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!

Who Are They?

My sister has no children; nor have I.
So where did these twin blonde-haired boys come from
That in my dream did greet me with a cry
And hug my legs until those limbs went numb?
Concerned they were with some fam'ly disease
Of which I'd never heard, and can't name now.
"Oh Auntie Kate," they cried, "Oh, tell us please,
Is this thing going to kill us? When, and how?"
I held them close but simply couldn't tell
What had them so disturbed. The anguish stays.
I still can feel their skinny forms so well
And feel their tears on my face. In such ways
A tired mind pulls something from the soul
Into the waking world. I've no control.

BONUS SONNET: SONNET DARE: Another One Bites The Dust

So warily does Steve walk down the street,
His hat brim pulled down low over his eyes,
That one might well guess that he's packing heat.
It's all good fun until somebody dies.
Let fly some bullets from a doorway; rip
They do through all, and one more bites
The dust, as oft is said by those real hip
Cats Freddy Mercury sang for. Such sights
Are common in Steve's world. They rip again,
As though to some drum beat, and, oh, these plays
Must end in blood; revenge is best served when
One has been cheated, beaten, left for days
As Steve has surely been. There goes one more
And sure more violence must lie in store.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: Sonnet Dare: David Bowie's "Queen Bitch"

From the eleventh floor my envy burns
As I watch that rare queen ply all her arts
To snare one that my shallow weakness spurns
To go after myself. She's broken hearts
A-plenty before now; tonight it's mine
Though it is not her that I want, but him.
Just watch her go in satin tat so fine
And bipp'ry-bopp'ry topper with a brim
I'd laugh at were I not at heart so sick -
I'm sure I could exceed her in her deeds
Of conquest were I to make e'en a lick
Of effort just to plant down there the seeds
Of lust for me instead of her? But no
I hang back longingly and watch her go.

BONUS SONNET: SONNET DARE: Killing Me Kindly

Keep coming with the sonnet dares, my friends,
Like kooky Stephan Spiegel's done, in spades.
He knows I like a challenge, one that bends
My ingenuity and kills time. Shades
Of kings of old and court poets now haunt
My ken as I discharge this commission:
Its key is using "k" words on this jaunt
Through sonnet-land in each line. Kids, I've gone
Right out to lunch with this one. Karma claims
He owes me extra big for this big killer dare.
Take up the ukelele? Let the names
Of all his children be my pick? What's fair?
For now I'll blow a kiss his silly way
In thanks for what has surely made my day.

BONUS SONNET: With Buzz And Gravy Of A Friday Evening

It's evening at the Casa del Blow. I

Watch Old Man Buzz, the Blowman's Therabee

Go round and round and laugh. The hours fly

As Mrs. Blow, the Gravybhtch, joins me

In drooling o'er a stove, shiny and new

Which came today (yes, we've got oven porn).

I laugh at Buzz's toy, yet wonder -- ooh!

Next month, when I embark, as I have sworn

To write my NaNoWriMo, using that

Beloved white Olympia portable

Typewriter you see pictured up there at

The top of this page, might my hands cramp up?

Some exercise for them might help ramp up.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Sonnetize Under The Influence

No sleep today, and down a pint of blood,
Six hours and a half till I can go
Back to my home -- by car! -- no flecks of mud
Upon my naked shins, no telltale glow
Across my face from happy bike commute,
I'm witless, all cognitive dissonance
And everything I hear sounds such a hoot
I giggle like a stoner. Grateful chance
Has me here in a workspace by myself
Lest others think the daughter of the vine
Hath plied me too much with our fav'rite juice.
Across the fishbowl's glass, beyond the shine
Of glare I see the Twins and Tigers duke it out
But can't make out who's winning, but don't pout.

BONUS SONNET: On Surprises, Pleasant And Strange

Sometimes, leaving the house, I wind up late,
For at that final moment, it turns out
My keys are in my pocket because Fate,
That fickle-fingered bitch goddess -- don't shout
Such things, Kate -- has decreed that I forget
Just where I laid them down, or that I've got
Them in my hand already. Stranger yet:
It's so with people, too, it seems. I'd not
Believe there's anyone around who'd share
My joy in some outlandish thing, my rapt
Attention on a small surprise. Then there
Upon one of my shoulders comes a tap,
And lo, right next to me, a beaming smile
Lets me know I've had comp'ny all the while.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Long To Be Outdoors All The Time In Autumn

It cannot be the smell of slow, cold death,
That drives me e'er outdoors this time of year
To exercise and draw in one deep breath
And then another, can it? Yet I fear
Sometimes that my deep love of Fall's just that:
A love affair with all that does decay,
Dry up, fall off, freeze, rot and then go splat,
Or just detach and gently blow away.
But summer's sun pins me down like a bug,
It burns my bare skin, gives me headaches, brings
Unwanted gawkers out who'll see me. Ugh.
Now as it wanes I think not of those things,
Just climb aboard my bike, relish the chill
And see how quickly I can climb that hill.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Frank Roche Wears Many Hats

You may know he's an HR Superman,
But everyone has got his secret side.
Behold Frank Roche, whose interests do span
Beyond the common lot, and woe betide
Those who might underestimate him. Lo!
For while he rocks the suit set with his sage
Advice on dealing with employees, go
With him into his inner life; engage
With him on deeper levels and you'll see
When a fedora's switched for black beret,
A pack of cigarettes close by his knee,
A hepcat doth emerge! I can't convey
The wonder that is there just 'crossed the gap:
Francois Gauluoise, the beatnik poet. Snap!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Muse On A Strange Literary Trope

A city that's a giant railway train
Seems to me a most strange motif to keep
Encountering in fiction, e'en the strain
Called speculative. And there's a small heap
Of books I've lately read that featured such:
The characters must build the way before
Then tear up rails and ties behind. A crutch
For storytelling? I think maybe more
Is going on than that in these great books:
Mieville's Iron Council, Reynold's Gap,
And Christopher Priest's Inverted World looks
To do it, too. Allusion to the trap
Of civilized life is what I most see,
But still most strange this trope appears to me.

BONUS SONNET: In Which The Birthday Blast Claims Another Victim

So many writers born this month, I find,
I'm still a-sonnetizing for them as
It nears a close. Today the birthday grind
Doth claim one Brandon Ford, a scribe who has
A taste for things that grind and splatter up,
For scream queens -- and for sentimental songs.
Yeah, like most ghouls, at heart he's just a pup.
With sweet marshmallows - that's where he belongs.
(You see how well he's fooled me?). Quite all right.
Ain't never been a single-facet star,
Not even one who frightens one by night
Like cold Polaris in Lovecraft-y tales,
Whose baleful glow leaves one biting one's nails.

BONUS SONNET: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, STS-128

I'm sorry, but tonight I started late.

I left uncorking off until the hold

For our Discovery's liftoff. O Kate,

When will you learn that to propitiate

That dumb jock, Thor, you have to start off right

When Space Flight Now begins cov'ring it live?

'Twas clear he liked the asti, nice and light

And bubbly-sweet, like mead. Now I contrive

To be better prepared for our next try:

I'll stick to asti since I've got a lot.

You folk, try others. We'll yet see her fly

(This time sans bat). Let's give it all we've got.

Winos for NASA, now's our time to shine!

Tomorrow night, our efforts must combine!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Muse On My Visit To District 9

Johannesburg's an interesting place
To set some science fiction. District Nine
Proves this in spades as refugees from space
Are rescued there, where echoes of malign
And human stories linger. Mix in crass
Bureaucracy and mutual disdain,
And we start up a film that has some class:
Intriguing hints of darkness with a vain
Protagonist it's hard to like, but then
Explosions start and gunfights and we've lost
The thread of mystery. I'm not sure when
A buddy pic took over at the cost
Of giving up on exploration of
How these poor creatures got there, for all love!

BONUS SONNET: BUG WEEK: In Which I Dwell Upon Japan's Bug Buddha

I am no Buddhist but I know a bit,

That loss of self is something to be sought,

That meditation is one way to it,

And that such things cannot be sold or bought.

Consider then the man who made this shrine:

Inamura Yoneiji, just for love

Collected o'er six years for his design

All manner of insects, all kinds thereof

(But mostly beetles, like in Haldane's quote).

Collecting does mean killing, as he knows,

But hopes to bring them peace as they promote

Deep thoughts on life and time, death and repose.

Their beauty in themselves, there for us, too:

Admire their intricacy, shape and hue.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which I Drop A Subtle Hint

O Ian, dear, I wrote 'bout Sharks in Space
Just for your page; now for you I've a task:
What I want most in life's to see your face
Beneath a foil propeller beanie. Ask
Not why it's so; I no longer recall
Just how this project really got its start
(Though I know that it's my fault, after all).
My wish is true; it comes straight from my heart.
And such a little thing I do request:
Here even are instructions for just how
To build the hat. You can make up the rest!
As long as there's a spinner 'bove your brow
When it's all done. You think sonnets are free?
Now off to work. You've got 'til half-past three.

Huzzah! It's Bekemeyer's Birthday!

The mastermind behind my favorite
Of all homebrewed and funny videos,
An innovative maker who won't quit,
Whose family's fair game. That's how it goes
In Michael Bekemeyer's colony.
His wife writes great romances; he writes, too,
And daughters, lil' Elise and mad Molly
Will surely grow up well and go pursue
Some int'resting careers. As childhoods go
Theirs is well-documented. Just look here
And check out :60 Seconds and you'll know
That Michael's got a family to cheer
Us all. So happy birthday, dearest Mike.
And Let Us Make This Thing just as you like!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Bluff My Way Through Some Chat Show Aftermath

Ostensibly we gathered round to talk

On art and commerce and just what went wrong

With Fincher's Alien 3. It did rock

Though we digressed a bit as five quite strong

Artistic types will do. Then came a thought:

Since Ridley Scott is who's been picked to helm

A prequel Alien, who really ought

To take Sigourney Weaver's role? A realm

Of possibilities occured: J Roth Cornet?

Ann Hathaway? I won't embarrass Brent

By saying who he picked; you'll hear it yet

When CUT goes live. Then Tim Coyne went

With Minka Kelly, who I'd never think(a)

But sure, by all means, go link(a) with Minka.

BONUS SONNET: Yay, We're Skeptics, But Must We Be Jerks About It?

While I do think the world is cool enough,

That what we can observe and test is great,

Increasing knowledge carefully, one tough

Test, then another over time, I'd hate

To be like those who once did roundly mock

Copernicus or Galileo, or

Columbus. E pur si mueve. What shock

Occurs when someone does discover more.

Of course I raise an eyebrow at such claims

That visitors from other systems come

To probe or warn us; still I don't play games,

Don't bait believers, will not call them dumb.

It's true there are some cracked pots on that shelf

But I've found some who aren't. How 'bout yourself?

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Answer A Question

O Bootsy, dear, not only do I blog
But I do so as Shakespeare might have done
(Well, if he was reborn now as a dog
Or typing monkey - but it's all in fun!).
And Bootsy yes, I am a funkateer
Though a white girl who calls Wyoming home.
How glad I am you've joined the Twittasphere
To funk it up. Wherever else I roam
I have you and your peers well on the brain,
Thanks to the iPod and to sim'lar tech.
On bike commutes, long car rides, I keep sane
In no small part due to you and your tunes' help.
So thanks for all the music and the smiles
I still enjoy while eating up the miles.