In Which I Scratch My Head Over A Meatspace Encounter

I'm only halfway here, 'bout half the time,
And sometimes I get schooled in a big way
On how I'm mentally not at my prime
When my attention is divided. May
It be that I just got bamboozled, or
That I was hoping that I would be? Could
I still not understand what happened? More
And more this seems to happen. Really, should
I fret that what I seem to have agreed
To join in on tonight might be quite strange?
But then I say, "Oh reason not the need,
Such questing just shows I've a fear of change.
No matter what, I'll know in just a while
The truth behind a sly and secret smile.

Interstellar Feller: In Which Dissention Is Dealt With

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...

Not since the Paris tennis court has such
Resolve from any body been so clear!
Unanimous the group is not, though. Much
Attention has been paid to those most near
To being mighty heroes, but their ranks
Contain also the frail and rusty dame
Who earned from fair Yectara recent thanks
For her suggestion on how to reclaim
Pepito. She swears not the mickle oath;
Instead floats off to warn their cyborg queen
Of pending mutiny. But she's been loath
To use enough oil on her limbs. She's seen
Some centuries and squeaks some, and the noise,
Alas, betrays her plans unto the boys.

In Which I Gain Another Sobriquet

I must confess, it often makes me blush,

As vividly as does my best guy when

I tweet him compliments or silly mush,

That Ommus calls me "Sonnet Queen." These men

Are merciless betimes; now comes today

When Ommus, blaming iPhone for the flub,

Bestowed on me a brand new sobriquet,

And so the pair of them now fondly dub

Me "Sinnet Queen", which, near as I can tell,

Has aught to do with ropes and weaving, which

Suggests that I'm to be tied up real well?

Or am I being saucy here? No glitch

Do I see in my reasoning, so, Paul,

And Ommus, I accept this name you call.

In Which I Become A Seeing Eye Dog For A Bit

My Erin brought two black labs to Cheyenne
But neither has the training we required
This afternoon. No fear; we had a plan,
And if I may say so, one quite inspired.
Th'optometrist insisted he'd a need
To dilate Erin's eyes. With pupils wide
And all but sightless, struggling e'en to read
A stop sign, and still wounded in her pride
(She has to get bifocals), to her aid
I came, to guide her all about the town
(We had a chauffer, too, dear Ian), made
All efforts so she would neither fall down
Nor bump into an obstacle. 'TWas fun
But I'm glad now to tell you that we're done!


-- Post From My iPhone

In Which I Ponder Cells As Their Own Entities

A single cell, we barely understand,

Says Brian Ford, and why is he not right?

We know what's up within but in the grand

External scheme, so little's come to light

Because that's not where we choose now to look.

Take neurons, he says, are they just a switch?

Is what goes on between them thought? I took

Some time, consid'ring this, and find it rich:

Somatic cells do what they must with no

Great micromanagement from human brains.

If just a liver cell works on its own

What wonders can one neuron entertain?

Reductionists miss out; let's learn some more

About whole cells and what they have in store!

In Which I Am Scientifically Immodest (Or Is That Immodestly Scientific?)

'Tis sympathetic magic, is it not?

This notion that a girl's unfettered boobs

Can anger deities, get them so hot

They unleash seismic fury on the rubes.

Today's Boobquake experiment is far

From scientific, but it's funny, so

Though I'm home sick I'm doing my small part.

I'm told the theory's disproven, though:

Taiwan took 6.9 boobquakes today.

Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi

Shall surely soon be having a field day

With this news. So the egg is spread on me

Or in my cleavage; better than my face

Though some might argue either's a fine place.

In Which I... Er... Try To Think Of Stuff (Achoo)

It's someone's birthday, I am fairly sure.

But I can't find it eas'ly in the haze

Of Nyquil. Facebook shows me naught. Endure

With me this anguish. If it's you, don't laze

And brush it off. I'm feeling bad enough.

My springtime trip through Hades has begun.

It happens ev'ry year; I've not the stuff

To beat it just by resting, it seems. None

Of my most trusted remedies have stepped

Up to take on this crud -- though I have just

Remembered I have Mucinex. I get

Confused on sick days, as I 'spose one must

Whose clock is out of whack, who is on drugs

Whose life's reduced to battling with these bugs.

BONUS SONNET: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Paul @Laroquod

I am no Marvel girl, but well I know

When I've committed heresy, of course!

And since I've done it twice in public, lo

Must I atone in public, too, or force

Dire retribution from my fav'rite fan

Of ages Gold and Silver, Laroquod.

Although I still maintain John Hamm's the man

To play Steve Rogers and the Captain (odd

That I thought of this not myself! For shame!)

He is not blond, it's true, but tell me this:

At day's end, at the heart, will you, Paul, blame

My loving more a dark-haired man? Don't dis

Me overmuch, I pray, for going mad.

I'm sure Chris Evans won't be all that bad.

In Which Muck Is Mucked

We know that April's cruel, but could it crush
Our spirits so by any other means
Than snow that falls and turns, right off, to slush
And stays that way, at least until the freeze
At nightfall comes? The daffodils poke from
The sluggish soil, but soon do wear a coat
Of icy muck; would turn my fingers numb
To try to free them from it, and my throat
Already burns; a springtime cold is mine.
I peer outside while coughing, but I must
Remind myself that soon all will be fine,
And all this moisture will keep down the dust.
And when all of you others say good-bye
To blossoms, in the future mine still lie.

In Which We Wish @JorgeCandeias Parabens (Or Happy Birthday)

Comes now the time to bring to our Jorge
Candeias love and greetings. Parabéns.
I only follow half of what you say
But that's enough to know we're ever friends.
I can't wait till your novel's in my hands,
Admire what you do and how (this guy
Translates into the tongues of other lands
The better science fiction we let fly
In English). I know that I've faltered in
My effort to use "awesome" somewhat less;
As you have teased, it's so American
To make that word all-purpose. What a mess!
Mas O meu amigo, tratarei
To do a better job after today!

In Which I Join The Chorus Singing "Crown The Shat"

I'm often proud of our friends to the north,

But I don't think a single thing could make

Me prouder than if they do sally forth,

Pull William Shatner home, and let him take

Viceregal honors. Of course, well I know

It's mostly up to him; there'd be acclaim

From most Canadians, but would he go

For it himself? All glory to his name,

But could he leave the acting world behind,

Become an emmisary of the Queen

(Though this might be the role of a lifetime!)

And cease all jokes on being a has-been?

Still it's a lovely thought I'll cherish well,

E'en if he bids his countrymen to hell.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which It's Really Going To Happen

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...

"But how shall we protect us from her wiles?"
Asks Quodlaro, and all who plot now pause.
He's right; one word from her and they're all smiles
Her bidding all they wish to do. Their cause
Could come to naught before it's e'en begun!
But Doctor Vuhl comes through with cotton balls;
And like Odysseus' crew now everyone
Is deafened. Good! And now TriBruno draws
Up plans. There's only one they need subdue:
That's Captain Droze, a proper martinet,
Who brooks no nonsense from his motley crew.
He's just one being though, and they can get
The drop on him. If they coordinate
He'll have no choice but share Yectara's fate.

More Than A Sort Of Homecoming

I've been in motion for a solid week,

Just lighting here and there for moments. May

I call a stop, for now, at last? I speak

Not to complain but rather to convey

My wonder at these orbits I did spin

And how I managed partially to share

Experiences with you. Epic win

On scales untold has been mine ev'rywhere,

Delight feels etched forever cross'd my face

(Disguised a bit, perhaps; exhaustion can

Deform the brightest smile). Now to this place,

The KATE STATION I'm come, and I'll say "Man,

It's good to be back home; I'll stay a spell!"

But soon I'll get the itch again. Oh, well.

In Which Is Considered Mile Marker 332

The interstate fogged in across the top,
Just me and near one hundred giant trucks,
We slow sometimes to something like a stop;
A wreck up here gets messy and my luck's
Been on a streak of awesome; if it runs
Out here I'm in big trouble. One mistake
However small, begets much bigger ones
As trucks crash into crashes. How I quake
Just driving past a milepost where once burned
So many trucks at such an intense heat
The pavement melted and eight people earned
Their tickets out of this life. Caution's meet
As I traverse the area; I've got
More now to live for than I ever sought!

In Which I Rant A Bit About A New Character Design

Accept my testimony, bitches. What

Have you done to our Daleks, crazy boys?

They never were that scary, really, but

Now they resemble crushable desk toys!

All plastic, brightly colored, and on top

A black accordion that should collapse

Quite satisfyingly should I just stop

And smash it with my fist when I relapse

Into a moment's rage. I could have used

One of them just today when I took in

The newest Who, which pleasingly first fused

These killer robots with (this made me grin)

A '40s tank in olive drab. Hell yes!

But that's not our aesthetic now, I guess.

In Which My Comic Book Guy, @PJiv69, Ages Gracefully

Some guys just bring the squee at first sight; they

Have what you want and know you want it bad,

Know they have got the pow'r to make your day

And that you'll leave their presence feeling glad.

I speak not of my drug pusher, although

They share characteristics, those and he

Who waits for me on Wednesdays. P.J., oh,

How glad I am you're there and do for me

All that you do in seeing I get my fix

At Heroes Only, comic books and more.

Today's your birthday; here's hoping that Six

Or Starbuck make appearance at the store!

But if they don't, please know you have my love

E'en though you've stashed my drawer high above!

In Which Reality Proves Once Again To Be As Weird My Favorite Novelist's Work

Were I with Apple's marketing brain trust,
How would I follow it's great iPad coup?
I'd think guerilla leaks would be a must,
And it looks to me that they think so, too.
Was iPhone's newest iteration dropped
In error in a bar? That seems quite odd.
The furor this created can't be stopped,
And such publicity's a gift from God,
Unless it's manufactured, Blue Ant style.
E'en he who dreamed up Hubertus Bigend,
Our William Gibson, thinks so. It's worthwhile,
I think, to ponder if it's true. Forfend
That one of Apple's minions takes the blame.
Could any human being withstand the shame?

In Which I Muse On Expanded Sensoria

A prayerful silence often seems the norm

'Mongst strangers gathered publicly, it seems.

To each his own has never taken form

So powerfully as now; we watch our dreams

Played out before us on our jeejahs, each

According to his fondest wishes. We

Ignore each other, all but eschew speech

Though still we're talking; we don't hear but see

What's being said by others far from us,

Communing with our private worlds; our god,

Now customized, sits on our laps and thus

Absorbs us so, we smile and mutely nod

And look solipsists, but we are aware

Of more; not less. The world is is ours to share.

In Which Eyes Get Evil

To write a sonnet in a moving car,
May be, among my stunts the ultimate.
Mike Oliveri drives us to the bar,
Our con fatigue is vast but not so great
That we can't drink it better, we believe.
'Tis Evil Eye Books night out, and this town
May not be ready, really, to receive
Our tender ministrations. We shall drown
All doubts with margatweetas -- too much fun
Awaits, with Jason Copland, Ommus and
Some folks I've just met, 'long with Cullen Bunn!
Now I just need a wi-fi signal, so
That I may post this sonnet. Here we go!


-- Post From My iPhone

In Which Eyes Get Evil

In Which Fangirl Moments Occur Quickly At C2E2

Sometimes things work out better than I hope;
Sometimes all that it takes is courage, and
A bit of friendliness. Stunned by the scope
And scale of this convention -- I'd not planned
For being overwhelmed like this -- I wandered, lost and clueless till I found
The Haven Distribution "Island." There
Sat Jim Ottaviani on the ground
(No table yet). I had to stop and stare:
He's written more than I'd imagined!). He
Said "hi" and I said something dumb, I'm sure.
But soon my wand'ring wits returned to me
And ere long we were chatting 'bout our pure
Enjoyment of hard science, which is real
And then I talked to Carla Speed McNeil!!


-- Post From My iPhone

FridayFlash: Interstellar Feller: In Which Leadership Is Conferred

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 Grokulator's peace is under threat,
And in these cases our Yectara turns
To her old hero, TriBruno, who'll let
No harm come to her, ever. But this earns
Him little by way of his crew's respect.
A lapdog's still a lapdog if well-armed
(Though on this crew that's not a good subject
For criticism, is it? They're all charmed
By cyborg gadgetry she well deploys).
His loyalty is crumbling, though, we find.
While she in sickbay keens for her lost joys
He stands up in the messhall, speaks his mind:
"If we don't take control, we'll never see
Our homes again." The cacogens agree.

-- Post From My iPhone

In Which I Try To Regain A Sense Of Wonder

Go fast enough, and anyone can fly;
Just burn some dinosaurs and point the way.
Save tens of hours! Travel through the sky.
How can we all just sit here, so blasé?
A continent blurs past us just below
Our metal tube. And all of us just stare
Into the middle distance. Way to go!
We cannot find it in us much to care,
Our jeejahs stowed away, so we can't talk
To friends we've left behind or soon shall meet,
And strapped in, and encouraged not to walk.
We're flying cattle, but I still must call
It quite amazing that we fly at all!


-- Post From My iPhone

Meta Sonnet: In Which I Share A Fear

I live in mortal fear of that one day --

When it will be, I have no way to know --

When suppertime will pass, and more, and yea

A sonnet is not written. I will go

To lengths extreme and crazy to prevent

That day from coming, but I'm human. There

Will come a day when all that this has meant

To me will fall apart. I do not care

To see it soon. The pint glasses I'll stack

And stack up to the ceiling. All in all

Four hundred sixty nine rise high. One crack

In my resolve and ev'ry one will fall

And shatter with my pride. But it's not here,

That day, and will not come, I hope, this year.

In Which I Miss My Dog But Can't Take Her With Me On Vacation

My house is empty, save for all my stuff;

The animating spirit, she has left.

Just for a week, but that seems long enough,

I sit here at my table; I'm bereft.

My bare feet stretch out, feeling for her fur

But Molly dog is nowhere to be found.

I know she misses me as I miss her,

But has a lot of fun where she is bound.

It's Grandpa Camp! Lord, how she loves my dad

(My mother, too; her little dog less so),

His yard, his truck, and also, yes, his bad,

Bad habit, tossing scraps from dinner. No!

He tells her when she begs, and yet somehow

She gets her way. Wish she were here right now!

In Which I Divulge A Secret

I do quite well without cable TV,
As I have said before. But really, how
Is this, these days, a possibility?
Tonight shall be a good example. Wow,
Have I got hours of entertainment planned!
A new-to-me podcast, and You Tube clips
(A lot of these) shown to me by a grand
Array of wondrous friends, and then some blips
Of William Burroughs with Dave Cronenberg!
I'm overwhelmed a bit, just keeping track;
Have made a list and it's quite long. My word!
Good thing it's Mriday and I've got some slack.
And really, as my nights go it's not rare.
My TV might as well just not be there.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Springtime Proves Painful For Some

When springtime comes, a young male bird can think
Of just one thing, and when he finds her, lo:
There is no challenge from which he will shrink!
As Frank Roche this day proved. He filmed a show
Of fierceness through his windows, which reflect
A cardinal back to himself and pose
A threat to his new courtship. Ere it's wrecked
The bird attacks, delivers many blows
To the offending panes, oblivious
To how it feels, that thud against the glass.
His lady's watching, after all, and thus
He must prevail, lest she give him a pass
And give of her affections to his twin.
A grave predicament, yes, to be in!

In Which A Tradition Is Well Continued, Or, I Like The New Doctor So Far

Ten Doctors now have come and, sadly, gone,
And the Eleventh now must fill the box.
So far I'm charmed. We''ll see as we go on.
But I must say the new companion rocks!
Matt Smith is quite the geek, impatient, stern,
A gawky, quirky bird in a bow tie;
And Karen Gillan (for whom many yearn,
As befits one who's easy on the eye),
Playing Amy Pond, is not just smart
But quite decisive, too, when once she's sussed
What's going on, to act. I'll say my heart
Is theirs to take -- and this from one who's fussed
A lot on where this show's been going. Yay!
Let Moffat take this show where'er he may.

In Which The Sonneteer Wishes Duties Were Better Done

Well, look at that, and I forgot a bag,

You say, and give your dog reproachful looks,

Like it's his fault. I know that it's a drag

To pick up his produce, and you're not crooks

Or vandals, are you? No! Next time you'll do

A better job preparing. So you tell

Yourself and both walk on. Meanwhile all through

The Greenway evidence is there pell-mell

And rolling 'crossed the concrete in the breeze.

Six month's accumulation, maybe more

Along with fresher stuff that smears. Oh, please,

It only takes a moment, this small chore,

And while it's gross, so what; it's quickly done

And then it won't lie rotting in the sun.

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which I Muse On FREE, Copyright, And Work

A weekend? Not for me; I go to work
As though it were a weekday. I'm not free
As others are. This obligation's mine:
To be here when I'm needed. It's their right,
Those who do pay my wages so to choose.
I sell my time, exchange it for my pay.

But what I do, the toil for which they pay
Is not what I regard as my life's work.
My livelihood is separate; I choose
To keep my purpose clear and my mind free
Pursuing what I love, as is my right,
But never treating my soul as a mine.

While others' paths are diff'rent, quite, from mine:
They trade direct their musings for their pay,
I do not find, for me, that this is right.
My job allows me to pursue my work
As I see fit, and thus I write care-free,
When, what and how thus just for me to choose.

And there is this, too, in just how I choose
To publish and to share this work of mine:
You, reader, see this poetry for free.
I don't depend on willingness to pay
And make a gift of my improving work
Which you accept, or don't, as is your right.

In honesty, the thought of copyright
On this is really not something I choose
Or else I would not blog; I'd hoard my work
Until I found a way to profit. Mine!
I'd cry, you cannot read until you pay!
And this diminishes what should be free.

We once believed that all mankind was free,
And born that way, each endowed with his rights.
Now more and more it seems we're asked to pay
In various coins, surrenders. Do we choose
This actively? I think not. Friends of mine,
You let things slide 'cause stopping them is work.

I gladly pay for good stuff that was free,
In gratitude for work that's been done right.
But still insist the right to choose is mine.

In Which I Sonnetize A Recipe For Homemade Granola for @PaganVixen

Four cups old-fashioned oats; with them combine

A half of toasted wheat germ and of nuts

(Sliced almonds); and some cinnamon, so fine,

Two teaspoons; and one eighth of salt (takes guts

So far, no?). Then boil in a saucepan these:

One-half cup each of honey and orange juice,

Two teaspoons of canola oil. Then please

Stir in one teaspoon of vanilla. Sluice

This liquid o'er the dry stuff and mix well.

Spoon into a lasagna pan and bake

At 350 for twenty minutes. Hell!

Once it is cool add dried cherries and take

Care it's a cup, dried cranberries, add too.

And there you've got granola! Toodle-oo!

Happy Birthday, @RitaJKing!

Dear Rita, I have just begun to see
What all you bring to life with ev'ry day.
I love how you have set your own mind free
Imagining what few of us can say
We'd ever think of on our own. It's rare.
We met in sadness but you make me smile
(And drop my jaw, applaud and sometimes stare),
A beacon t'wards the future, all the while
Enjoying fully what's at hand right now.
Someday we'll meet in person and we'll toast
The mem'ry of our friend and wonder how
We would have met without him; but the most
Important thing is that we did. You are
A wonder of our world, in fact, a star!

The Interstellar Feller: In Which Trouble Brews

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...

What's going on within Pepito's head?
Has mindlessness become his lot for good?
Yectara's curled around him in their bed,
Her module on full-bore; this surely could,
If anything might, bring him back? But no.
With no direction, Grokulator waits
In orbit 'round this planet, and will go
On doing so until the kindly fates
Stir up some action, lest the end of time
Should overtake them. Her attention on
Her latest lover, Yectara's decline
Is hastened, for her crew wants to be gone
And didn't sign up for to spin about
A backwater. Will unrest soon break out?

In Which I Am Unstuck In Time

My stubbornness costs me in weird small ways,

Eschewing cable, in no hurry, I

Wait for good shows on DVD. My days

I fill just as I please, and when. They fly

Without me, these involving TV shows.

Betimes my friends get talking and provoke

My curiosity. I poke my nose

Into a serial, ongoing. Broke

(Not really, but I've travel plans), I sit

Before my laptop now, choose to immerse

Myself in one that's soon to end, a hit

With all the masses (which I find perverse).

Now I am watching Season Four of Lost

All in one day; a brain-cell holocaust!

In Which I Emerge Rumpled And Blushing From The Theater

I feel like I've just come home from a date

I went on once before, decades ago.

This time around the guy proved, ere too late,

A dimmer version, prettier but so

Much not my type it's laughable. Yet I

Let him grope at me, kiss me, fumble at

My bra strap and my skirts there on the sly

Within the darkened theater, but when that

Quite witless fella pledged undying love

I couldn't help but laugh. The older one

Seduced me once with robot owls, one of

My cherished memories, but still just fun.

So when it comes to Titans Clashing, I'm

A bit 'shamed to admit I'd a good time.

In Which I Gently Mock A Show I Kind Of Like

As my dear Adam Christopher observed,

The Destiny is out of many things

Like socks and food that doesn't suck. Reserved,

Though, from these shortages -- and yes, this springs

Right to the fore -- are makeup and hair gel.

Absurd, of course; it's TV; there's a long

Tradition there of castaways who still

Look great week after week. Yet I've a strong

And pleasant sense that Stargate Universe

Is going to prove a show that's worth my time,

A good thing since it's gone from bad to worse,

The TV sci-fi scene this year, I find.

I have abandoned Caprica and deem

Flash Forward to have jumped the shark, unclean.

In Which I Share The Fruits Of An Afternoon's Nosy Questioning

It wasn't scientific; I just asked

Some friends online who had gone out and bought

The iPad Saturday just how, when tasked

To cough up the five hundred bucks -- a lot

For any gadget -- they paid up. I learned

That while ol' Mister Plastic took a kick

Right to the nuts, most of my friends have spurned

To pay out months of interest. The trick

Was saving up so they could buy, then pay

The company and earn reward points, too.

Still others used store plans. No one would say

They'd carry any balance. 'Tis a clue,

Perhaps, that these hard times have taught them well

To manage their resources. Time will tell.

In Which I Am Fascinated And Repulsed By A Television Show

A simple concept, it would seem, our health,

But it gets weird, elusive when a trade

Develops. It gets ugly when there's stealth,

And dealings 'neath the roses, then, are made.

And it's not organ thieves, apocryphal

Or not, that trouble me just now, for I

Am watching Breaking Bad, in which a cull

Is made from Albuquerque, on the sly.

A teacher who cooks meth is funny, sure

In that high concept TV way, but then

Because a hero's motives must be pure

He's made a cancer patient so that when

He deals in poisons, sickening the mass

He's noble. Stealing health, though, has no class.

In Which I Do Not Say Meh To Gadgeting Up Some Fruit

It's almost done, my latest, luscious batch

Of freezer jam, which just last night I made.

Just strawberries and sugar; there's no catch,

Except to add some pectin. I won't trade

My product for a store-bought version, no!

I know just what is in it, and enjoy

The process and the way it makes eyes glow

(My dad's as those of at least one more boy,

Though really quite a few like it, so I've

Some trading partners, game meat for some jars

Of this good stuff). The happiness I strive

E'er to attain is made of this. My stars!

And it's so simply done I sometimes feel

That I am cheating, but the work is real.

In Which I Say Meh To A Fruity New Gadget

An iPad is not something that I need;

I have a Kindle and an iPod touch.

Between them I've more books than I can read,

And that's not counting paper ones, as such.

Within the App store I've found much that's fun

But don't see where they need a bigger screen

That weighs near two pounds and won't fit in one

Of my ass pockets (really, that's my scene:

The Kindle makes my shoulder bag so light

Compared to five or six big paperbacks,

And now the iPod Touch does too, fits right

And takes up even less space!). But relax

I will not be a hater and reserve

The right to change my mind, indeed to swerve.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which Hasty Measures Are 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 Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

Pepito, still entranced, in the sick bay
Responds to naught; no drugs or prods or cries
Bring him from deep within. A smile doth play
Across his handsome features. How time flies
When one is hypnotized by the death-throes
Of strange new species! Yectara despairs,
Subjecting Dr. Vuhl to heavy blows
As only she administers. She spares
Him not. Meanwhile, down planetside,
Her team wraps up its gruesome job. They take
Some specimens, inter the rest (no guide
To local customs have they here), and make
An effort to conceal all traces of
The Grokulator's visit, for all love.

In Which No One Surpasses The Weather Gods At April Fool's Day Prankery

For April Fool's, Cheyenne is getting punked.

We're inches deep in fresh new thundersnow.

I've just come in from shov'ling and look dunked

In someone's pool, all soakng wet. I know

It's spring, and so do you, but we forgot

To tell Wyoming's Mother Nature rep

(Although it's just as likely as is not

That Spring is simply playing hard to get;

She always was a tease). My canine friend,

Dear Molly, stands poised scared by the back door.

She loves the snow; indeed 'twould never end

Were she in charge, but just as my own poor

Dear doggie ventures outside for to play

The thunder booms and scares my girl away.