In Which The New Year Blows Blustery

White holidays are back, and so begins
The long and messy slog back to the sun.
This last day of the year blasts off our skins
With bitter winds and cold. There's little fun
To be had out-of-doors tonight: streets of ice
Assure nothing but falls and crashes -- yet
I'm sure there's plenty whose pursuit of vice
And silliness will lead them out. I'll let
Them have my fun. It's home for me and mine;
Tomorrow's just another work-day. You
Who venture forth, do hoist a glass of wine
On my behalf, and I'll think of you, too,
Especially my far-flung loves. Someday
I hope to pass these times with you, some way.

Interstellar Feller: Mu Ha Ha Ha Ha!

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...

His steely hand disgustingly adrip,
His message from Bananta quite received
Pepito turns attention from his ship
To all of those whom cruelly he deceived
To reach this point. "I do assure you," he
Begins to say "I had no idea this
Would be the outcome, when, poor helpless me
Was brought aboard with just a sigh, a kiss
From that bewitching woman we all mourn.
We mourn her, don't we? You're not mourning. Weep!
Weep, wastrels, rascals! Rue the day was born
Your sorry selves!" Then there comes a beep,
And all aboard convulse in pain. "Uh, sir,"
Says one. "This message seems to be from... her!"

In Which I Don't Make A New Year's Resolution

I'm contemplating something quite extreme
(At least for me), though I tend to eschew
Those resolution-things (each a pipe-dream
At best; at worst something that, when you fail to do
What they prescribe, you'll feel a failure for
Just acting like yourself). I need to end
A bad behavior, though, but think I'll score
More points in the success column instead
If I just pose a challenge: just how long
Can I go without doing what I ought
To cut back on severely? Just how strong
Can I be on a daily basis? Fraught
With tension this still is, but I do best
When it's a game, or just a tiny test.

On Christmas Mornings Past

One Christmas in Chicagoland, I laughed
As Mark got ev'ry Beowulf there was
Except the Seamus Heaney. Photographed
There with my friends in my red dress, the buzz
Of being new-elected still had me
Bewildered at my fugure. That was eight
Weird years ago. At other times I see
Through watery eyes -- for it was once my fate
Allergic to the hay, to still take rides
Upon a wagon, stacked with it, through town
To look at lights, sip cocoa, at the sidea
Of childhood sweethearts. Weird what circles 'round
In memory, on holidays. This time
I'm just at work, but these are all still mine.

A Brief Holiday Lecture

Be careful as you travel. All I ask

Is use your seatbelt, and if you should drink,

Don't drive. Just choose another for that task.

You're likely sparing much more than you think;

Blue Christmas is a thing nobody hopes

To add to her experiential list.

So many, though, have lost out to the dopes

Who hurt or maim or or worse, through thoughtlessness.

Don't be that guy; that way we all can share

A happy time (except for those who've lost

Already -- and if you can, really, spare

A thought for such as those - it doesn't cost

A thing!). And that's all that I've got to say,

Except to have a joyous holiday!

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepi Is Judged By A Seasonal Visitor

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...

Lo! Suddenly, there cometh from afar
A most unlikely sight indeed, to wit:
A Dan O'Bannon spaceship Chevy car,
Its driver helmeted and in full kit.
Its load of fruit looks unspoiled, luscious, ripe
And quite delicious. Soon a tractor beam
Shoots from the Grokulator. "So what type
Of goodies have you for us?" There's a gleam
In Pepi's eye as he inquires; the stores
On board are running low. Bananta strides
Across the flight deck, takes in all the scores
Of cacogens enslaved, but won't take sides,
Except to offer one small handful to
Pepito: Rotten pomegranate. Ew!

A Fine And Fair Festivus To The Restivus

'Tis Festivus, and miracles galore

Present themselves, as I had just enough

Detergent for my laundry (one load more

And I would have to cross the street and stuff

To get more soap). And then, at one o'clock

My dog went in my yard and made some poop!

I know, it's really not that great a shock

But Festivus's miracles don't group

Like that without some intervention, no?

Say what you will. As for me, I believe.

Oh, and one more thing to tell you, ere you go:

Of one more blessing that I did receive:

The vacuum attachment for pet hair

Worked beautifully, if any of you care.

In Which A FiendMaster Looks At 40

What can one say on so august a day
(That happens in December), when the man
We call FiendMaster comes to, come what may
A birthday he'd avoid if e'er he can
(Though I found it unscary)? This guy writes
Foul stories, demonizing ice cream men
And most beloved muppets. Now his sights
Are set on unknown, new, bad vistas. When
He told me weeks ago that 40 loomed
And that his liver lillied, how could I
Not mock his cowardice? Yes, Paul, you're doomed.
We all are aging. These years do fly by.
Now quit your whining and write some more tales.
Your Fiendlings don't like waiting. Trim those sails!

Happy Holidays From A VERY Special Baker

Who doesn't like, this time of year, to bake
Some Christmas cookies? It's hard to resist
The impulse to get out the gear and take
A little time. How else would they exist,
These goodies that make holidays so sweet?
The Gonzalexx 3000, being one
Who likes, as much as anyone, a treat
Thought he'd surprise his family. Once done
What robot worth his bolts would let them try
His offering without a little test
For quality and safety? This lil' guy
Sure isn't such; he'll only give the best!
And so, from Jose Gonzales and me,
We hope your holiday's sweet as can be!

Bring On The Dark

The moon's eclipsing on this solstice night?
Oh noes! Just how much darkness can we take?
We surely all shall perish from sheer fright
(Those of us whom the Great Old Ones don't bake
Into big pies for Festivus). As for
My part, a huge and blood-red, sky-borne orb
Seems emblematic of my mood. I'm sore
Of heart and mind - there's too much to absorb:
These holidays are stupid, crass and dull.
I'm longing for real winter, cold and long
And thoughtful; I appreciate the lull.
My pull towards winter I find just as strong
As e'er it was. 'Til then, I nod and sigh
And watch the silly season plod on by.

Bring On The Solstice

The solstice looms, and while I like the dark

More sun will be most welcome, I now find.

Black scenes make mirrors of my windows, stark

And merciless, reflecting me: my lined

And tired face when my workday is through,

My dull stupidity as I prepare

To leave ere sun-up ev'ry morning. Too,

Not much distracts me on my way to where

I spend the day without a window, in

A room where others dim the lights by choice.

I used to like the winter best, to grin

My way through blizzards; now I raise my voice

With all the rest: the short'ning of the days

Must end but soon! 'Tis a most ugly phase.

In Which I Start Another Blog

Sometimes I simply cannot say enough

Within a sonnet, though the challenge to

Pare down and keep it pithy, short and buff

Is good for me, it will not always do.

Thus my return to prose opinions should

Be no surprise. I've started with a rant

About an adaptation. Is it good?

It feels that way, though I really can't

Claim it's a masterpiece of reasoned thought

It's honest and it's what I think. No one

Should feel compelled to read it (though you ought

If my opinion's what you seek). I'm done

With settling for a shoehorn job when I

Can ramble on like mad, yell at the sky!

Interstellar Feller: In Which Questions Are Asked

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...

How did this come to pass? Into whose hands
Did who, exactly, play, to make this so?
How is it a cabana boy's commands
Are wordlessly obeyed by all who know
His presence? Who sent forth the pinkish beam
That swayed Yectara's plans for him at first?
'Twixt genocidal cocktails and a dream
Turned nightmare, must we e'er suspect the worst
Of our Pepito now? An evil laugh
That chills the blood (or coolant) has replaced
The throaty and inviting "hey" the staff
And guests at that resort enjoyed. Disgraced?
Far from it! Pepi now has in his sights
The galaxy entire it seems. Such fights!

In Which My Foot Taps A Bit

The fallen tree is gone, and, just today

The insulation in my ceiling's back

As it belongs (long story; there's no way

I'll fit it in a sonnet -- but the lack

Of same has left me shiv'ring, yes!).

Two days stuck home and waiting reached an end,

But now I'm waiting still, but must confess

This waiting is more pleasant, for my friend

Is breezing through my town on errands for

The house she's building, and we're soon to dine

(Though she has still got just one errand more,

Or maybe two, whatever, it's all fine

Except I'm hungry!). What a weekend, no?

Back to the salt mine, too, I soon must go.

Bleh

Just fourteen lines, that's all I have to write
But just today, that seems like quite a lot.
I wound up staying up too late last night
For no good reason, later than I ought
At anytime; but graveyard work before
Has discombulated me entire.
Today was just a waste; I feel the score
Is Wednesday ten, Kate zero. I'm no liar:
A sonnet is not something that I want
To do right now, but habits do die hard
And though naught happened that I'd care to vaunt
Iambically, it's what I do. So here: this empty shard
Of poesy, a placeholder. I do
Apologize, but that's the state that's true.

Bleak But Not Weak

The year runs down, and I run out of steam --
And cash -- but in the offing there's much good.
I've helped a good friend stride towards her dream
And cross my fingers for her, as I should.
My team-ups all go well, and solo work
Proceeds apace; my job is steady and
A rare security is mine -- a quirk
That almost seems obsence as, crossed the land
So many languish. I do all I may
To help, but mostly it's nowhere enough.
I know I'm not alone in trying -- hey,
This ain't the first time that times have been tough!
It's easy to lose hope this time of year,
But chances unknown may be very near.

In Which I Ponder The Future Of This Blog

Photo of me writing a sonnet in a movie line by Sarah Multiverse

Two years of sonnetizing; I shall reach
A thousand ere the year is done. Is that
Enough? Has this grown stale? Do I not leach
Some value with high quantities? I'm at
A point where 'tis an automatic thing
To write a sonnet. People photograph
Me doing so quite on the fly; I fling
Them forth in movie lines, just for a laugh
Or sometimes scribble them out over drinks.
In truth it's become something of a stunt,
And other pastures beckon now, methinks.
So: shall I follow where I'm led, or, blunt
And hack-like, cling to this well-mastered form?
Tell me, dear readers, d'you prefer the norm?

In Which PTSD Is Irrational And SUCKS

Four months ago, I did my best, and all
Turned out as well as anyone could hope.
When needed, I stood up and took the call,
Did what was needed, managed, then, to cope
As is my wont. I only fall apart
When crisis moments are well in the past --
A handy trait, but how it breaks my heart
When things are calm and I feel it at last.
Today the one I helped is back and I
Spoke to him for the first time, businesslike
And distant, as required, but, though I try,
To stop it, the adrenaline does spike,
I choke on tears and four months disappear.
It's like it's happening right now and here.

R.I.P. That Big Ol' Tree

Long have we thought it dead, e'er since I bought

The KATE STATION, this tall, unlovely tree

That blocks my bedroom windows (as it ought

If it has been placed for one's privacy),

Though it still sported sickly leaves, a bit.

This afternoon sometime, it snapped right off,

Left five feet standing and twelve gone to shit

Sprawled out across the front lawn, and the trough

That was my day already, deepened. Mom

Reminds me that it could have been much worse:

It fell away from this, my house. I'm calm

E'en as I wonder who runs the tree-hearse

Here in these parts, and also wonder, too,

What made this happen. Wind? It scarcely blew!

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Long Journey Is Sort Of Undertaken

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...

He cannot follow, but it's time he, too,
Broke orbit 'round the planet where all changed.
Quodlaro, pillbug tight, is living through
A special kind of hell, slightly deranged
With horror at what's happened on the ship
Where he has served these aeons beyond count.
He watches Grokulator quickly slip
Into dimensions he'll never surmount.
His trip to marshal oppositioin shall
Be very long and slow, but must succeed!
Upon this cacogen, all the morale
And hope of this whole universe, indeed,
Depends. He vomits forth his final meal
For its propulsion (no, it's not ideal).

In Which Marco And The Red Granny Coulda Stood A Bit More Red

A blood-sport winnin' granny, why have there

Been few of these in literature? Thank

The genre gods: Mur Lafferty had care

Enough to fill this lack. Behold the swank

And cunning Heather, Red Granny, so sweet

At first, but a stone killer on the field

Of lunar battles! I'd have liked to see

More of her and her back story, but yield

To Mur, who may have more planned for this dame

(Let's hope so!). As it was, this book was fun,

This Marco and the Red Granny (the name

Had had me sold since Balticon!). I'm done

With it now, but it left me wanting more.

A prequel, please? Red Granny Goes To War?

Sonnet Recipe: Middle Eastern Chicken

Brown up a pound of chicken, cut up small,

Then add a tablespoon of chicken stock,

A can of diced tomatoes and, in all

Two cups of frozen pepper mix and rock

That in the skillet till it boils and cook

About two minutes. Then add half a cup

Of raisins and a cup more stock and -- look

Ya gotta have some garlic!* -- then mix up

Some thyme, allspice, cloves and a bay leaf, too;

Black pepper and some cumin. Stir that in

And simmer for just 20 minutes. You

Will dig what then results. Now, I have been

A-draining off some liquid from what's done

To cook the couscous in, but that's me, hon.

Spice amounts:

GARLIC: 2 cloves, minced

THYME (dried): 1 1/2 t

CUMIN: 1 t

ALLSPICE: 1/4 t

CLOVES (ground): 1/8 t

BLACK PEPPER: 1/8 t

In Which I Shall Return My Opposable Thumbs Soon

Complexities exceed my grasp when down

With fever or with crappiness. Though I

Did start with Dan Deronda, in my gown

And robe, to make the lonely hours fly,

I didn't grasp it fully, I suspect,

And soon restorted to much simpler fare.

The Planet of the Apes seemed quite perfect,

Campy, with many sequels and a share

Of faux profundity. Alas, Netflix,

Hath only the first streaming. I have found

A way around this; meanwhile for my fix

Where else but Heavy Metal was I bound?

I am not over proud, but so it is:

When ill I soon devolve into, well, this.

SuperGod: Now That's How To End The World, Baby

With London Town destroyed within a page

Of starting the whole story, SuperGod

Is special. Gastonny gets to rampage

On many cities in this comic, broad

And quite ambitious in its concept: we,

Who once got anxious, made a Golden Calf

To worship when no real divinity

Did show itself, made our own gods -- a half-

Assed plan if e'er there was, and soon there are

A British fungus god, a Krishna and

Much stranger beings. "Save the world," we roar

But do not specify from whom. The land

Soon pulses with such horrors only one

(That's Warren Ellis) could make up. What fun!

A Sonnet For My Tea Mug

I'm ill; the world shrinks tightly; I feel old

And, aching, pace the smallest space I may.

Some moments it's all I can do to hold

A mug of tea. When such times come my way

I dote especially on this one here,

Made just for me by one who loved me well,

But didn't know he'd done so, 'til by mere

And funny chance, I saw it, gave a yell

Of praise and picked it up. It fit my hands

Precisely; all its gnurls and furrows placed

Just where my fingers reach - just as if planned

For me. And, too, though it is plainly based

On any mug, it feels like it was found

Instead of made. I'll e'er keep it around.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which A Course Is 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...

One shrouder is escaped, but there is more
That claims this new Dark Lord's attention. "Set
Our course for Halcyon; I have a score
To settle there," Pepito bellows. Let
It here be noted that his face now bears
Resemblance to the greatest evil to
E'er dominate the cosmos, one that scares
E'en as it thrills beholders 'mongst the crew
Who'd grown up hearing tales of horrors past:
"Be good or else he'll come again!" The dread
Is evident upon each face. At last
The Grokulator breaks its orbit, dead
No more, and all is left behind
And none can guess what goes on in that mind.

In Which December Nights Are Chilly On A Bike

Heat up some soup! Put on the kettle, please!

A nighttime bike ride I did take, and while

I cannot say exactly I did freeze

'Twas cold enough, and this transformed my smile

To a determined rictus as I raced

Against the chill that wanted so to set

Into my bones and stay there. I outpaced

It, but just barely. It sounds nuts, I bet,

But then I ask you, why, though, should I spend

The extra money that I made tonight

On gasoline? Much rather would I send

Me to Toronto in the spring, and light

In Baltimore as well -- and yes, I know

The oil firms are still getting all my dough.

In Which Decembers Comics Doldrums Set In But Are Somewhat Relieved

December brings us many things, as such,

But as I page through this month's Preview Guide,

As far as comics go, I don't see much.

The offerings are quite on the thin side

For titles new and int'resting, unknown

And debut works. Oh sure, there's lots of capes,

With one bright spot among them: my mind's blown

(E'en as my comics pushers' mouth just gapes)

To see it there, that my pal Cullen Bunn

Is writing Superman/Batman. I knew

Already, but it's really fun

To see it on the Preview page. Woo hoo!

There's no one thought he'd ever see the day

That I'd buy superhero books, but hey.