In Which I Muse On A Gadget Study And Its Choice Of Test Material

Oh, what would Papa think, to be so used

As he was for this study of iPads

And Kindles verses paper books. Bemused,

I'd bet. Though I am sure that there are scads

Of writers who would be quite chuffed to learn

Their prose is "pleasant and engaging" yet

Not very difficult for dummies. Spurn

Ol' Hemingway I don't, but I would bet

I'd read a little faster were there stars

And aliens and spaceships in the place

Of something dull and literary, bars

And manly man crap. Give me outer space!

So many of us, forced to read him when

We were in school might sigh if asked again.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Am Cut Off From Twitter And Have The Blahs

Today I'd simply mope, or do some chores.
The lawn of weeds out back needs cutting; there's
Still laundry and some dishes. All this bores
Me e'en to list. I'm burdened by these cares
Alone in my big house, so might as well
Trade current blahs for future pleasures, if
I have the chance. And this is why I dwell
Today at ye old day gig, somewhat stiff
And grotty, trading my day off for one
In future months when I'll be somewhere new,
With people whom I've chosen to have fun
Alongside, whom I choose to be with. True,
There is no guarantee I'll live to see
Those days, but it's still worth a try. Ah, me.

In Which Muck Is Mucked

We know that April's cruel, but could it crush
Our spirits so by any other means
Than snow that falls and turns, right off, to slush
And stays that way, at least until the freeze
At nightfall comes? The daffodils poke from
The sluggish soil, but soon do wear a coat
Of icy muck; would turn my fingers numb
To try to free them from it, and my throat
Already burns; a springtime cold is mine.
I peer outside while coughing, but I must
Remind myself that soon all will be fine,
And all this moisture will keep down the dust.
And when all of you others say good-bye
To blossoms, in the future mine still lie.

Sunday, Stupid Sunday

A horrid combination these two make:
Of torpor and of loathing do I speak.
A Sunday afternoon at work can take
All that I have and leave me feeling bleak.
It's August, but this morning bore a chill
That froze my breath in mid-air as I rode.
One tire was slightly flat, I think, which will
Make bike-riding much harder, as I showed
Myself anew. Hours later, I'm still spent,
And listless, filled with hatred ev'ry time
A task occurs, or question. Like cement
Undried this day pulls me down; it's all I'm
Aware of at this point; I feel its weight.
Oh MAN, three hours to go yet. That's just great.