Sonnet Dare: In Which @iamhewhoisiam Demands A Hearteater

I've eaten hearts for lunch and dinner; game
Meat is a pleasure, healthy, tasty, fine,
(Far better than some other meals I'd name)
Pan-roasted, served with veggies and some wine.
But that's too literal, I'm sure, for what
Rich Leslie dared me write today, and so,
Though I am sure that he's expecting smut
(This is a fam'ly sonnet blog) I'll show
That my own heart, that metaphoric seat
Of tenderness, has felt the prick of forks
(Though I find no one's out to taste this meat;
I serve it to myself when Love disports
Himself with me and mine). And so, you see,
Nobody ever eats my heart but me.

Sonnet Dare: A Dote Upon The Honeycomb

Geometry is with us ev'rywhere.

We've need for order bred into our bones.

Nor are we near the only ones who care,

As witness hymenopt'ran honeycombs.

Small hexagons in wax, so tightly packed

As to make structures of surprising strength

Within which grubs mature, safe and intact --

And other stuff is stored there, too, at length:

Sweet honey and raw pollen. Dizziness

Must sure confront one, wandering among

These structures -- but the builders always guess

Just what is where; the food and fed, the young

And old maternal queen. What's more: surprise!

The cells are viewed therein with compound eyes.