Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Suppertime Sonnet Stories: In Which An Author Is Screwed From The Get-Go

"Well, Boyd, I think it's time we had a talk:
The public wants the story of your life --
These things still make bank! -- and  if you should balk
At all the work, well, I think that my wife
Would be a fine ghost-writer." "Well, I think
That sounds just fine," Boyd told his agent. "Wait!"
His mom said, on the conference call, "Don't drink
A toast on that just yet. I may be late
In telling you, but your dad's gambling caused
Some problems, so we kind of sold the rights
To your biography. And it was claused
In perpetuity." "When?" "You were mites."
"Who has the copyright now?" "It's been sold
So many times I'm clueless. And I'm old."

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Suppertime Sonnet Stories: In Which @BlazingBetta Needs To Return To CrossFit

The blaze of Betta set the car on fire
Just as she walked past it, among all those
Parked wildly there. Now now, I am no liar:
When she fails to go lifting, e'en her nose
Gives off such energy as would explode
A lesser being. As a consequence
The car combusted (no, this did not bode
Too well for next year!) and, scarce minutes hence,
So did the parking lot entire when she
Returned from buying new weightlifting gear
(Those gloves are vital!). Now it's up to we
Who love her, and the earth, to gamely cheer
As Sarah heads on back to hit the gym!
If we don't, then our prospects grow quite dim.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Suppertime Sonnet Stories: Trans-Dimensional Safety Lessons ForChristmas

A universe next door: The traffic stop
Was not performed, and blithely he drove on
At terribly high speed that did not drop
In time to miss an oncoming Scion.
Thank goodness in this one the lights did flash,
The siren sound, and though the ticket was
Expensive, Simon, chastened, ceased to dash
As though he were a supersonic Claus
And ev'rybody lived to celebrate
The holiday. A turkey, slightly cooled
Is still delicious; love is never late
But just anticipated. So hath ruled
The judge over dimensions. And the Man
In Blue enjoyed his gath'ring too, by plan!

Thursday, December 8, 2011

In Which A Dragon Saves A Maiden

My elbows both engaged in mutiny,
From overuse of these computers, I
Must now resort to something new to me:
Some software that makes what I say to my
Machine, here, into typing. As I've said,
As many others have repeated, this,
Life in the future, rocks. From out my head
And through my voice, onto the page! I miss,
Sometimes, the errors that do creep into
The text this way, but editing is smart.
It's passing strange though, that I say "undo"
Instead of hitting backspace. How my heart
Is gladdened: now no longer is there pain
In pouring out what's in my heart and brain.

Friday, December 2, 2011


This year was through with me ere I was done.
Now I just hide and cover me to rest.
The race is over. I don't know who won,
But please believe, I wish her all the best.
My wounds have tapped me out of ev'ry fight,
My goals lie all in tatters at my feet
And nothing that I've started has gone right
But I don't care right now. I'm tired, I'm beat,
And quite forgotten. Oh, of course, I know
The wheel will turn around for me again.
But just now, I would just as soon it go
A spin or two without me. I have been
A few too many times 'round with no breaks;
I'm only human, don't have what it takes.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Sonnet Dare: In Which Glompings Are Passionate And Hath Consequences

He drew her to him tightly, in a crush
And Lady Michchievous was most aware
Of how he felt about her. With a blush
She pulled away, but could not meet his stare.
Such glomping as he'd given her had caused
Such stirrings in her as she'd ne'er admit
To ever having had. "Sirrah!" -- she paused
Then, ere berating him, for truly it
Had not been so unpleasant, and her eyes
Cast downwards, modestly, saw what she'd felt
Saluting her -- "You think me some cheap prize?"
She stammered, but kept looking at his belt.
"Oh glomp me once again, you monster! Yes
Like that. No, to the left a bit, I guess."

Friday, September 30, 2011

In Which I Sign Some Books

This bowling alley was the first locale
For my al fresco sonnetizing, so
I do decree this night that said place shall
Be most appropriate to thus bestow
My autograph the first time on my book!
My worst friend, Kevin, ordered copies, and
So eager was he to have him a look,
Demanded one-day shipping. Ain't that grand?
So there I sat and signed them. Oh, the thrill
Is quite unparalleled! It's feeling real:
My heart is pounding loudly even still
(Though that might be from beer without a meal)!
My joy at all of this is quite profound
And sharing it with you ? Kazoos resound!

Monday, September 26, 2011

In Which A Paperback Is Now Available

Rejoice ye sonnet fans known to prefer
Thy doggerel when printed on dead tree!
This day, t'would seem, is when Kate says that her
Collection as a paperback may be
Obtained from Amazon! Go take a look!
Thy sonneteer will wait. Her gratitude
Is vast, to all who helped her with this book,
In choosing entries, in taking her crude,
Unformed ideas on layout and design
And making of them such a lovely thing
As makes her wonder if a tome so fine
Could ever bear her name! Lo it doth wring
Fat tears of joy from her bewildered eyes
To share this news with you - that's no surprise.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

In Which I Try To Stay Positive In the Face Of Unfairness

Life's short, so grab your nearest love, for me
And hold him tightly for a moment; say
All that you should (same goes if it's a she)
Ere darkness falls and closes out this day.
Not ev'ryone today is going to lose
That last chance, but we never know until
It's far too late. Therefore it's best to choose
To lead on with your heart, suppress the will
To self-defense. Far better risk the hurt
Of some misunderstanding or rebuff
Of your short, deeply honest, silly blurt,
Than to regret you never said enough.
Too short a time amongst us, Kenny; I
Was really not prepared to say good-bye.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

On Waiting For Another Film At The Lightbox

The theatre fills up and people chat
With strangers, seatmates, friends, all movie fans
Bright-eyed and eager, always hoping that
The best is yet to come, that well-laid plans
Made poring o'er the website weeks ago
Won't lead to disappointment now. The risk
Of duds is always there; lo, to our woe
We have encountered two so far. Paul's brisk
To point out that more wonders have we seen
Than pointless staring wank-fests. This is true!
And this is why my interest still is keen
As I wait for the lights to dim, a few
Announcements, pre-film snippets, then the start
Of something yet unknown. Be still, my heart!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Saturday, September 3, 2011

In Which I Can Only Say Wow

There's nothing like disaster-time to teach
Who's in my corner, how I have been blessed
With friends as true as e'er there were. And each
Kept me far from despair throughout. My quest
Henceforth is to deserve them. Pardon me;
Particulate invasion of my eyes
Afflicts me once again. How can it be
That trouble turns to joy so fast? Surprise!
Dross can be turned to gold; the magic's there
Just waiting to be tapped. And now my hope
Is that I'll somehow prove this. To be fair
I know my luck's been good beyond my scope,
So even when it's bad some alchemist
Transforms it. I can't be alone in this...?

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

In Which I Attempt What My Spiritual Forefather Could Not

The Bard's regrets and melancholy stir
Me 'crossed the centuries; ne'er could he pen
A paen to a creature without fur
Or feathers, at whose sight he might have been
Moved to his greatest poesy: I name
None other than Velociraptor, that
Most swift and vicious predator, whose fame
Reached not to Shakespeare's time. Speak not of cat,
Unless it's cheetah, and speak not of snake
Unless it be a rattler -- nay, its noise
Disqualifies it, too. O hours awake
As I have pondered on the subtle joys
Of contemplating this iambic beast
Do yield naught to me, but here's this at least.

- Dared by ye Wenche of Sauce

Saturday, August 13, 2011

In Which I Offer To E-Sign Your E-Books

A book is lovely, lovelier when signed
By he or she who wrote it, but now we
Have ebooks, and for this they're much maligned:
They're hard to autograph, but now we see
(While waiting for Paul Cooley's MyWrite app)
That someone's tried to fix this problem, made
This program: Kindlegraphs. So give a clap,
Mayhap a cheer. As yet, though, I'm afraid
That only Twitter users can request
Inscriptions. Still, as things go, it's a start!
So now it's up to you: please be my guest
And ask for one on my book if your heart
Desires such. And meanwhile, watch this space
For news of paperbacks, anon, apace!

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

In Which Ants Show Their Colors And We Are Most Pleased

The insect world is full of wonders, true,
And beauty, and of things so passing strange
As make us wonder who is fooling who
(I know that should be "whom" but I must change
The case to fit the rhyme scheme sometimes). Take
These ants, who show we all are what we eat.
Three cheers to Dr. Babu (I can't make
A name like that up!), for his passing sweet
Idea to show their abdomens take on
The colors of their food, and also bring
Some loveliness to all of us. I'll fawn
O'er these great images until something
As pretty catches my attention - though
'Twill have to be a marvel, even so!

Monday, August 8, 2011

Green Wake: In Which I'll Visit But I Would Not Want To Live There

Green Wake is where I would not want to be.
Is it a town, or just a spot in hell?
Whatever, it is surely not for me.
That's not to say I won't just set a spell
And peek in on its doings - and I can
Through comics, which is really just as close
As I would like to get. No, Wiebe's your man.
He went there so we don't have to. A dose
Of god-knows-what, and he and Rossmo bring
Us news of that most dark, unpleasant place,
Where anyone, and nearly anything
May be a future frog, where any space
May melt you into nightmare forms, destroyed
By your own guilts and sorrows from the void.

Saturday, August 6, 2011

In Which @Bug_Girl And Her Camera Make Me Smile

Bug Girl hath learned today: it does not take
Too great an effort to earn a hoorah
From me; indeed all it took for to make
My day, to make me smile, to send my jaw
A-plummeting toward my chest was this:
A snapshot from her garden -- but not just
A plain old plant shot, no, for that's to miss
All buttons on my keyboard. No, you must
Provide me with some insect porn if you
Would seek my fond devotion. And, what's more
While a Manduca's always welcome, due
To my weird standards, braconids will score
Much higher on my charts. And here are both
In one shot. Here's to those coccoons' quick growth!

Thursday, July 28, 2011

In Which Is Born A Strange Dynamic

There's grass in our backyard now! Doggies dream
Of such things, when of such they've been deprived --
Well most dogs, anyway. D'ja hear that scream?
"Eek! Grass!" quoth mine own collie. I've not jived
You there, I do assure you. When I go
Outside to sit and watch the sprinkler keep
The sod moist, does she join me? Mostly no.
Indeed, her mistrust seems to run so deep
That when her loneliness sets her to choose
To seek my company, she gives a scratch
Upon the backdoor -- but alas, you'd lose
The bet that she is coming out. The catch
Is that she wants me there indoors instead.
Politely I refuse. She bows her head.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

In Which I Guess I'm Progressing Nicely

I'm in the anger phase again, I guess.
That phase where I just want to tear my hair,
Lash out and tell the world to f*ck off. Yes,
I'm mad I've lost another friend, don't care
If I hurt feelings, even if it's one
Who lost him, too. How lucky, then, that I
Share space with no such person. Ah, such fun
To cry within a cubicle. Nearby?
Banality and pointlessness all reign.
I'm trapped amongst it, teeth grinding in rage
For one more hour, then home to nurse my pain
In silence and in solitude. This age
Of distant loves and close connections brings
Sublimity, but also horrid things.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

In Which I Ponder A Strange, Sad Phenomenon

To miss someone one's known online is strange.
There's still a hole, but he's been fossilized.
His stream just stops, and will not ever change,
But doesn't ever leave, I've realized.
The film's stopped on one frame. We may rewind
Quite at our leisure, easily relive
What won our love originally, find
New things, too, that he alone did have to give.
Mac's tweets are still up; so are Lethe's; both blogs
Have been preserved, and Max's, too, live on,
As shrines or data ghosts, as catalogs
Of what each man has shared. The men are gone,
And no new chapters shall be written, yet
Their echoes do not fade 'mongst those they've met.

Monday, July 25, 2011

In Which I Try To Say Good-Bye To Max Bell

I knew the day would come when we would reach
For our friend Max, and he would not be there.
That day has come, it seems, and now we each
Must find the words -- they're all we have to share.
I've braced myself to feel his absence, yet
E'en so, I was not ready. It's a cheat.
I can't recall what we last spoke of, bet
'Twas something mordant, funny, even sweet
(For, snarky though he often was, his heart
Dictated kindness, even when the dumb
Just burned). I'll deeply miss him, for my part --
Or will when I am over feeling numb
And empty. Ev'ry day's a touch more dim
And more so now, with no comment from him.

Friday, July 22, 2011

In Which I Have Said "Sod It"

My future backyard threatened to dry out
While sitting on its pallets through the morn.
I eyed it there and failed to stifle doubt
And heaped upon myself no little scorn.
I should have womaned up and planted seed
According to my first plan, but the toil
That job was obviously going to need
Was more than I could do alone. The soil
I'd readied was already sprouting crap
Much faster than I could spade over it.
I'd fallen into a homeowner trap
From which I'd not escape, so I said, "Spit!
And sod this; suck it up and call the pros.
It's only money, right?" And so it goes.

Spotted on Google Plus

I think I need this stencil, though perhaps
I must needs change this up a tiny bit.
Since I'm a girl, I should salute the chaps.
The chaps love sonnets, too, I've proof of it.
You think Mac Tonnies loved me for my face?
That Ommus gave me work because my tweets
Brimmed o'er with wisdom? That I found a place
On Mr. Hrab's great podcast 'cause I meets
His standards with my prose? No, sirrah, no.
Iambic pentamistressing's the way
I find to win the hearts of men, turn foe
To friend, and friend to sweetheart (well, I'll say
I hope that last is true at some point). Let
The sonnet bells toll loud for those I've met!

Sunday, July 3, 2011

In Which I Agree With South Park Children About Summer

The stupid sun just blazes in the sky
And I'm too close to it, here in Cheyenne,
Though I'd be closer back at home. It's dry,
But lo, it burns like napalm when it can.
When waves of it are visible, and when
The wind forgets to blow, when e'en the birds
Tweet less, I think of all the times I've been
Prostrated by the summer time. No words
Can e'er convey my sunburn's pain; no balm
Can comfort it, save vinegar, which stings
As much as it stinks also. But I'm calm.
I'm almost home, where, among other things
A ceiling fan and lemonade await
If I can make it. If not, good-bye, Kate.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

In Which I Enjoy My Flash In The Poetry Pan

(Click to SONNETSIZE image)

I know that this is really just a fluke
Of Amazon and of my awesome friends
Who jumped today to go and buy my book
(It's there now, just like Smashwords). This portends
Not one thing for the future, but today
My sonnets were on this bestseller list!
My name was ranked with Whitman, Poe, hooray!
I feel as though the Sonnet Fairy kissed
My forehead. Thank you all. This gives to me
More motivation, now, to finish work
On getting out that print edition. Whee!
Next week just watch me go all-out berserk
To get it done. Now off to have a drink
With local friends. I've earned that, don't you think?

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

In Which An Ebook Is Published!

At long last, I am pleased to offer here
(At SmashWords) and on Kindle just as soon
As Amazon does what it has to -- dear,
Oh dear, watch out, your sonneteer my swoon! --
An ebook of these sonnets. Later on,
In hot July, I'll make available
A print edition you may feast upon
And hold in your two hands -- I wouldn't pull
Your leg on this! But if you just can't wait,
And have an e-device on which to read
Some silly poetry by your pal, Kate,
You needn't! And the cost is low indeed.
And dig the art, by M.R. Neno, who
Did quite a job, I think! How about you?

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Empty Nest

The ice that's in the trays sits undisturbed.
No random power tool noise fills the air.
My collie's 'thusiam 's somewhat curbed;
Her fav'rite human (my dad) isn't there
When she comes back indoors from her patrol.
The kitchen table's empty and quite clean
(Apart, that is, from artichokes mom left --
By accident or charity? I mean,
They're artichokes, of which she's oft bereft
In Saratoga!); the spare room is, too.
Just when I'm used to sharing, I'm alone
Again. Another visit now is through,
My mom and dad are now safe back at home.
I have, of course, a great big load of stuff
To tackle in their absence, sure enough.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


It's summer; school is out, the kids are free,
And they go screeching by in all their cars
As though it were a Friday night. When we
Were that age we were just the same. The stars
Glowed high above us, burning, dying, while
We paid them hardly any mind, except
When we were waiting, sometimes with a smile,
Sometimes with bitterness, for those who kept
On telling us "just one sec." Being out
At night time was so new, so glamorous,
E'en if it just involved a car, a route
That took us back and forth, some beer, some fuss
O'er what to blast through speakers. Life is short,
Especially when you're seventeen. Cavort!

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

In Which We Watch This Space For Details

Phil Rossi (and some others), long ago,
On learning of this foolish project which
I'd undertaken, said to me, "You know,
This has to be a book." I've had the itch
To make one of them ever since, and soon
Such shall be ready to be crassly bought
At all the normal outlets. From the Moon
To deep beneath the soil, to where one ought
To don some gloves and goggles, there's no place
My sonnetizing has not gone, and when
My format-angel and my artist grace
Me with the final touches, darlings, then
I'll put a sonnet ebook up for sale,
And then a dead-tree version, without fail!

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

In Which I Cheer On A Cool Idea

Plusoneme's time has come; life is a game
And all of us do play it. When we score
Folks should acknowledge it, if not by name
At least by handle. Whether it's a chore
Appreciated, a performance that
One's much admir'd or one wants to thank
In public fashion one who went to bat
For someone's fav'rite cause, bump up his rank
By one in any category. I
Have boosted some already. Thanks to Jane
McGonigal for sharing this; I spy
A lot of ways to use it, in the main.
Did someone show some awesome lately? Go
And take a moment now, to let him know!

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

To Whom It May Concern: In Which A Better Mathematician Is Recommended

I don't suppose that I hold any sway
'Mongst eschatologists, but if I did
This sonnet would go quite far in the way
Of recommending Nemo for the bid
Of doomsday calculator. Here's a guy
Who draws a perfect circle with no tools
Beyond a pen or pencil. You and I
Would need a compass at the least; such fools
As we have no innate grasp of the laws
Of mathematics as our Nemo hath.
With confidence and without any pause
Could we accept this strange, rare artist's math
And plan to board our pets, know what to wear
For Rapture. Hire him that we may prepare!

Monday, May 9, 2011

BarPG: Hobgobthropology

Repurposing a corpse is what we learn
As soon as we can walk or speak HobGob.
How best to render corpse-oil for to burn
In ribcage-lanterns -- or to do a job
Of lubricating hinges. How to chuck
A severed head to kill or just distract
A concentrating foe takes more than luck;
Indeed, no Hob should fail because he lacked
A tool that could be made from dead folks' bones
Or teeth or hair or dangly bits. A bit
Of sharp corpse-jerky, thrown with skill, alone
Can kill a fresh supply of parts, then it
Is just a matter of some time and thought
(But not so much the raw materials rot).

BarPG: The Sonnet

Hobgoblins, carted off to entertain
The plebes in some arena, soon escape
By jumping through a trapdoor (I'll explain:
It's Player Z at Pauper's: go on, gape),
Then watch their fellows plunge into a pit,
Some landing on a wizard, but are seen
By some old geezer guarding all this shit.
He calls for help but one hobgoblin's keen
Enough to throw a knife into his back!
He turns and fights; they try to kick his balls
And miss! Thank goodness for that brawny Jack
Who made him fall; then Not Sure, poor at brawls
Just slit his throat to bleed him kosher. Not
A bad night's work for woosy goblins, whot?

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Thoughts During A Comics Panel On Print Culture

To find a comic book's a special thing;
A message in a bottle, left by one
For unknown others; one has left a string
To mark a path, or made a trail of crumbs.
Online, I must be searching ere I find
Communications. There is no surprise.
I like the ambush, captured and entwined
In thought and story, traps laid for my eyes
In ink and paper, lures and secrets wait
And might just overtake me anywhere:
A coffee shop, a club, an alley, late
Or at high noon. It's very different fare.
Sure, object fetishism is just fine,
But Serendipity's a friend of mine.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Saturday, May 7, 2011

A Sonnet For The Morning After

Do I regret my choices? Sometimes, sure.
This morning I think we would have been wise
To stop, adjourn our fellowship, endure
The pain of parting sooner. Realize:
Nobody held us hostage at the pub
Except ourselves. But good talk never ends
And we had sev'ral all at once, a club
With no agenda. We all know this tends
To make the dizzy hours disappear,
And so they did. Now here I sit, awake
And ready for some more, but how I fear
That maybe, just perhaps, I've chanced to break
My boon companions. My apologies,
My darlings! Can we start again though, please?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

In Which Is Considered Chronoleptic Tense

While now we talk of future selves, I beg
O Paul, that when you do come to berate
The man you are today, you will not peg
The me who types these lines. This present Kate
Encourages your folly, reckless, wild,
And will be Past-Kate anyway when such
Event occurs, and will have seemed a child
Compared to Future-Kate - oh no! For much
As River and the Doctor might, I've tripped
A chronoleptic trigger! But indeed
We had to have blamed future Paul, who skipped
The niceties of diary-syncing, need
For retro-recognition trumping couth.
He'll make her cry in their shared retro-youth.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Toronto: In Which I Approach Again My Spiritual Home

Toronto! Soon I'll see the CN Tow'r
From out the tiny window of a plane,
Get lost in Pearson, bus ride through rush hour,
Then rumble 'neath your streets. A subway train,
Then stroll up King Street. Fox & Fiddle, you
Had best be ready with some Guinness, then
I'll prowl again your secret paths, sneak through
Your empty spaces with my dearest friend.
Your parks in spring I've never seen and I,
Unique among your visitors, shall feel
I'm going to warm up there -- snows still fly
And frost and ice still crust the ground, for real
In old Cheyenne. But soon I'll see the world
In just one city. Look! My toes have curled!

Sonnet Rant: My Problem with Epic Fantasy

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,
Uneasy is the ass that sits the throne.
This foolishness, in wisdom, we cast down;
Heredity and leadership unsewn
The one, now, from the other. This is just.
It's right that ev'rybody has a chance
To rise to where he will. So I distrust
This love of kings and nobles; the romance,
The glamor. We look backwards and we feel
A wholly false nostalgia -- and some seek
To drag us back to those dark days! It's real.
Who'd be our feudal lords again just speak
In clouded terms. Remember: kings are jerks.
Beneath each politician's smile one lurks.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

In Which Spell Checkers Are Not Always The Thing

Spell-checkers aren't the friends you think they are;
They cannot tell you if you've used the right
Word where you should, or if you've gone too far
Describing something when you've taken flight
Imagining. And then there's homonyms,
Those pesky words that all might sound the same
Like "might" and "mite" or all the "to's", the "hims"
That you've replaced with "their" when, no, a name
Won't do again, but you don't want to seem
A sexist scribe. But "their" is plural. Too,
Watch out for transpositions that are deemed
As words in their own right, but aren't what you
Are wanting. "Solider" and "soldier" - such
Mean very diff'rent things. Alas, too much!

Saturday, February 19, 2011


Oh, so much effort for one shiny coin
The mariners about the Pequod must
Have thought, as watching Ahab bust a groin
And other parts, to spume if not to dust
In chasing his white whale. I make it sound
Exciting, quite a thrilling quest; alas
'Tis buried deep within the book, all bound
Up in a hipster's egotism. Blast!
The captain lost his leg once to a beast
His questing for revenge led him to parts
Far-flung and not well-known. Ah me. At least
I read it on my Kindle, strained no hearts
A-hauling it around, this Moby-Dick.
At last I'm done; now give me something, quick!

In Which @SennyDreadful Hits The Big 3-0

Bend over, Jenny dear, it's now your turn
To get your spanking (do they that across
"The Pond"?). I find you've done a lot to earn
These kind attentions - I'm quite at a loss,
Indeed, to sum you up for readers who
Don't know your work already, that you write
Lovecraftian and subtle, that you woo
The muses with good plonk by dark of night,
That you're a source for finding all the cool
And crazy shows, that ev'ry tweet's a treat
That comes from you. On this, your birthday, fool
Them all! Why yes, you're thirty, but 'tis sweet
To claim you're even older: you will see
The compliments do shower you. Trust me!

Monday, February 14, 2011


Now ring the bells and blow the trumpets! Let
Confetti fly and faces ache from smiles!
We weren't there to see it all, and yet
We feel the joy e'en 'crossed a thousand miles.
J.J. has added yet another "J,"
And Jenny now has more at home than beans.
Squeenager has another dad; I'd say
A spare of those is good to have: it means
There's more love for to go around. A toast:
The Melzerbeans! I wish you lots of fun,
Success and scribbling, and, what I wish most:
Your marriage be a long and happy one.
i love you all and, yes, there are some tears
As I tap in this sonnet. Darlings, cheers!

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Snow Blindness

I really mustn't e'en begin to care
If anyone is reading, but I do;
Just as I know it's best that I don't stare
Out from these windows, just to see if you
Might look back at me, as I risk the fierce
Stab of the blinding sunlight that the snow
Reflects into my eyes. To let these pierce
Into me is the height of folly. No,
I must let neither in. Instead, I draw
The curtains, take a deep breath, and must turn
Back to my work, try to unclench my jaw,
And keep me from the thoughts and glare and burn.
It matters not what's happening outside.
Days such as these, I'm just meant to abide.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Sonnet Recipe: @drblow's Awesome Bean Dip

First open up a can of refried beans
(The vegetarian ones are the best),
A jar of salsa -- you know what this means! --
We're making the best bean dip in the West
(Or East). Shred up some lovely pepper jack --
This dip is hardly dip without the cheese! --
And if you find this combination lacks
A kick, a can of jalepenos, please!
Mix all this up and heat it on the stove
Until the cheese melts well and doth combine
With all the rest, till it's a treasure trove
Of smooth and awesome flavor, truly fine!
It's great with chips and also over rice,
And you might find some other pairings nice.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

In Which Kenneth Cole Blackens His Own Name

A dark and scary thing erupted when
A clueless rich designer tweeted how
The chaos there in Cairo must have been
Just mobs a-crowding 'round his store right now.
The internet's alive now with the blurts
Of those who mock him, push the boundaries
Of taste as they do so. In truth it hurts
No one; they are just jokes and words, but Jeeze,
To think of all that must have lurked beneath
Polite facades ere this event. I can't
Say that I do not laugh, but grit my teeth
To see this on display. That just one scant
And dumb remark provokes a genre is,
The cost, I guess, these days of doing biz.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

No Wonder @Ghostfinder Likes Groundhog Day!

My co-author and much admir'd net-friend
Is now become a slightly older man.
This Groundhog Day, the shadow's not the end
Of what we have to celebrate. A fan
Of Adam's "voodoo steampunk" writings, I
Most certainly am. They've got style and verve,
Lovecraftian and them some, but this guy
Has many other tricks to help unnerve
His readers. On his birthday, I am proud
To sing his praises, though I tap my foot.
He owes me our next chapter. I am loud
And rude to say it here, know he will put
The pedal to the metal just as soon
As he's done with his new novella. Swoon!

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Ex Drummer: Ow! And What?

Ex Drummer's something squalid and surreal.
Motier's vast array of camera tricks
And violence and punk rock made me feel,
All through this tale of one guy and the sticks
He knows not how to wield, as though I were
A victim of an unprovoked attack.
That's not to say it's bad. It won't occur
To anyone to shut it off. I lack
The words, perhaps: description's not the thing
For such a film. What lingers is the sense
That Dries manipulated me, too. Ring,
O ears, and blink O eyes; that's one intense,
Kaleidoscopic bout of madness which
I don't want to repeat, but cannot bitch.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Sonnet? Nay, This Is A Yawn-et

I worked a night shift earlier this week,
It's part of how I earn the right to roam
This spring. And it was fine, but now I speak
Of aftermath, for once I moseyed home
At 1 a.m., it was not straight to bed
I went, but to the couch to read and write.
Next morning did I sleep, much like the dead,
And barely even dozed all through last night.
And now at work, my Monday, how I yawn!
My thoughts are jumbled and often I forget
Just what I'm doing. Soon, though, I'll be gone,
A beeline for the boudoir made; I'll bet
That I'm asleep before the sun is. Wow.
I wish I could be there, even right now.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

In Which I Confess Something, Podners

Wyoming's been my home, yet I've eschewed
Its native genre, Westerns, overall.
Comes time now to adjust my attitude,
For as you know, I've a new project, y'all.
Weird western writing with a friend across'd
Th'Atlantic! So perhaps it's best to add
Some westerns to my reading list. I've lost
My count of what I've planned so far. Too bad!
Zane Grey's entire ouvre safely dwells
Within my Kindle now, and hey, I did
Take up the challenge of one hundred books
In this fine year, and must do as I'm bid.
So giddayap, and lose those silly looks.
I'm drawing and I'm reading western stuff,
But still avoiding rodeos. Enough!

Friday, January 14, 2011

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepi Has A Plan

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...

"'Tis now the time," this new Pepito quoth
To seek out my old seat of power, drive
Usurpers from it -- I hear that they're both
Grown feeble; we shan't even have to strive
To take back what is mine -- soon I shall rule
Again all that I did, ere perfidy
And guile did make of your Dark Lord their fool."
His cacogens just blink and stare til he
Explains "We're on the warpath. Set a course.
I'll teach those cowards ne'er again to make
Such plots. They made me human! There's no force
I shall not use to smite them. We shall take
No mercy on them. Onward with all haste!
There's blood and vengeance there for us to taste!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

In Which I Scribble And Sketch

I'm working hard at my new challenge, which
Is something that I've never tried before:
A drawing ev'ry day. I've had the itch
To try since last year. Back then nothing more
Than the odd insect sketch came from my pen
(Or pencil, really, but these words still need
To fit the meter and the rhyme scheme when
I write a sonnet!). Now, as I proceed
I'm trying first to draw the people who
Do populate a novel which I write
These days with Adam Christopher -- not new,
That project, but it soon will see the light
Of day, if we continue at our pace.
So far this year feels like a caucus race!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

It Lives! In Which The Lost Robot Head Of Philip K. Dick Speaks Again

The valley most uncanny stretches wide,
E'en when we don't throw in an icon, such
As Philip K. Dick. My guts twist inside
To watch this. He'd have liked it very much,
At least at first. The android's had a long
And storied history, losing its head
In transit years ago. But such a wrong
Cannot go uncorrected, he'd have said
(Unless he said to trash the whole damned thing,
Or put somebody else's on there. He'd
Approve of Linda Rondstadt. "Make her sing
Again!" he'd say, and thus approve the deed).
I think I'm glad the head has been rebuilt,
But find it still quite creepy, to the hilt.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Gabrielle Giffords: In Which The News Cycle Takes Its Toll

Once we might not have known for days or weeks,
Once it might at least have been hours -- when
That was the case, we rarely heard such shreiks
Of ire at garbled facts. There might have been
Just one guy with a gun, or many; we
Don't know yet, but so many think we do.
How many wounded? Dead? When will there be
A true accounting of how, why and who
Must bear the blame? The narrative's compressed:
Schroedinger's Congresswoman's story shows
How truly things have changed; we're still distressed
From purest shock, yet many think they know
The truth already. Finger-pointing, blame --
Yet who among us knew, ere now, her name?

Friday, January 7, 2011

In Which I Ponder Why The Ladies Like The Grey

The Oliveri asked of us today
O'er on his mighty supervillain blog
(And Twitter) why the ladies like the grey
That surfaces in beards and hair. Agog
That this was e'en a mystery, I spilt
The beans, that when a guy has grey it means
He's lived a while, and that his life's been built
On being smarter, that perhaps his genes
Are fit to pass on. Why then, quoth The Mike,
Does Grecian Forumula exist? My dear,
'Tis simple: nothing's ever perfect, like
They say, and morons sometimes make grey too, I fear.
But, duped so easily by vanity
To spend their money, it's quite plain to see.

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Message Is Delivered

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...

"On screen!" Pepito bellows, but it's there
Already. There is something to be said
For crewman trapped in fear and forced to wear
Controls for all ship's functions in their heads
Or limbs, or in their guts. Yectara coos
From far beyond the vale of death; her face
A lovely silver. The entire crew's
Attention's riveted. "I knew my place
When I kidnapped you all to serve in this,
My sacred mission. Now I'm likely dead,
But do not weep," she says, and blows a kiss.
"I never was a person. See this head?"
She says, and takes it off. "I was just parts
For restoration of our King of Hearts."

Thursday, January 6, 2011

In Which Peter Greenaway Is Lauded As A Prophet Of Sorts

'Tis Bird-Fall Day, a Violent Unknown
Event occurring world-wide. Faugh! Who could
Predict a thing as vile as this? Who's shown
Such Perspicacity? Well, there is good,
Compelling evidence that someone did.
Somewhere my Allow dictionary waits;
Though Curdine is the one which, were I bid
To choose a language, I would plump for. Fates
Are rarely that kind, though -- and I suspect
That really, what's occurred, a mere backfire
Of efforts undertaken to prevent
A Greenaway-an Uzumaki gyre
Of strange events. We nearly were transformed.
And nobody could say we weren't warned.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

In Which I Reflect On A Productive Day

If only I could keep this, ev'ry day,
The change that's brought about by knowing that
Procrastination's nothing but a way
To duck the "twinge of starting": that my flat
And dull insensibility is fake;
That work, when I'm deep in it, is a joy
In which I lose myself, in which I make
A day into a wonder. By what ploy
May I remember this, that once I start
I'm happy, and it isn't toil; that chores
Just sound that way; that once I give my heart
To what I'm doing, nothing ever bores
Or pains me? This, perhaps, is my real task
As this year starts to wear on, if you ask.

Monday, January 3, 2011

In Which I Should Have Picked Another Day

What madness is this? Holidays are done
Yet at my local Post Office I find
A sight to frighten, or at least to stun
E'en the most fortitudinous: a line
That stretched from the front counter to the door
And out a bit onto the sidewalk. Each
Who came to join it gasped; we all abhor
Such tests of patience. And indeed, to reach
The hassled clerks took 40 minutes. I
Had promised unknown strangers I would get
Their packages sent off today or die
While trying, as they say, and so I let
The time flow slowly by and simply stared
At all the others' faces, bored and scared.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Bulletproof Coffin: In Which I Cry For My Fix And Issue Six

As meta-comics go, it is a truth
That often they become, well, tiresome.
That's not so for the Coffin, Bulletproof
By Hines and Kane, though it sure has become
More meta than it should be possible.
The final issue should be in my drawer
This week (that is, unless those daft and dull
Weak masterminds at Diamond make me roar,
Denying me again). I think I see
How it shall wrap up, but there's still a chance
That they'll surprise me! Meanwhile, you who love
Some retro-pulp should snag 'em. How you'll dance
With joy to see the crazy stylings of
These would-be Golden Agers. Feel the love.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

In Which I Make A New Old Russian Friend

My new year's starting off a bit surreal
As I begin a new book that I've had
In my "to-read" pile for long months. I feel
No shame in this delay; indeed, I'm glad
To make this part of this new challenge: to
Devour one hundred books in this next year.
Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, you're a new
Acquaintance, and already dear!
Your stories, like Pelevin's, make the world,
Though dreary 'neath a bad regime, to shine
With strangeness. I can't wait until I'm curled
Again on my settee with you! A fine
And gently weird, unsettling evening
Right now seems, to me, to be just the thing!