In Which I Emerge Windblown But Happy From A Salon

It should not really matter, but it does;

No matter what, I'm still a girl, although

A girly girl I never really was.

No time to fuss, I'm either on the go

Or planted somewhere with a book. How I

Might look has been of less concern to me

Than how I feel. It's strange, then, that some dye

A new haircut and styling goop can be

Transformative. I've never gone this dark

Nor curly, nor high-maintenance, could this

Somehow be one more odd attempt to mark

That I'm no longer some young chick? I miss

Those years not one bit. So why should I care?

But I have got to say, I love my hair!

In Which Spring Break Affects Even Your Humble Sonneteer

I do believe that spring may come at last.

The bank clocks says it's seventy degrees

Outside. And water drips and spreads as vast

And dirty banks of snow melt (they'll refreeze

Again; it's only March) become the mud

That marks the season. Spring break in the park

With my friend Bonnie, a stir in my blood

Arose as kites flew overhead. A stark

And vivid contrast to how I have spent

Such afternoons of late, huddled and cold,

A bikeskimo in layers of clothes and bent

Close to the handlebars, windswept yet bold.

Now ease and sunlight mean I have to share

The greenway with more folks, but I don't care!

In Which I Indulge In Solar Physics From My Patio

My iPod Touch has brought me lots of fun,

Podcasts and tweets al fresco, but there's more,

For 'mongst the apps I've got is 3D Sun

(I went a little crazy at the store

This first month). Each new day, my gadget brings

New data from our two STEREO probes

That orbit Sol, our star. They snoop on things

That once were stellar secrets. How the lobes

Of my brain light up like a solar flare

(Occipital, parietal and, indeed

The frontal, too!) whenever I look there!

Auroras and coronal masses! Need

I say more? Just today, for me to crave

The program played some wild sunspot shortwave!

SONNET DARE: In Which Enceladus Has Something Still Lacking

Gigantes don't just happen; they must grow
And growing boys need lots and lots of food.
Enceladus, for instance, don't you know
Would find it more than just a little rude
Were he deprived of his burrito fix,
Though he be circling Planet Saturn as
A rocky little moon -- he's number six
In size. And he was never killed; it has
Been told Athena threw a mighty spear
And felled him, but that's far from true as we
Well know; he's out there shining, cold and clear
And with a nice supply of water. He
Just needs some feeding up. A Taco Bell
Would fit the bill. I know he'd find it swell.

SONNET DARE: The Tastelessness Of Tea

The year was Seventeen Seventy Three,
A tax protest took place that we recall
Right to this day. They dumped a bunch of tea
Right into Boston Harbor. It was all
'Cause of a tax on which they could not vote
Or work in any way for to repeal.
Two Thousand Ten Has come and, now, the quote
Tea Party enquote is not the same deal.
They're far from disenfranchised, free to gripe
E'en if their gripes get somewhat out of hand.
I cannot say their arguments are tripe
Completely but, we have to share this land.
The wheel will turn; again they'll have their chance.
I wish they'd see that and sit out this dance.

In Which I Lose My Mind But Gain More Time Sinks

I'm told I have a tendency to spin

Scenarios with little data, so

I should not be surprised that I am in,

Hip-deep, a new obsession. We all know

I'm prone to those as well, so, no surprise

When someone turned me on to these new games,

These interactive fictions, a few tries

Had me quite hooked. Rejoicing in such names

As "Jigsaw", "Edifice" and "Fragile Shells"

And puzzling me at ev'ry turn, these things

Have eaten up my brain for longer spells

Than any have in months. It's running rings

'Round bad TV and neuroscience class

In my obsession race. I hope to pass!

In Which is Formed #WinosForLHC

A live stream as they start the LHC?

Well, sign me up; I cannot be alone

In wanting to watch them make history!

Now in the past it has been error-prone,

This vast machine. Its kryptonite is bread,

Its dipole magnets at one point did need

Repair, and in '05 there wound up dead

One Jose Lages -- tragedy indeed.

Now in the past, for NASA, we have done

Our part to bring success, so why not for

The search for Higgs-Boson? It might be fun

To watch the next experiment, and more,

To raise to science a nice glass or two

Of mead so Loki lets us play on through.

Friday Flash: The Interstellar Feller: In Which An Unpleasant Conclusion Is Reached

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 Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

No more on foot; Yectara promptly calls
The shuttle down. Soon she and Dr. Vuhl
And Pepi are in flight. And now it falls
To other crewmen to assay the cruel
Fate of Pepito's captors, standing dead.
Some residue is left in cups; it proves
To be mojito analogs. With dread
The xenochemist, Quodlaro, removes
To where he has seen growing an odd plant
That smells like mint but is, he's fairly sure,
Most deadly toxic, pest-bane, one that can't
Be made safe for consumption. With a pure
And earnest look of horror he concludes
Pepito killed his hosts with drink and food!

In Which A Very Ordinary Day Is Had

No words escaped my lips today; once more

Not even Molly, my dog, heard my voice.

No glamor or excitement, just one chore

That came after another, by my choice.

Not ev'ry day should be a quiet one

But when one comes, please help me not to scoff.

There's pleasure to be had, and even fun

In doing nothing on my last day off

Except for laundry, dishes, reading and

Attempting not to spend it all logged on

To feeds and other sites (though this, my grand

Scheme to unplug was not -- this is forgone

As those conclusions go -- successful). Though

I've maybe wasted time, 'tis good so, no?

In Which I Ponder Bees Social, Solitary And Invisible And @Agent139 Is Partially To Blame

Today's been a fine day to think of bees,

Though I'll not see them for some time as yet

Here in Wyoming. This morn it did please

My RSS feeds to tell what I'll bet

Should not be a surprise: a social queen

Of Megalopta genalis, her brain

Learns better than one who has quit the scene,

And chosen solitude. Then one I'd fain

Know better, James Curcio, brought to light

Invisible bees, minions which attack

Malevolence alone, but picked a fight

In saying they do not have drama. Back!

A Queen Bitch, now you see her, now you don't,

Will always bring the drama, if you won't.

In Which Civility Is Longed For

I think of sportsmanship today, and cry

A bit, so poorly honored are its truths.

Today, in victory, one side gave lie

To something we were taught, no?, in our youths:

A gracious winner's what we want to be.

Instead the losing side's called stupid, or

Is wished to illness. Sadly, though, I see

That losing side is just as bad, though more

Is glaring at me from the victors' taunts.

Death threats and histrionics, are they worse

Than sneering gloats? I think not, and it haunts

Me just a bit to see this. While a curse

Is just a word, remember we must share

This world with people we dislike. That's fair.

In Which I End A Day Sucking On Lemon

Some days, I've realized, should never start.
No matter what I did today, 'twas wrong,
And only became more so though my art
My skill and my good will both felt quite strong
To fix what I had broken. As my work
Proceeded, one word only could describe
The outcome of my efforts: FAIL. There lurk
Still echoes of bad dreams of how my tribe
Has failed me, though I thought I overcame
That sense of loss this morning when, ere dawn
Some "ass-on-cushion" time (I cannot claim
This phrase as mine; the author's Isoban)
Brought me great peace and puzzlement. Oh how
That notion seems to me when viewed from now.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which I Begin To Nod Off Earlier Than I Should

Computers screen a myoclonic jerk

Well from the view of supervising eyes

Were any here; it's Sunday here at work

And neurally I'm cut right down to size

(Ironic since I found a way to learn

Of all things brain and nervous system at

No cost to me - right here). I itch and burn,

Discomfort keeps me jumpy as a cat

And focus is a memory at best.

I don't regret what I did with the time

I "should have" slept, not when I'm truly blessed

With friends whose schedules are not quite the crime

'Gainst nature that mine seems on days like this.

A nine-to-five routine now sounds like bliss.

In Which Remarkable Coincidences Are Remarkable, And My World Proves Smaller Even Than I Thought

My buddy Dan, with whom I used to read
And dote on Dr. Seuss in the Ravine
Back in my college days, with whom I freed
Myself a little bit from all the mean
Constraints of young adulthood, has become
Professor Sonenberg. Though we have grown
Both up and yes, apart, no longer young,
Now share a strange new link that's all our own:
Josh Newton, soon Dan's student, sought me out
On Twitter, likes my sonnets, and he knows
More people in my life, I cannot doubt,
Than even we are sure of yet. This shows
The world as smaller, stranger than I thought,
And still bears more surprises, like as not!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which It Happens Again

(Digital painting by Jose Anibal Gonzales)

Two fragile, slender twins entered my dream
Again last night, ghosts from another time
Or universe, determined so to haunt
Me through this period. It's passing strange,
That nephews I don't have perturb my sleep
And all my waking hours with the sound

Of plaintive cries. Their fear's a painful sound,
They're stalked by death, these two, within my dream,
A death that is their heritage. To sleep
Is to commune with this pair across time
And wonder what they need from me. Their strange,
Uncanny claim on me's an endless haunt.

Meanwhile, conjured a friend of mine a haunt,
That comes among us without sight or sound,
A program or a virus that eats time,
Attacking clocks and spreading, like a strange
Intelligence, man-made, whose only dream
Is robbing from us hours in which we sleep

Or work, but I suspect it's really sleep
That we would lose by losing. That would haunt
Us all, forced to be conscious all the time
And doubting our reality, each sound,
Each thought resembling something from a dream,
Experience, each one, beyond just strange...

What are these tales for? What could be the strange
Intent of these blond boys, this program? Sleep
Brings questions but no answers as each dream
Spins and careens; we go from haunt to haunt
Of memory and unknown worlds of sound
And sight, familiar and yet not, each time.

Awake, too, in my bed, I watch the time
When Morpheus avoids me, when my strange
Immersions cough me up and ev'ry sound
Is alien, each shadow lack of sleep
Will magnify, another curious haunt.
Exploding head's as weird as any dream.

I love to dream, and do it all the time,
And welcome, yes, the haunt and all the strange
Ideas, but wish my sleep could be more sound.

In Which A Dream Is Fulfilled

Large Hardon Collider, originally uploaded by Skepchick.

So many have so longed for just this day,
When just this error happened, when someone
Misplaced two crucial letters in a way
To change the name of something famous. Fun
Was had by all, and yes, 'twas juvenile,
But it is March, the month that can't decide
If it will snow or bring us, with a smile
A dose of springtime. Oh, the tears I've cried
Of purest mirth today, to see this thing!
And we're allowed to love it, yes we are!
So of a typo on this day I sing.
Tomorrow I'll return to something far
More serious, but giggles still will seize
Me and my friends for hours, if you please.

In Which @Suckermouth Gets His Birthday Sonnet Spanking And Probably Enjoys It

The birthday season keeeps on rolling; now
It's Aaron's turn. I wish that I lived near
Enough to take him out tonight. I vow
Someday things will be different. A beer
With one in lifelong combat with that Ace,
The breast-expansion zombie, would be one
Most mind-bending and strange, with just a trace
Of darkness. See the work that he is done
In making fetish animation; it's
Not to all tastes but funny just the same.
I often wonder how doing these bits
Became his livelihood, but like his name
He is a Mystery, and maybe this
Is part of it. I'll just blow him a kiss.

Friday Flash: Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepito Acts Like Tommy

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 Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

The sweetest smile upon the sweetest face
Yectara's ever seen brings her no joy
At present, for it's frozen right in place.
No calls or shakes or kisses stir her boy.
As crewmen verify the grand, macabre
And baffling scene, Pepito stays entranced,
An inward journey taken. Comes a sob
From poor Yectara. Could it be he's chanced
Upon a one-way voyage? Is there hope?
The doctor shakes his head; there's not much he
Can do right here; it's quite beyond the scope
Of field-based medicine, that he can see.
Meanwhile, sub-rosa, his assistants take
Some samples from the cups for research's sake.

In Which A Sonneteer Looks At Forty

As ages go, there seems true magic here:

So many folk have told me how they wish

They could be forty, so it's without fear

I face it now, no longer thirty-ish.

The baby boomers all like to declare

Their current age as "the new forty", so

'Twould seem I'd best get used to being where

I am right now; there's nowhere left to go!

My schoolfellows of old all liked to quip

That I had been born forty, which would make

Me eighty now. It's really no mean trick

To look this good at eighty, no mistake!

But soon enough all will be redefined

And I'll be back to twenty. I don't mind.

In Which I Question My Fitness For Time Travel

The 1980s challenged me to find
Much likeable about them. I don't miss
The sense of dread, the synthesizers, mind
The styles still quite a lot, so when, on this
Most lovely afternoon, like yesterday's,
I came across, while shopping with my folks,
A teeming nest of legwarmers, a craze
I thought we'd safely buried, but the joke's
On me. Then to a vast furniture store
Our travels took us, and there lay in wait
Such gross ersatzerie, it seemed no more
Than months had passed since 1988,
Such fabrics, colors, shapes as once did haunt
The Cosby show. A most unpleasant jaunt.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which Location Matters

One thing that makes my poor dear mother cry
Whenever she and Dad come to Cheyenne
Is shopping at my grocery stores. They're high,
The prices she must pay back home. I plan
Each time to spare her this, but always fail.
We wind up in the produce section; she
Sees what there is, and gives a tiny wail.
She pays twice what I do for broccoli
(Or would were she not sick of it; there are
Small consolations). Woe to those who dwell
At the supply chain's furthest end, so far
That even iceburg lettuce, all aswell
With water costs more than I pay for beer.
I sympathize, yet gloat: it brings her here!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which I Tease The Paradise Tossed Boys Just A Little Bit

My name does not seem that hard to pronounce,

But it was rendered as it is by one

Most hard to gainsay (Gladys Belle, who'd pounce

I'm sure, on John and Cameron -- no fun

To be had 'neath my grandma's glare). I'm told

It once rhymed with a British store, but now

It's with a phrase like "Hate Your God" (I hold

That as the funniest, so that is how

I tell people to say it). That is not

What I am here to sonnetize today,

However. What I really find as hot

Is listening to great big nerds at play.

The Paradise Tossed podcast with me, here,

Is live right now! Such giggling and such cheer!

Late To The Party, I Still Try To Compose A Nerdigras Anthem

March Madness leaves me cold, to say naught of

St. Patrick's Day (Ugh! Amateurs and beer!).

There's really only one reason to love

This silly month and greet it with good cheer:

'Tis Nerdigras, the season of the geek!

From Christmas's square root (that is, the fifth)

Through Pi Day, March Fourteenth, we all shall seek

To show our love for elegance and pith:

Have fractal fun, unscrew some endless screws,

Chase Zeno's tortoise, don our best Lovelace,

Turn coffee into theorems with Erdös,

Cross Konigsbergen bridges or just face

Those Cantor sets within sets. Raise a glass,

And take a Knight's Tour with me. Now that's class!

In Which The Bitch Goddess Conspires With The Federal Government, To My Detriment

Elusive Morpheus, I chased you 'round,

But your bitch sister chased me 'round as well,

And whispered "What will you do when you've found

That your most trusted timepiece (that your cell

Phone) failed to update when we stole that hour

We keep in trust for you lot 'till next fall?

Go unwashed or unfed, or will you cower

Before co-workers sheepishly and call

To tell them you missed out on this time-change?"

I knew that I could trust my gadgets, but --

And is there one of you who'd call this strange? --

I tossed and turned all night, my eyes wide shut.

And even after two turned into three

Insomnia still had her hold on me.

In Which I Survey A Winter's Nasty Work

At home at last, I punch a tiny hole
In a cigar. It's ev'ning; I declare
That I am done with chores. It's cold
But I don't smoke indoors, so in plein aire
Out on my patio I light up, pet
My happy dog and take a comfy seat.
My yard is ugly still, trash-strewn and wet,
Receding snows reveal how I've been beat
In my -- yes listless -- efforts to combat
The depredations of my dog and wind
That blows in litter constantly. A cat,
My neighbor's, she has also sinned
As mouse gutpiles betray. There shall be much
To do when time to clean up comes, as such.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Fontenelle Cir,Cheyenne,United States

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which I Try To Answer @IsoBan's Question

So far as we know well, we've just one life
Apiece, and while there's room for lots of change,
And impetus for more out in the stars,
We're somewhat governed, still, by what our past
Has made of us. That's not to say a plan
Cannot be radical; just takes resolve.

Excited as I am by your resolve
(It's something I have shared), I think your life
May have a shape unlike that which you plan
In thinking once again of school. A change
Is good but not for its own sake. Your past
Mayhap has shown your own path to the stars.

We want to take our people to the stars
In one form or another. We resolve
A future for our species, though its past
Persuades some it's unworthy. Still, for life
As Earth has made it to go on and change
Beyond the Sun's lifespan, we need a plan.

As Constellation was quite a flawed plan,
But was the one we had beneath these stars,
And hasn't been replaced so much by change
As for some place-held promises, resolve
To keep to NASA's mission's threatened. Life
Demands that we who want more, shed the past.

But much of who we are comes from that past,
Our talents and our strengths -- surely our plan
Must needs incorporate these; one's whole life
Informs one's mission, whether to the stars
Or to a city park as ash. Resolve
With me to stay true to this through this change.

Is what you do now not of value? Change
Perhaps its focus, but respect your past,
What you have done and longed for. Your resolve
Will stay strong if you honor that. I plan
As you do, too, to redirect; the stars
Call to us with a strength beyond mere life.

But know as life calls on you now to change
And chase the stars directly, that your past,
Your friends, support your plan and your resolve.

Sestinator's note: To hear the other end of this conversation, check out this AudioBoo of my friend Chris Butler's (aka @IsoBan).

In Which Daylight Savings Time Robs Me Of Daylight

It's recent that the sun's been up with me,

When it's time to head off to my day gig.

A predawn snowy morn's a sight to see,

All shades of deepest blue, but what is big

Is that I see at all. For months I've gone

In darkness to my workplace, and I find

It most depressing. Now that there is dawn

Just as I leave has helped my state of mind --

But Sunday comes the time when we all spring

On forward. Daylight Savings Time will start

And rob me of that tiny, precious thing,

A sunrise, for a month or more. That part

Of my day, just improving, now will sink

Back into gloom and darkness, I should think.

Friday Flash: The Interstellar Feller: In Which Priorities Are Set

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 Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

As scenes of carnage go, this one is slight:
No blood or gore clot up this quiet scene.
When death came these red men put up no fight,
Just stood there eerily calm and serene.
Says Doctor Vuhl, "I must investigate!
This is extraordinary!" but a yank
Upon his garment stops him. "No, just wait,"
Yectara orders. "They're dead and I'll thank
You if you'll see to Pepi first." "I'll try,"
The Doctor says, "But really we should check
To see that what killed them can't hurt us. I
Do have suspicions, but --" "I did not trek
This distance for these creatures, do not care
About their fate." Vuhl withers 'neath her glare.

In Which CAPTAIN SWING Makes Me Sing

When Warren Ellis cranks out some steampunk,

I queue right up; I do not hesitate.

A vacuum tube, a brass gear and I'm sunk,

I rise to it like hungry trout to bait.

Now comes a new one, Captain Swing, who packs

A gun that fires off "glowing clockwork" slugs,

Who sports electric goggles, and who lacks

For nothing to show up as foolish thugs

The Peelers and the Bow Street Runners; and

Does all this from a flying jolly boat.

Raulo Caceres has lent a hand

Again, and as in GRAVEL gets my vote.

I now await the other three bits of

Another comics series that I love.

In Which I Am Wonderwhelmed By Underland

A Lewis Carroll fan I've been for long,

Tim Burton, too, is someone I admire.

How could a combination go so wrong

Of these two? But that has seemed to transpire.

The look of this film lived up to the hype,

Though after Avatar, this 3-D seemed

Quite flat and lifeless, gimmicky, the type

Of gags I saw so long ago. There gleamed

Some diamonds in the dross, though: Johnny Depp

And Bonham-Carter managed to transcend

The dialog and story. I just kept

On thinking these resources would contend

Far better with the stories Carroll wrote

Than making this dull sequel. That's my vote.

In Which A Delivery Brings Up Stuff

The last book of a friend is a strange thing,

E'en if, I do suspect, though do not know,

It's not about a subject like this. Bring

It on, I have long thought, I'm ready. No,

It turns out that I'm not. It came today,

Mac Tonnies' latest book. And I did share

His thoughts while it was written, in a way

(O Internet, such strange things happen there!).

Now here it is, his last work, in so slim

A volume, dense with meaning e'en before

It's subject's taken up. My eyes go dim

And blurry at the sight. I've tears and more.

There's only one first time to read it; I

Fear, though, that it will always make me cry.

In Which I Fall Again And Again

Ere dawn and crossing a dark parking lot,

On Sunday morn, most gingerly I stepped,

On packed down snow and ice I saw -- I've got

A good idea of where that is; have kept

From slipping all this winter, save last week

On Friday when I landed on my bum

In that snowbank before my car. A squeak

Of shoe on ice and I was down, but, numb

I rued it and moved on. But then came this

New incident: a damp sidewalk before

The entrance fooled me and ere I could hiss

Or scream, right down I went, right by the door.

My shoulder took the weight, then took a twist

As, trying to get up, up's what I missed.

Sonnet Commission: In Which The Neurobiology Of Olfaction Is Considered

Each odorant has its own special touch,
'Gainst the olfact'ry epithelium.
Receptor proteins like them very much
And bind to each of them, just as they come
(Not picky 'bout which ligands, these; they'll take
To many kinds). Then neurons will transduce
The activation into zaps, which make
A trip to the olfact'ry bulb. Obtuse
As yet to what you're smelling, now,
The signals go up axons until at
The glomerulus, mitral cells choose how
(Or through what brain bit) you will know what that
Smell is: the piriform cortex does best,
But others may help, too, ere you may rest.

SESTINA SATURDAY: On Matthew B. Crawford's SHOP CLASS AS SOUL CRAFT

I've finished, just right now, a book on work,
But more than that, in every respect.
It's Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soul Craft,
One that has made me ponder how a trade
Can really differ from a job. I care
To make clear this distinction. What result

Will come of this? I hope it will result
In helping you, my readers, think of work
In new ways, and to contemplate the care
It takes to fix and build things, and respect
The shrewd and thoughtful men who chose a trade
Like fixing motors and make it a craft.

What really, though, makes of a job a craft?
The way it does engage one? The result
That something functions well? Who'd trade
That proof of effort for just busy work
And social nebulosity? Respect
Is given wrongly to those who don't care.

What's college for, if not to learn to care
About things quite beyond oneself? The craft
Of learning, though, is lost in this respect:
Mere training for a cubicle results
When students go to school, an eye on work
That better pays than mere ungenteel trade.

But find a man who truly knows his trade,
His engines and his wires and parts, whose care
Is given to what truly makes things work,
And you might find more wisdom in that craft
Than shown by office stooges, real result
Subsumed in process and unreal respect.

Divided souls who work but don't respect
Or realize real things would often trade
For jobs that have some tangible result,
Says Crawford; might again begin to care
About just why they're here, and thus to craft
Anew their souls while eyes and hands do work.

But it's not just about work and respect:
While craftsmanship in trade is fine itself,
One taught to care is his own good result.

In Which A Dreamer's Thread Grows Longer

O Starla, happy birthday; now we wait
To see if your new minion's going to share
A natal day with you. It would be great
To have in common, though you may not care
To spend this one in labor pains. Just dream
Of parties with your Minions and with Scott
As years go by. A most creative theme:
"Our birthday." But if such a thing is not
To be, that's just as well. Meanwhile let me
Say thank you for the stories and the songs,
And that I really just can't wait to see
You when in Baltimore; how my heart longs
For that day, when we're all together. "Crazed"
Is not the word; we all shall be amazed.

In Which My Wounded Dignity Is Soothed By The Music Of The Spheres

Spring snow is wet and sloppy, and so slick

Today's word really ought to just be "fall"

(The verb and not the season: quite some trick

To make it through the winter, almost all

Of it, and not once take a digger, but

Do so today, spectacularly, too!).

I don't mind, though; my Exoplanet nut,

Roald has set my mind at much ease through

This music that he found, for list'ning while

One gazes as the sky and contemplates

The worlds that spin out there. I have to smile

Despite this bone-deep chill. A hot bath waits

But not just yet, I'm digging all these tracks,

And it's high time I kick back and relax.

Friday Flash: Interstellar Feller: In Which There Is A Reuinion Of Sorts

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 Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

A day's trek now completed, here they come
Yectara and her party end their quest.
A silent city welcomes them, all mum,
As though all its inhabitants did rest.
Uneasily they enter, walk the streets,
In search of Pepi. At last, in the park
At city's center a strange scene now greets
Them all. Here Pepi's captors, all gone dark
In eye and body, rigid, stand quite still,
Their stocky forms an obstacle between
Yectara and her love; 'tis with a will
She forces past them, then gives forth a keen:
Right at their center stands her darling man,
Slack-jawed and senseless, vacant-eyed and wan.

In Which Hospitality Is Undertaken

The vegetables simmer now in wine
And homemade stock. Is there a nicer smell
Than food of one's own making?It's a fine
And lovely thing, that we call cooking well.
And more is to be added come the beep
That tells me this first step is truly done.
There's rice to add, and parsley, then I sweep
Avgolemono in. It's wildly fun,
This recipe. But pardon me, I must
Be going; dinner guests are at my door!
And I want them to dig this meal (such fuss
I do not make when it's just me). No more
Of this procastination; I must go
And entertain my friends, as well you know.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which I Go All Meta Over My Ipod For @ParadiseTossed

Today, a brand new gadget came my way,

An iPod Touch, and so I join the rest

Of my geek fellows, all of whom will say

That most things things "i" are really quite the best

In terms of ease of use; no need to think

Too hard about exactly how one might

Accomplish what one wants to. Each night's sync

Can bring new tools, to one's complete delight,

New apps, which entertain and yes, inform,

And even which allow me to compose

New sonnets to my blog. And should a storm

Of thought come to me during my repose

No longer must I drag me out of bed;

I grab my toy, and share what's in my head.

Fitness Nerdery, Or, In Which "Jetson" Joins My Household

I'm choosy 'bout my roommates, but I find,

Approaching an "-ish" age as I now am,

That body needs as much work as does mind

If I, in fact, do really give a damn

About my having any chance to see

The "rapture of the nerds," as we have called

That point in time, the singularity.

Commuting on my bike's a start, but lawd,

It's been so dark and cold! So now I've bought

A treadmill - manual - for those bleak days

When Deep Blue's best left home. And now I've got

A hankering to find one or more ways

To make of it a generator! Yes!

Now if I can, that's anybody's guess!

In Which English Comes To Resemble A VUE Language

Not yet has Violent Unknown Event
Occurred, at least that I know of, so far.
Today, though, in my Twitstream, where I've spent
Quite too much time, I've come to see there are
At least two fine examples of just how
The English tongue resembles Betelguese
(The language, not the star), for I see now
That "nerd" no longer acts as just a terse
Description of an outcast or a strange
Or socially inept soul, witness two
New uses, showing great, dramatic change:
It's paired with "beauty" and with "fitness." "You
Keep saying that word," said one Inigo
Montoya, but that doesn't make it so.