November 27th: A Lot To Celebrate

November Twenty-seventh, ev'ry year
Just overwhelms me, even when it's not
Thanksgiving. 'Twas my Grandpa's time to cheer
And celebrate his natal day. That got
The rest its start; my parents married on
That day, then some years later, Sister Kris
Was born, and stole the hearts of all. Jack's gone,
My grandfather, but there's no time to miss
Him when there's so much yet to celebrate!
Two writing friends of mine have birthdays, too,
Today. Last year I set myself a great
And noble task, a sonnet for each. Phew!
This year, tired from Thanksgiving, I use one
To hail them all and send my love, ere done.

Challenger: Twenty Four Years Later

'Twas twenty years and four, this very morn

That Angie walked into our band classroom,

A note in hand, a tearful face to warn

Us that the news she brought was of some doom.

"The Challenger blew up" is what it said,

Her note. Our teacher gravely sent us on:

The library had TVs. All were dead.

That cloud - you know it well - said they were gone

E'en more than any anchorman's sad voice.

I still watch ev'ry launch with a tight chest -

Full knowing I could spare myself. My choice,

Though is to watch. This program's been our best

In my lifetime, though it went up in smoke

That day in Florida, when my heart broke.

IN MEMORIAM: David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)

One year ago today, he broke my heart,
Though it was not the first time he did that.
In 1996, he tore apart
My brain. His tale of a filmed samizdat,
Addiction, tennis, school and Boston gave
Me dizzy spells e'en ere the weirdness hit.
It pains me that his humor could not save
Himself, but there are limits to what wit
Can do, footnoted or not. Greedy, I
Will most miss his non-fiction pieces, which
Could make the world a bit more strange. I'll cry
Again today for him. He made me rich
In stored enjoyment, and I thank him for
What he could give us. Wish there were some more.