into each other's way. No more!

A pumpkin pie and shortbread baking spree

Has taken place, and scarcely was a chore

So simply done! And Sithmas treats are here:

With Death Star shortbread, how can we not cheer?

In Which A Digit Takes On A New Significance

As we all know, sometimes, for a good cause,
I let some strangers take from me a pint
Of blood. The process still does have some flaws;
The pain, the fainting, in my case the fright
Of needles. Still I do it and I'm proud.
I've given gallons three as of today!
In doing so I'm part of a small crowd.
'Twould be much bigger if I got my way.
It's not so bad, but this time I've a gripe:
The finger that they tested really hurts,
A grave impairment when I have to type,
As right now. It's the one used for alerts
Of one's displeasure, called the "naughty" one.
Is this my punishment for having fun?

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Small Step Is Taken

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Fellar" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's.....

It's quite a day or two that Pepi's had!
Deflowered and abducted, now afloat
In outer space and orbiting, I'll add,
An unknown planet, lonely and remote.
Now hustled to a shuttle by his mate,
A big-eyed, grey mask pulled over his face,
A new world beckons to him! Oh that fate
Could bring a barman to this strange new place!
In no time he strides slowly 'crossed the sands
Of -- where is this? -- Pepito wants to ask,
But cannot speak; a breathing tube commands
His mouth and throat and slaves them to the task
Of keeping him alive, and nothing more.
So that is what the alien mask is for!

In Which Frank Zappa Brings Us Back To The Sun, Or Something

Today our axis tilts furthest away
From Sol, our sun; the shortest day is here.
And, too, it is the sixty-ninth birthday
Of one of my great heroes. As this year
Plods onward to its close, I celebrate
Frank Zappa and his music and his wit.
I send my dirty love and a cupcake
To all who read this, and I do commit
To keeping Zappadan next year. Who else
Made music with a bicycle or could
Raise dental floss as livestock? Frank himself
('Tis he who tilts us sunwards now, for good)!
So now, let rip the weasels! Mudsharks, come!
And Happy Zappa Day to ev'ryone!

In Which I Fret Just A Little

My parents are enroute now to Cheyenne
From Saratoga, while my sister, Kris,
Is coming from New Mexico; the plan
Is that they will converge, if naught's amiss,
At my house, like the Simpson family
At credits' end. Meanwhile they're all in cars,
And I try not to worry. It will be
Just fine, I tell myself. I'll thank my stars
Quite soon that they all made it, hug them, and
Dish up some Bambi chili for their meal.
It's weird how ev'ry year, whate'er we've planned
This is the situation and I feel
The psychic strain of keeping on the road
Carloads of far-off loved ones, then explode.

In Which Poncho The Pug Gets The Jump On Santa

Pug-sitting, and it really could be worse;

The dogs were all alone from 6 a.m.

To 5 p.m. I could have had to curse

Disasters on the floors from one of them

(Or maybe both); some business or some torn

And shredded shoes - he's just a baby yet,

Is Poncho - but there's nothing to adorn

The carpet that smells foul. "Like, hey, no sweat,"

He seems to say, the puppy who's my guest,

"Eleven hours? Hey, I am young and tough,

And crate-trained so I know it's for the best

That I don't make a mess indoors. 'Twas rough,

Though, to withstand temptation all the way,

But packages get opened anyway!"

R.I.P., Dan O'Bannon

For Alien and Dark Star we give thanks,

And Total Recall, Life Force, too and for

Some bits of Heavy Metal's filmic pranks --

The corvette-flying astronaut and more --

I'm also grateful. Dan O'Bannon wrote

And worked on crazy stuff during his days

Among us. Some we saw and some, we note

Were never realized -- perhaps, though, praise

Instead of scorn is due, for while I dig

That Jodorowsky dude, and quite a lot

I'm not sure Dune was for them -- much too big

And sprawling. Just think what they would have wrought

Upon it? No. But Screamers? Um, hell yes,

Would be my answer. Yours too, I would guess.

Friday Flash: In Which Escape Is Achieved

Sonneteer's note: this is the sixteenth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. Last week's installment and links to all previous can be found here.

As quickly as they made appearance, all

Those doppelgangers on the bridge, they're gone.

Pepito's arms are empty now -- recall

A whole 'nother Yectara got it on

With him, one with no cybernetic limbs.

His own is 'crossed the bridge and says "On screen."

The cacogens comply; the deck's light dims;

And looming there, a wash of red and green,

A planet, round which orbits now the ship.

The Grokulator's free of all pursuit.

And without being asked, her crew doth skip

To its repairing duties. Pepito, cute,

Just gapes now at the sight before his eyes.

His mistress, meanwhile, plans a new surprise.

O Sithmas Tree

O Sithmas Tree, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

O Sithmas Tree, O Sithmas Tree you shine
All red and evil in my living room.
And once I've had a glass or two of wine,
You scare me just a tad there as you loom,
A phantom menace for my holiday,
Your top adorned with a shining Death Star.
Hear Yoda's vain attempts to warn away
Luke Skywalker from wandering too far
Into your sphere of influence, drawn by
Your shiny tinsel and your air of pow'r.
And Sith lords we have heard up there on high
Sing carols we know, gaily, on the hour,
Like Jolly Old Darth Nicholas and, too
Rudolph the Sith-Nosed Reindeer. Here's to you!

In Which I Indulge My Holiday Dork-a-dence

My family will be here soon, which means

Today's my last to take in, all in one

Great gulp, the three films with deleted scenes

Of Peter Jackson's LOTR. Fun?

It's more than that by far. It's truly not

The holidays without this silliness.

A sad compulsion, I know I have got:

Each year I watch and each year I'm a mess.

I tear up, a true fan girl, where I should,

Accomplish nothing ere its done, except

The popping of some corn. It's just too good

To start without a finish, though I've kept

On trying to just do one film a day,

I'm powerless to follow through. Hooray!

In Which I Realize Anew That Oragami Is Not For Me

My sister will be here in two days' time,

Which means 'tis nearly Christmas and I must

Get wrapping all this loot. My gift is rhyme,

And maybe taste in presents, but I just

Can't seem to make this paper do my will.

A mere three scraps of tape is all one needs,

Allegedly, to seal them, but my skill

Makes that a joke - it's four at least. My deeds

With giftwrap would put Lovecraft, lo, to shame:

Geometries unseen emerge with each,

E'en if the box is quite Platonic. Lame?

Too tame a word for what I've within reach:

These packages are better termed as blobs.

At least provoking laughter if not sobs.

Sonnet Dare: In Which I Cotton To A Coconut-Carting Cephalopod

It's veiny, vaguely pink and near some nuts --
But get thy mind from yonder gutter, please!
I'm speaking of a freaky octopus
Who lives exposed in sandy-bottomed seas,
The Amphioctus marginatus would
Be vulnerable there were not for its
Ingenious use of coconut shells, good
As snail or nautilus ones, when they fits
The octopus's body. When it must
Go roaming, Marinatus sometimes goes
On two tip-tentacles; the others just
Wrapped tightly 'round his head; therefore what shows
Looks like a walking coconut. So smart!
He shows Cthulhu's lineage in part.

In Which A Fellow Nerd Improves With [censored]

You didn't see the Geminids last night
(Nor did I, but 'twas not my natal day!),
But I shall still declare that, yes, despite
The weather, they rained down for thee. Hooray!
Your snark and nerdly knowledge nonpareil
Could pull down e'en a real-life falling star.
I have to say, you always make me smile,
With ev'ry tweet, just being who you are.
So, William Donohue, I truly wish
A long lifetime of many great returns
Of this fine day, till you are quite old-ish
And gladly imitating Mr. Burns
And other scary, nerdy, fine old men.
And keep on quoting Daffy until then!

In Which I Am Not Making This Stuff Up

Now comes the news from ol' Down Under way,

Of wallabies who get as high as kites --

They like to eat the poppies, so they say.

Then crazily they -- no, don't get in fights --

But run around in little fairy rings

Until they fall down dizzy and they crash.

While I still favor ordinary things,

Like ropes and boards and scissors, I'll not trash

This tale as yet another theorem

For how crop circles come to be out there.

Marsupials on opium? Condemn

Them not! They like a good time, to be fair,

As much as aliens and people do,

And naturally some mischief will ensue.

In Which Are Considered Ninja Robins

My good friend Travis King today revealed
A secret -- and not even on Formspring
(I'm on there, too, right here) that for his shield
And for his loved ones, too, he likes to sling
An unexpected battery of -- no,
Not Spanish Inquisition types -- rare birds:
Some hardcore, kickass, ninja-skilled (although
Innocuous to look at) robins. Words
Cannot convey my shock and my delight!
He hath commanded one, Beverly fair,
To watch o'er me and keep me, day and night,
From harm. To be the object of such care
Is no mean thing! I'm safer now, by far,
Than many a much-coddled movie star!

Friday Flash: In Which The Bridge Gets Crowded

Sonneteer's note: this is the fifteenth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here , Part the Ninth here, Part the Tenth here , Part the Eleventh here, Part the Dodecothhh here, Lucky Number 13 here and go here for the Part the Fourteenth. Phew!

The Grokulator's bridge suddenly fills

With even more black figures. Pepi sees

A chorus line of ladies, gets the chills:

They're all Yectara, varying degrees

Of her at any rate; some have more flesh

Some less; one is all metal. And there's worse

As multiple Yectaras all get fresh

With multiple Pepitos; it's perverse!

But our boy is the only one who's scared,

So easy for our queen to find and calm.

And draw him to the party they've all shared

Whenever Field Maneuver Three's been called.

Meanwhile the cacogens in their own way

Deal with themselves while captains are at play.

In Which I Am Awestricken By A New Fashion Accessory

Were I a guy who had to wear a tie

Would I choose one of these under my suit?

While certainly these beauties catch the eye,

Displaying all the best hues of a fruit

We call the Apple iPod nano, is this not

Solution for a problem of which we --

Be honest -- didn't know that we had got?

Accessories like this fill me with glee.
My old-school iPod shuffle just clips to

A collar or a hemline: there I go!

With this "Commuter Tie" one won't see, true,

The actual device, but still there'll show

The telltale earbud cords. Plus, changing songs

Looks to be pretty awkward. Fashion wrongs?

In Which I Become Concerned That Norway May Fill With Giant Snails

Last night in Norway, in the Arctic sky

Was filmed and photographed phenomena

That's so far ill-explained. I'm glad that I

Am not alone in thinking about the

Great horror manga-movie as I look

At this and read the explanations for

A green light and a spiral. It just took

Mere seconds ere Kurouzu's fate and more

Did cross my mind. O, Higuchinsky, did

You and Junji Ito ever believe

That Uzumaki would, heaven forbid,

Turn out prophetic? Or should we conceive

That more mundane ideas should hold their sway?

A rocket stage, or laser-nerds at play?

In Which I Believe I'm Staying In Tonight After All

Martinis with the girls, that was my plan
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.

In Which I Ponder A Strange Metaphor

This morning, as I rose ere dawn, we had
A temperature of Zero Degrees "Eff"
(With emphasis on "Eff"; I won't be bad
And spell out what that stands for). Some foul theft
Of all our warmth had happened in the night,
And sunrise did not bring us more. It's cold -
More so than a well-digger's butt, all right,
As my friend Bonnie eloquently told
Her Facebook friends, which prompted a profound
Discussion, how the baseline readings came
To be established? Did one ask around
And quote well-diggers' feelings name by name?
Or was data - empirical and real
Recorded. Just how cold did each butt feel?

In Which A Favorite Musical Icon Turns Sixty!

December Seventh lives in infamy
But it's also a day to celebrate!
Pearl Harbor took its blow in history,
But something lovely happened this same date!
Tom Waits was born, whose music changed the game.
A smoky, growly voice, like to a drink
Of bourbon on an empty stomach. Name
Me one more guy whose songs so make one think
Of seedy sadness e'en as one rocks out.
Percussion with found objects, horns and things
I can't identify all make me shout
With glee on hearing them, e'en ere he sings.
Nor doth he make just music: look right here.
He's also had a nifty film career!

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mizz Carla McDonald

A Southern belle is always one at heart,
So I discovered yesterday once I
Had published, on a dare, a poem, in part
About a great impairment that is my
Achilles' heel at work: how such folk speak.
It's not that it's not charming, even cute,
As my friend Carla knows - it leaves men weak
I'm sure, to hear her sling it. No dispute.
But when a guy with one just cuts right loose
With deformed vowels and drops his consonants
In serious situations, there's no use
In pondering my preferences or wants:
I just plain have to tell them "come again?"
And vent a bit of spleen, just now and then.

Sonnet Dare: In Which I Have A David Lynch Moment

At old beaudacious Bard, we used to say
Of those times when what happened got too weird,
One explanation only could hold sway;
One possibility 'mongst those that reared
Their heads could be the truth: that David Lynch
Was hiding in the room, mast'ring the scene.
The man who made Eraserhead to pinch
Our twenty-year-old brains, crafted the keen
Hilarity of that Blue Velvet flick,
And made of Dune a less coherent tale
(Though visually awesome) -- no mean trick --
Than Herbert did -- that David, without fail,
Had taken over the directorship
Of these, our lives, so suddenly a trip.

Sonnet Dare: In Which The Accent Is The Thing

My daily life brings me against a lot
Of challenges that many find bizarre.
Time management, of course, as who has not,
For instance, but for me it's the Boomhauer
That really drives me round the bend when one
Addresses me (I've sev'ral in my care).
There is no accent spoken 'neath the sun
That I can't comprehend except that there.
Ascemic writing holds for me more sense,
And I find glossolalia a breeze,
But no, it's Bubba-speak that has me tense,
Uncomprehending, yes, and whimp'ring "Please,
Just speak some English I can understand.
Or send me an interpreter? How grand!"

In Which An Anniversary Is Commemorated!

Just seventy-six years ago this date,
A wise decision happened to occur:
That Prohibition by the stupid State
Of alcohol was not so bright as were
Some other things we happened to append
To our fine Constitution. How "repeal"
Rings musically to mine ears. I'll spend
A happy hour quite soon, I now reveal,
A-toasting this, the wisdom of those who
Did vote in 1933 to lift
The ban on booze. I'll have a drink or two
In celebration. Then maybe I'll drift
Into good writing mode, or just play chess.
With freethinkers it's anybody's guess.

In Which I Get Excited Over A Tournament Draw

No sports fan am I, save for this one round

Of football games that make of me a nut:

The FIFA World Cup. No way I have found

Has ever kept me out of this one rut.

'Tis only ev'ry four years this occurs,

When I become a lunatic. Today

Preliminary groups were drawn, which spurs

My craziness. England v. USA?

The Germans and the Aussies? Oh my head

Already spins. Brazil and Portugal

Are in a group together, "of the dead"

And though Croatia won't be at the ball

I still feel now the ghost of my old craze.

One hundred eighty seven more short days!

Friday Flash: In Which Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

Sonneteer's note: this is the fourtheeth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here , Part the Ninth here, Part the Tenth here , Part the Eleventh here, Part the Dodecothhh here, and Lucky Number 13 here.

"Turn back, or we'll disintegrate you now,"

The Grokulator's crew feels foes convey.

Yectara grits her teeth, lets out a howl,

And launches toward a console. On her way

She plants a kiss on her Pepito's face,

Then screams out "Brace for Field Maneuver Three!"

And punches in the code that lets them race

Far from the scene, the code that sets them free.

Pepito, knowing not what next to do,

Just watches dumbly as his fellow hands

Curl into tiny masked balls; soon the crew

Like so many pillbugs just float in bands

Of velvet black. And then there comes a rip

Through time and space that frees them and their ship.

In Which I Rue A Wasted Day

I got a bit of a late start, it's true
But that explains not how it's five o'clock
And I'm on just my first shot of black brew
And only now have op'ed my mouth to talk.
When one lives by oneself this is a risk:
Entire afternoons can disappear
Quite wordlessly if outside there's a brisk
And bitter wind to keep her indoors. Here,
The sun has gone to bed and I've not done
A thing I planned to do save laundry. Now
On overtime I sit at work. No fun!
While projects languish back at home, and how!
A sin it is to waste my time that way,
I've even missed the blue and red and grey.

In Which I Pass A Pleasant Afternoon

My Bonfire is a special kind of gal,

She's curious, amusing and will try

Most any crazy thing I think of. Shall

I tell you how we made a lunch hour fly

And turn into a total afternoon?

First sushi lunch, Cthulhu on some rice,

I had Sapporo, too, but she was soon

To head to work, which wasn't all that nice

But we made good the time we had. What more?

The sushi joint just happens to be near

Our friendly local Barnes & Kipple store

(The tale behind that sobriquet, I fear

Is too involved for this here sonnet). Just

A simple, perfect day. Repeat we must!

In Which I Prepare For A New Adventure!

It's Friday in my strange, shift-working world,
And nearly time for me to call it quits.
I stretch out with a smile, my limbs uncurled,
Preparing to go north to match my wits
With my friend Jana on a real chessboard
Instead of one on Facebook, and to quaff
Some margaritas. I'll emerge restored,
I think, from Chugwater (now don't you scoff;
It may be podunk to the untrained eye
But it is all about who lives there, no?)
I'm sure that soon the time will simply fly
Too swiftly and 'twill be time to come home.
Oh -- wish me luck, would you? She's kicked my ass
Of late. I'm tired of losing; e'en with class.

In Which Iambic Confetti Is Thrown For Phil Rossi

A troubador who scares one sexy is
Our dear Phil Rossi, but that's far from all,
There's music, too, when he reads one of his
Great podcast novels; that Virginia drawl
And growling voice is perfect for those tales.
If you'd prefer some print, here's Crescent, creeps
In space for all. I've gladly watched its sales
A-soaring; 'specially as our boy just keeps
On having wee ones. Piper joined the crew
Just days ago! And Phil's started a blog,
Not Just a Dad. You see why I say "phew!"
To top it off, he has a way with grog.
So all signs say his birthday will be made
Of finest win. Such shall be our crusade.