In Which @JennyBeanses Makes Me Feel Funny

Sonneteer's note: I found this half-completed in my browser window and am still trying to puzzle out this situation with @Jennybeanses via Twitter. I still think there's something she's not telling me.

My cousin Jenny swears we're not from here,

And likes to give me cocoa that tastes strange

And watch me drink it all -- and it is clear

She will not let me be until it's drained.

I'll humor her, because I want to know

More of this story that she's spinning, as

Would anyone! Ooh, aliens on the go

And exiled, fam'ly feuds -- this yarn, it has

'Most ev'rything I like! Um, Jenny, I

Feel funny now, and dizzy, and my toes

Are itchy. With a kick, my slippers fly

And I see that I've extra digits. Those

Are webbed as well. And why are my feet blue?

Dear Jenny, you have got 'splanin' to do!

Sonnet Dare: In Which Is Considered The First Appearance Of The Master

You think the Master is a scary foe

As Jacobi and Simms have played him? Ha!

As first he did appear, when Delgado

Brought him to life, his powers had no flaw.

A glance and you were hypnotized and quick

To try to blow the Doctor up, despite

Your loyalties. This was no parlor trick.

He was that awesome; t'was pointless to fight,

And if you did, he gave you creepy toys

That made you dumb somehow, so you would bring

Them in the house, e'en though such obvious ploys

Should never work: An ugly, funny thing

That's on the mantle for a while, then, ouch!

It sinks its fangs into you on the couch!

Cablegate: No Secret Is One Forever

As Thumper's mom once said, if it's not nice,
Then say it not at all (I paraphrase
Of course). Would that this very good advice
Had just been heeded -- no need now to raise
The kind of fuss we've seen this week. Oh please!
Most schoolkids know it's better not to pass
Those catty notes lest any teacher seize
The evidence and read them for the class
To jeer at or get mad about. It's fools
Who think no one will ever know their deeds
In army life, in embassies or schools;
Likewise those whose dark plans or evil screeds
Depend on staying secret. Lesson learned?
I doubt it. Better just to look concerned.

November 27th: A Lot To Celebrate

November Twenty-seventh, ev'ry year
Just overwhelms me, even when it's not
Thanksgiving. 'Twas my Grandpa's time to cheer
And celebrate his natal day. That got
The rest its start; my parents married on
That day, then some years later, Sister Kris
Was born, and stole the hearts of all. Jack's gone,
My grandfather, but there's no time to miss
Him when there's so much yet to celebrate!
Two writing friends of mine have birthdays, too,
Today. Last year I set myself a great
And noble task, a sonnet for each. Phew!
This year, tired from Thanksgiving, I use one
To hail them all and send my love, ere done.

In Which Is Inaugurated Tomato-Rama 2010

My parents went to Sam's Club this "black" day

And all I got were just ten lousy pounds

Of fine tomatoes. With these, they did say

"We like your sauce and paste," I think, so -- 'zounds! --

E'en as I munch on turkey re-heatings,

I blanch and peel two dozen romas, then

Will spend the rest of this fine evening,

A-cooking them on down. Such time has been

Ideal for catching up on podcasts, so

Here I begin, but, spoiled for choice, which shall

I start with? Quirks and Quarks? A novel? Oh,

There's Planet Money, too. How my morale

Doth rise as I so contemplate a night

Spent in the kitchen, growing e'er more bright!

The Interstellar Feller: In Which One Escapes

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, once a merry ship
Is now a horror: all its crew save one
Slaved to its systems. Its eternal trip
Across the galaxy, unless undone
By unforseen occurrence, shall proceed
According to a tyrant's wishes. Yet
One has escaped: a Quodlaro was freed
Soon after it was pierced. Shaking and wet,
Rejected, it would seem, this one curls tight
Into a shell or capsule and drifts from
The bridge while Pepi roars into the night.
It passes a companion, sad and dumb
Who nonetheless is able to discharge
One task: Quodlaro's now among the stars.

In Which There WILL Be Turkey Leftovers!

The turkey's roasting in the oven; soon

It's pop-out timer will emerge. I'll laugh

And think of a Jean Shepherd tale and croon

To hide my mirth; I'll not repeat that gaffe.

No horde of hound dogs will invade and set

In motion such a chain of happenings

That send this bird a-flying, though the threat

Is not outlandish; next-door's dogs do sing

Like Bumpus' pack. And the trajectory

Our dinner might-could travel's similar.

It could land somewhere odd and pop out free

Hilariously. But this won't occur

Except within my head and, just perhaps

The universe next door, where I may lapse.

In Which Our Craftiness Is Tested, Or Brrr It's Bleeping Cold Out There

My house is warm with fam'ly, but outside

The wind roars bitterly, and it's damned cold.

When it's just me I let this matter slide,

Throw on another sweater, but, cajoled

By those I love I cranked my thermostat

Beyond the 60s. Then, 'cause there are drafts,

We nailed up a big blankie to combat

The frigid air from my back door. Such craft

As exercised here might seem to exceed

Our daily quota, but we're smarter yet!

When planning for the grocery run, indeed,

We planned for turkey soup and whatnot. Bet

We still have to go shopping Friday? No,

We roar, you cannot make us go!

In Which A Pork Roast Is Thawed And Thawed And Thawed

One might think that, with all that it's been through

This pork roast sitting on my countertop --

T'was frozen, partly thawed when Sears did screw

Me over last week, frozen again -- stop

Me if you've heard this one -- and yet somehow

Today, when time to cook it up has come

And it's been thawing all day, up to now,

It's still a solid rock of pork! It's dumb!

But microwaves, for these occasions, are

Appropriate, though, when one's slightly drunk,

A challenge to set properly. The bar

Is not set too, too high; I won't flunk

My cooking course tonight -- though I will say

I'm glad the turkey's fresh for Turkey Day!

In Which The Annoying Side Of Winter Comes Early

O wind, I've had enough of you. The snow

That fell so lightly last week blew away.

The trash you blew into my small yard, though,

Won't budge now. All of it is here to stay

Until I trudge outside and pry it loose

From plant stalks, branches, fenceposts - these all clutch

At what they've caught, tenaciously. Profuse

Enough, the snow we'll have -- too much,

Some folk will say -- but it at least can hide

The plastic bags and flyers, wrappers, junk

That flies around, breeze-tossed, both far and wide

Until it comes to me. Here comes a hunk

Of Taco Bell refuse right now. Come back,

Dear snow, and cover up the verve I lack.

TSA: An Immodest Proposal

They hate our way of life, so they attack
Is what we're told, but seems to me the threat
Is more from our own overlords. Roll back
To feudal days; we shall be chattel yet!
A naked body scan or grope-down, just
Because one used his underpants last year
To fail to bomb a flight? There really must
Be nowhere that they'll stop to keep the fear
Alive and keep us feeling as bovine
As possible. Soon we'll fly in the nude
And have no baggage. We'll be told it's fine,
That clothiers in airports, wise and shrewd
Can sell us TSA-approved duds at
Our destinations, and that will be that!

Score 44 For The Border War

It almost didn't happen, but we got

The Bronze Boot this year, with a fine blow-out!

As football rivalries go this is not

So famous as some others, but we shout

As though it were -- in truth, though, we've both sucked --

But someone had to win and yay, it's us!

As might be said, those Cowboys really bucked

The sheep this year, and that is worth a fuss

As you Wyoming fans all prove it's true

That if we only beat one team it's best

If it is Brigham Young or CSU.

Tonight in Laramie, the wild wild west

Will live again. My sister must regret

She chose the Boise State game, I just bet...

In Which A Secret Is Divulged

Root vegetables, they keep a Dark Side strong
And healthy, which is why we redesigned
The Death Star, but we sort of did it wrong:
It's planet killers currently have mined
For turnips solely -- and, as we all know
It's rutabegas that Stormtroopers crave,
That make them smile, that make their helmets glow,
But as Mike pointed out, we still can save
Our efforts to a small degree. Retune
Those mighty cannons, calibrate those guns!
It's ne'er too late to try, this lovely June
No wait, is it November? Call my sons --
And tell them to come back. Ackbar was right!
It is a trap. Turnips again tonight!

Interstellar Feller: In Which Reality Sets In At Last

The truth is now revealed. The cacogens
Keen out their recognition, "Master we
Knew not that it was you we'd rescued." Tens
Then still more of the crewmen try to flee.
Pepito simply laughs and says "Begin."
At this command, the Grokulator's walls
Erupt as wires and cables snake and pin
Each shipmate in his place, then snare and haul
Them close in. Now Pepito's former screams
Are nothing when compared to those of these,
His slaves, as each one's fused now into teams
With one another and the ship. Their pleas
For mercy are ignored. The consoles and
The crewmen are as one by His command.

In Which A Lesson Is (Again) Learned

A Chamber Chick of old, I should have known

To take advice I've long been wont to give.

Now B&B doth reap what has been sown

By a much larger rival. What I'd give

To have these last few days back! I'd just go

To south Cheyenne, the big boxes eschew,

And take my money to where I well know

It will be much appreciated. You

Might pay more but it's worth it not to ache

In head and heart just trying to get a thing

Replaced or fixed. I swear I shall not make

This same mistake again when next fates bring

Me to a sim'lar choice. Your locals are

Your best bet -- and if things go wrong, not far.

In Which A Customer Is Lost

Turns out I could have spent the day else-how.

Instead I got up, emptied out this fridge

That lows and mutters like a dying cow,

And waited for the new one. Now a bridge

'Twixt me and an old corporation's burnt:

'Twas dented in the box, that thing I bought,

And it's deliv'ry cancelled -- which I learnt

Long after, after waiting, as I ought

Per my last message from them. When I called

Long past the window, as meat thawed and leaked

And other things got messy, first they stalled,

Then finally admitted that my pique

Was justified. Now, back to the first square

I must prepare to seek a fridge elsewhere.

A Sonnet Of The Mundane: Getting A New Refrigerator

It's ugly, has a tendency to freeze
What I would merely chill, and then it tends
To make such noise -- sometimes it's just a wheeze,
Sometimes a rumble -- that most of my friends
Say they can hear it on my podcasts (yes,
At present I record them sitting at
My kitchen table). Icemakers you'd bless
When hooked up to the plumbing aren't all that
When they just run on nothing. It must go,
And soon it will. Tomorrow, around lunch
Some nice young men in clean blue suits will show
And cart off my old fridge. Till then, the cruch
Is clearing out the present one before
They come. It's mostly condiments, so score!

In Which I Muse On IFComp 2010

It's voting time in this year's contest, and
There still are games I haven't played, but that
Won't stop me rating what I did. Some bland,
Some very near unplayable (Oh, drat!),
And some that started strong but finished poor -
These I shall not call out here, but of those
I've played and liked, I'd say there's three or four
Which stand out. Some have had scenarios
Beyond inventive; others made me laugh;
Still others challenged, in the best of ways,
My faculties. While there's a bit more chaff
Than I'd expected (I'm new to this craze),
That makes the good ones shine.
Now one more game with Paul, then vote by nine!

Sonnet Dare: The Mysteries Of Art

Rita, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

A lovely face, done up in graceful lines,
A sonnet where the poet bares her soul...
Through these something of what is inside shines
But even so, they're under tight control,
Expressions such as these. Transparency
In art is just a myth. Deep in those eyes
Sketched in with charcoal, much we do not see
Remains unknown. Though naked, the disguise
That is its surface hides from us what true,
Intriguing secrets might be there beneath
Its calm. There's always tension between you
Who apprehend, and those who do bequeath
Such work to future ages. You may think
You know what's going on, but we just wink.

Happy Birthday, @CullenBunn

O Cullen, that you wish us not to sing

To you today, does not really preclude

My taking on another silly thing:

A sonnet saying, "Happy birthday, dude."

A gross-out champ whose accent stuns me dead,

A daddy to the cutest child extant,

A storyteller whose shiny bald head

Doth blind us -- no, in fourteen lines I can't

Tell who you are, not adequately, so,

I'll simply hoist a margatweeta (or

An excreble concoction which we know

We'll never touch again). I shall wait for

Your children's book with interest; meanwhile

You keep that Sixth Gun coming, will you, chile?

In Which I Don't Want To Miss The @TuacaCon Boat (But I Might)

Debauchery, thy name might truly be
Tuaca, beverage of failed pimps
And DragonCan'ts. Oh, how I long to see
What orange-flavored hijinks all these imps
I call my friends might now engage in. Ware,
P.G., and Phil, and Brand, and Kim, and, yes
Miss Christiana, Val and Laura, there
And Starla, Patrick, Dave, Paulette (I guess
They had to let in Paul or else he'd sic
His bunny slippers on them), also Chooch
And Viv! TuacaCon is no mean trick
To pull off. Throw in Sigler and (O, smooch!)
As virtual events go, count me in
As soon as I get off work, for the win!

In Which I Go Out On A Limb -- Or Seven

These kids today, with their new-fangled memes --
Or rather Great Old Ones. Witness this guy,
Cthulhu, who, if we're to trust the themes
Of his vast media presence, still is spry
And waiting in his city 'neath the waves
As he has been since ere life stirred upon
This damp old rock. Someday we'll be its slaves
(Or worse), if all the cultists who have gone
Insane on his behalf achieve their ends.
These console games and books of smut both are
Great starts that way, created by my friends.
So mark my words: this thing will be a star,
This Great Cthulhu fad; man, it's got legs!
I say we drink it up, down to the dregs.

In Which @BrettGlass Helps Me Find Another Way To Enjoy Cheyenne

Reunions over kimchee -- well that's new!

And though he lives just over these here hills,

I had lost track of an old friend, one who

I oughtn't to have done. To brave the chills

Of our first winter storm (a mild one) and

Dine with my old pal, Brett, in a place I

Had not known e'en existed in Cheyenne

Is quite a way to close my weekend (Why

I didn't know there was Korean here

Is to my shame, and it's fantastic food!)!

Korean House, on Snyder, you I cheer,

And in my future social plans include.

Bulgogi and geekgasms -- that's the way

To close out this, a dandy fine Thunday.

Gris et Jaune: In Which Grey And Yellow, Kill A Fellow -- Or Do They?

A walkthrough --or a shamble-through -- should not

Be vital to enjoyment of a game.

That is the case, alas, though, if you're caught

By all the flavor in this one, by name

Of Gris et Jaune. A zombie's point of view

Is decently explored until one leaves

The house in which the game starts. Once that's through,

The player's free and aimless. This achieves,

Perhaps, more mystery and atmosphere,

But secret goals are just annoying. While

It can be cool when who to trust ain't clear,

It isn't this time. I do like the style

And setting, but I yawned, having to guess

If what I'm doing might lead to success.

In Which I Discover A Helpful New Tool

A TV show is good for quite a lot

Or so TV would like us all to think.

Once in a while, one truly hits the spot;

One's found that helps me as I sit and drink

Far too much tea and take up my sad task:

That NaNoWriMo project from '08,

Which I must edit down. So which, you ask,

Of all the shows, am I finding so great?

Community. Its genius is profound:

Both deeply stupid and sharply observed.

I watch it and my wheels go round and round,

Then break, refreshed, resume my work with verve,

My scornful inner snarker satisfied,

I sculpt with freedom and a kind of pride.

In Which I Tap My Foot And Try Not To Watch The Clock

Just 40 minutes now stand in between
Myself and freedom, and there's much to lure
Me out of here this Mridray: there's my keen
And burning lust for comics (yes, my pure
Delight in that crossover, Hellboy and
Those Beasts of Burden, has caused me to seek
Back issues of the latter), and -- how grand! --
My co-author has come through with a squeak
And zapped me chapter two of what we hope
Shall be a great weird western novel (I
Can't have a gander now though, because, nope,
My use of beta software wouldn't fly
Here at the day gig). And there's work to do
On my days off, oh yes. Oh, fly, Time, shoo!

In Which My Aotearoa Vacation Lives Up To Expectations

New Zealand, were it full of dinosaurs,

Unspoilt, exotic - some of that is true,

And while this year has thrown a lot of bores

At judges, I played this game right on through.

Aotearoa, chock full of charm

And creatures one must placate and befriend,

And clear allies and enemies. My warm

And most sincere regard to Wigdahl! When

He made this game he clearly took all pains:

There's atmosphere, a story, goals, and -- yes! --

A lack of bugs. It starts slow, but it gains

In intrigue once the boat is left. I'd guess

That this will be the winner. If it's not

I wonder what there's left that's near as hot!

In Which Yes, It Does Make The Heart Grow Fonder

I'm spoilt, it's true, and have no right to long
For what is mine but is far out of reach
Just now. As I sit here within a throng
I find that I would gladly trade off each
Of them for one I choose instead: one guy.
I shouldn't sulk so that I cannot look
To one side, see a smile and catch an eye
That's sharing my amusement. Once I took
All that for granted, for a few weeks, there
In a far city; it was easy, felt
Like it had always been so. Now, I swear,
It feels sometimes like just a dream. I'm dealt
Such diff'rent hands at home, but well I know
I'm lucky to have someone I miss so.

In Which I Chortle At Some Fakery

I love a tale of fakery. El Myr,
And Clifford Irving, just like Orson Welles
Can never fale to make me smile. It's queer,
My fondness for a forger. Now my bells
Are chiming once again; in Germany
A brazen couple seems to have made fools
Of many auction houses, experts we
Let natter on about breaking the rules
Of form and color, loving to extol
Exemplary and striking qualities
They've just made up. I find it all quite droll,
How art is only art when someone sees
Just what they want to in it and declares
Astounding values on a faker's wares.

Interstellar Feller: In Which A New Man Emerges

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...

"Her purpose is achieved at last," proclaims
Pepito when the fusion is complete.
His voice is deep and cruel; he calls the names
Of each remaining crew-group. "Now you'll meet
A just reward." The cacogens recoil:
E'en Tribruno, brave warrior, grows pale.
Pepito, now no longer just the foil
Of lonely cyborg pirates -- for the scale
Of transformation here is vast, severe
And stunning -- floats before them, a new man.
The beauty that entranced them would appear
To be eradicated; all that can
Be seen of it is scarred and riddled by
Plugs, grafts and circuitry - and he can fly.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which Union Is Achieved

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...

Rage now. Unlike Achilles', his is cold,
Pepito's. His dark eyes take in the scene
Then fall upon the form which he does hold
Tight in his arms, his lifeless lady queen.
Removing her scant clothes, he reaches deep
Within her torso -- up past his elbows.
His eyes close, breathing slows, but it's not sleep
In which he sinks. His erstwhile lover glows
And Pepi shudders: fiber optics crawl
Across, then penetrate his skin, and soon
He's fused with all her cyberware -- and all
Beholding this cry out. The two commune,
The living and the dead, as bone and vein
Now pulse and glow in time with screams of pain.

In Which I Close My Eyes Over The Blind House

I haven't finished yet, but I do find

That I'm already certain how I feel

About this game the writer calls The Blind

House: I'm annoyed and bored, for real.

The back-story's mysterious and all

And drama 'twixt the characters may be

Intriguing, but the game play's what I'd call

Pedestrian - the dialogue's a tree;

A sleeping puzzle strikes; and then there's this:

Not only must examining be done

But thinking's not included in it. Wish

They went together. One thing, though, that's fun

Is how the paintings change. Later I'll try

To finish but now others catch my eye.

The Hobo Pool, Oh, The Hobo Pool

Of all of nature's gifts to man, the best
Must be the hot springs. Sulfurous of reek
But wonderful to soak in and just rest
A tired body, and to gaily speak
With friends both old and new; truly this place,
The Hobo Pool in Saratoga holds
A source for peace, extraordinary grace --
And yes, great clumps of algae, floating molds
And possibly unknown extremophiles.
Jump in and nearly boil, then go across
To where the river burbles past, all smiles
And chilly ripples: dip in, rinse the moss
From off yourself, then back into the pot
Of min'ral water, gloriously hot.

In Which I Have Another Bad Car Trip

Westbound and down, the wrong time of the day,
And I was driving straight into the sun.
My windshield's imperfections made a spray
Of glare that 'twas opaque. I slowed our run
To just a crawl. 'Tis what I dread the most:
To have to drive at highway speeds when I
Can't see a thing; delinator posts
And faded striping slowly crawling by
As though it were a blizzard late at night.
The world shrank down to squeeze in on my car,
And ev'ry forward mile a sep'rate fight
Until I knew no longer just how far
Or near the next town was. Lost, there, in space
I struggled not to curse that lonely place.

NaNoThankYou, But Good Luck!

I've won twice, yea, but oh, the aftermath!
Two years have passed since my last victory
And I'm still editing -- and though my path
Is quite atypical, I still don't see
The benefit of yet more high-speed crap,
Which is what I produce this time of year
When I join NaNoWrimo. I'll still clap
For all my friends who do so, sip a beer
Whene'er you post new word counts (that's unless
I'm at my day gig, naturally). It
Is quite a fine thing, proving that you can
Write an entire novel, that you're fit
To keep on doing so. Ah, but for me
It's time to make what I've done fit to see.