For Kevvy K

I don't have any pictures on this phone;

It's been that long since we spent time enough

For photos. That you never were alone

Sat fine with me. You didn't need my stuff

On top of all your own. Health slows us down.

Especially when its troubles come too soon. 

But while we could, we painted ev'ry town

From Laramie to Boise, night and noon,

Not red, but brown and gold. It sure was fun, 

E'en though I don't much care for sports. Some guys, 

It just don't matter what you're doing. One

Dumb night it's bowling bingo next we try

To can some dilly beans and watch the pugs

Knock over lawn gnomes, laughing through the hugs.

Kirsten, Kirsten, Rest in Crazy Ass Enthusiasm

A crazy-ass Zen saint, I watched in awe
As we grew up together. Nothing stopped
Her having fun. I never, ever saw
A person so alive. Oft my jaw dropped
To witness such enthusiasm. There
Has never been her like. My fortune's great
To have had her example and to share
Times good and less so with her. And now fate
Has, cruel, decreed that we have had enough?
"Screw that," Kirsten would say, and I agree.
In memory of her, I'll make neat stuff
And do amusing things, will try to be
A bit more like her. And sit in my dress
As she did, now and then. It was the best!

Lines Written On Receiving An Unexpected Gift

My roots are deep and strong, and now they're knit
Into a shawl, with prayers that I'll be well.
The purple yarn, with silver, is a fit
For all that regal heritage I tell
Those disbelieving others, who still say
A small town offers little. We who've known
The life, know better, know the finest way
Through sorrow and through pain is to have grown
Together in community with such
As those who made this gift for me. My tears,
I do assure you, are not sad. Too much
Emotion just leaks from my eyes, all fears
And hopes and love and gratitude combine
Whenever I wrap in this shawl of mine.

In Which An Uninitiated Chick Watches the New GI Joe Film

Since I took on a housemate, my abode,
Already quite a nerdy palace, yes
Is thoroughly and quite completely Joe'd
(And Who'd and whatnot), it's not hard to guess
What I've just come from. And as movies go,
Retaliation certainly has got
A lot of movie in it. We all know
It's just a toy commercial, and I'm not
Its target market, but I still had fun
(Except for all the screechy parts). But why
Does that one ninja chick, who surely must
Be stealthy, go on whizzing though the sky
In tights that emphasize her glowing butt?
How is that sneaky? Whatever, my brain
Is far too pummeled to end this refrain.

We Have To Quit Meeting Like This, We Have To Quit Meeting, We Have To Quit

We're just here once, and, really, it has been
So long already since we two were born.
We've wasted time; it really feels like sin
To waste much more. We two, though, sad and worn,
Still fail. I flail, between our meetings, and
Forget you. Watch me now: I cry, I spit;
"Act like you give a shit," is my demand
Whene'er your arms come 'round me, as though it,
That one embrace, makes up for months, as though
You have the right to tell me "Come on back,
Drop ev'rything, do what I want." I know,
It's only me, old friend, who feels the lack
Of thought behind it, and who feels the pain.
Sunk costs are paid. What now is left to gain?

For @Lucysfootball, On The Anniversary Of Her Birth

A poet's birthday is no common thing.
We're liable to react in strength, betimes.
And since we're paid (a pittance) for to sing
We're liable to react in strength, in rhymes.
But age is comforting: we've made it far
(Much further than we'd thought we would, perhaps)
If work's undone, we need to set the bar
Accordingly, is all. We'll take more naps,
Drink wine, eat ice cream, and approach our toils
Refreshed, ignoring voices in our heads
That scream "our time is fleeting," such as spoils
Our lines. But Amy knows, and never dreads
A natal day: she counts down, spazzes out
And blesses us at midnight with a shout!

In Which A Lad Is 43

Before the sunset, in the gloaming, from
The batwing doors you stepped. Of course I knew
'Twas you, but for a moment I played dumb.
Those years were painful; I'll have naught to do
With them. But you saw me, have no regrets,
And said hello. And you, dear boy, whose name
Is childhood, stand, all grown-up, quite well-met,
And in your prime. Where others at this same
Stage hid their greys and wrinkles, you just wear
Them like they fit. I hope I can as well.
Life's long yet, and we've burdens yet to bear
Unknown to those who fight their age. I'll tell
You this: you comfort me, just standing tall
And nodding, taking it for good and all.

For @Nightwyrm In His Ennui

It happens to us all. Like days-old bread,
What has been toothsome now is merely stale.
Like playset swings when kids have gone to bed,
All feels so still and motionless and pale
Like winter sun or waning moon. We sit
Deploring how it all seems like a waste.
We squander time in doing this, admit
That Demon, Maxwell's, might at last have chased
All of the heat from out our lives. But hey --
The bread is stale because a fungus grows
Within its crannies. And the swing will sway
Again tomorrow. Really all our woes
Are brief, and soon will change. But for tonight
Just take a moment; think about what's right.

In Which @Daecabhir And @PandasHeart Have Happy News

Who says that Ren faires bring us nothing good?
'Twas thereat, I believe, that Gregory
(Called Daecabhir amoung the wondrous 'hood
We call the internets) did chance to see
And flirt with a belle femme there, whom we know
As Panda's Heart. True love at soonest glance,
I think, for Greg and Anna, 'neath the glow
Of torchlight. Lo, how sweetly time and chance
Brought dorks to love - and now today we learn
That it's for keeps, for quite out of the blue
Hath Greg announced that she's his wife. I yearn
To hug them both, but this will have to do.
Huzzah, forsooth; here's wishing many years
Of happiness, and lovely ales and beers.

In Which I Can Only Say Wow

There's nothing like disaster-time to teach
Who's in my corner, how I have been blessed
With friends as true as e'er there were. And each
Kept me far from despair throughout. My quest
Henceforth is to deserve them. Pardon me;
Particulate invasion of my eyes
Afflicts me once again. How can it be
That trouble turns to joy so fast? Surprise!
Dross can be turned to gold; the magic's there
Just waiting to be tapped. And now my hope
Is that I'll somehow prove this. To be fair
I know my luck's been good beyond my scope,
So even when it's bad some alchemist
Transforms it. I can't be alone in this...?

In Which I Ponder A Strange, Sad Phenomenon

To miss someone one's known online is strange.
There's still a hole, but he's been fossilized.
His stream just stops, and will not ever change,
But doesn't ever leave, I've realized.
The film's stopped on one frame. We may rewind
Quite at our leisure, easily relive
What won our love originally, find
New things, too, that he alone did have to give.
Mac's tweets are still up; so are Lethe's; both blogs
Have been preserved, and Max's, too, live on,
As shrines or data ghosts, as catalogs
Of what each man has shared. The men are gone,
And no new chapters shall be written, yet
Their echoes do not fade 'mongst those they've met.

In Which I Try To Say Good-Bye To Max Bell

I knew the day would come when we would reach
For our friend Max, and he would not be there.
That day has come, it seems, and now we each
Must find the words -- they're all we have to share.
I've braced myself to feel his absence, yet
E'en so, I was not ready. It's a cheat.
I can't recall what we last spoke of, bet
'Twas something mordant, funny, even sweet
(For, snarky though he often was, his heart
Dictated kindness, even when the dumb
Just burned). I'll deeply miss him, for my part --
Or will when I am over feeling numb
And empty. Ev'ry day's a touch more dim
And more so now, with no comment from him.

To Whom It May Concern: In Which A Better Mathematician Is Recommended

I don't suppose that I hold any sway
'Mongst eschatologists, but if I did
This sonnet would go quite far in the way
Of recommending Nemo for the bid
Of doomsday calculator. Here's a guy
Who draws a perfect circle with no tools
Beyond a pen or pencil. You and I
Would need a compass at the least; such fools
As we have no innate grasp of the laws
Of mathematics as our Nemo hath.
With confidence and without any pause
Could we accept this strange, rare artist's math
And plan to board our pets, know what to wear
For Rapture. Hire him that we may prepare!

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!

In Which @SennyDreadful Hits The Big 3-0

Bend over, Jenny dear, it's now your turn
To get your spanking (do they that across
"The Pond"?). I find you've done a lot to earn
These kind attentions - I'm quite at a loss,
Indeed, to sum you up for readers who
Don't know your work already, that you write
Lovecraftian and subtle, that you woo
The muses with good plonk by dark of night,
That you're a source for finding all the cool
And crazy shows, that ev'ry tweet's a treat
That comes from you. On this, your birthday, fool
Them all! Why yes, you're thirty, but 'tis sweet
To claim you're even older: you will see
The compliments do shower you. Trust me!

In Which A FiendMaster Looks At 40

What can one say on so august a day
(That happens in December), when the man
We call FiendMaster comes to, come what may
A birthday he'd avoid if e'er he can
(Though I found it unscary)? This guy writes
Foul stories, demonizing ice cream men
And most beloved muppets. Now his sights
Are set on unknown, new, bad vistas. When
He told me weeks ago that 40 loomed
And that his liver lillied, how could I
Not mock his cowardice? Yes, Paul, you're doomed.
We all are aging. These years do fly by.
Now quit your whining and write some more tales.
Your Fiendlings don't like waiting. Trim those sails!

Happy Holidays From A VERY Special Baker

Who doesn't like, this time of year, to bake
Some Christmas cookies? It's hard to resist
The impulse to get out the gear and take
A little time. How else would they exist,
These goodies that make holidays so sweet?
The Gonzalexx 3000, being one
Who likes, as much as anyone, a treat
Thought he'd surprise his family. Once done
What robot worth his bolts would let them try
His offering without a little test
For quality and safety? This lil' guy
Sure isn't such; he'll only give the best!
And so, from Jose Gonzales and me,
We hope your holiday's sweet as can be!

Bleak But Not Weak

The year runs down, and I run out of steam --
And cash -- but in the offing there's much good.
I've helped a good friend stride towards her dream
And cross my fingers for her, as I should.
My team-ups all go well, and solo work
Proceeds apace; my job is steady and
A rare security is mine -- a quirk
That almost seems obsence as, crossed the land
So many languish. I do all I may
To help, but mostly it's nowhere enough.
I know I'm not alone in trying -- hey,
This ain't the first time that times have been tough!
It's easy to lose hope this time of year,
But chances unknown may be very near.

A Sonnet For My Tea Mug

I'm ill; the world shrinks tightly; I feel old

And, aching, pace the smallest space I may.

Some moments it's all I can do to hold

A mug of tea. When such times come my way

I dote especially on this one here,

Made just for me by one who loved me well,

But didn't know he'd done so, 'til by mere

And funny chance, I saw it, gave a yell

Of praise and picked it up. It fit my hands

Precisely; all its gnurls and furrows placed

Just where my fingers reach - just as if planned

For me. And, too, though it is plainly based

On any mug, it feels like it was found

Instead of made. I'll e'er keep it around.

Happy Birthday, @CullenBunn

O Cullen, that you wish us not to sing

To you today, does not really preclude

My taking on another silly thing:

A sonnet saying, "Happy birthday, dude."

A gross-out champ whose accent stuns me dead,

A daddy to the cutest child extant,

A storyteller whose shiny bald head

Doth blind us -- no, in fourteen lines I can't

Tell who you are, not adequately, so,

I'll simply hoist a margatweeta (or

An excreble concoction which we know

We'll never touch again). I shall wait for

Your children's book with interest; meanwhile

You keep that Sixth Gun coming, will you, chile?