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!

Pondering the Toronto International Film Festival

I'm spoiled for choice, yet find as I check o'er
The offerings at TIFF this year that, while
I'm gasping lots and saying "ooh!" the store
Of what I must see there is small. I smile.
Once Winterbottom's next* would be the first
Upon my list, but I know it will be
An offering that I can catch, at worst
Within a few short months on DVD,
If not in theaters in old Cheyenne.
That's true of most; film fests are diff'rent now.
We've many options in this age; I can
But choose based on what will be coolest big,
Or what I want to see with Paul, you dig?
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*Sonneteer's note: I still may have to make for that film while there. The combination of Winterbottom, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon is damned nearly irresistible Kate-Bait.

In Which... In Which... In Which...

My last day ere vacation's finally here,
And really, it could not have come too soon.
Already I can taste the good stout beer
I'll quaff with Laroquod that afternoon
Three days hence. Now, my head a-spin with plans
And trying to catch up the time I lost
In dealing with some other crap -- these spans
Of time I've wished away I'd now accost
And put to sterner purpose, if I could.
I'm still not packed and would keep having dreams
In which I've left my passport home. Not good!
But such is ever my state when it seems
I'm soon to be a-traveling. My head
Has done the work my body now must dread.
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SESTINA SATURDAY: Looking Foreward

I could be on the cusp of major change
Or just a false alarm again. One step
Could easily decide it all. I'm brave,
But there is much to lose if I let fly
My words and deeds and wishes. Much has gone
Untried already, though. I will know soon

If what I contemplate is true. How soon
Is relative. One thing that e'er does change
Is how long moments feel before they're gone.
Some times a lifetime floods our ev'ry step;
At others days and weeks just seem to fly
Fast past us. Just the powerful and brave

Can seize them each and hold them in a brave,
Unflinching grasp, examine them ere soon
Their spines emerge. We drop them, then. A fly
Might lap the blood they draw or, for a change
We might let go in time. Each one's a step
Towards an e'er receding end that's gone

Before we realize it. I have gone
A-chasing wisps before, put on a brave,
Disguising face to mask me when I step
Into the mire I thought was golden. Soon
I'll stride again, all in the hopes I'll change
Myself and others' fates. Too late to fly

Now from this challenge. Gleefully we fly
Into the face of disapproval, gone
To madness, some say, for to seek out change
Is folly. Fortune does not love the brave
As much as the wise planner. I'd as soon
Be foolish, though. One life is mine. I step

Into an unknown world each day; each step
Could lead to death or danger. Why not fly
To where I've never been; my end is soon
In grander terms, and when I'm dead and gone
The dangers that I never dared to brave
Will still be there. Decay will be my change.

Too soon all chances lost. I'll take the step
And risk. I'm bored, crave change, am bound to fly
To somewhere new. While gone, I will be brave.
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In Which I Wish It Were February Already

Anticipation grips already for
Release of dear Mac Tonnies' latest book
(I still can't say his last; that's still a sore
Spot in my heart) next month. Now take a look:
Mike Clelland, whose cartoons e'er made him smile,
Will illustrate the tome! So now I'll read
And pore over the drawings deeply, while
I marvel at them both as they do feed
My curiosity and yours as well
About what peoples may live by our side
Unnoticed, sharing what, we cannot tell.
I write of this with a great deal of pride:
It's title ain't iambic but I'll cheat:
Cryptoterrestrials will sure be neat!

In Which I Get Excited Over A Tournament Draw

No sports fan am I, save for this one round

Of football games that make of me a nut:

The FIFA World Cup. No way I have found

Has ever kept me out of this one rut.

'Tis only ev'ry four years this occurs,

When I become a lunatic. Today

Preliminary groups were drawn, which spurs

My craziness. England v. USA?

The Germans and the Aussies? Oh my head

Already spins. Brazil and Portugal

Are in a group together, "of the dead"

And though Croatia won't be at the ball

I still feel now the ghost of my old craze.

One hundred eighty seven more short days!

In Which I Rejoice In Having Lots And Lots Of Company!

Of NaNoWriMo it is Day One; I
Have yet to write a word, but am not blue.
Though precious hours keep on ticking by,
I'm sanguine, though there is so much to do!
Those fifty-thousand words of fiction won't
Just write themselves, but I think I might feel
A bit like they are! Now, dear readers, don't
Go thinking I'm blase; this is a real
Commitment, but this year so many friends
Have made it with me that I'm giddy from
Anticipation. We bust out our pens
(Or typewriter in my case) and succumb
To that old urge, court muses, make our starts
And know that all around beat sim'lar hearts.