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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.