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.

In Which I Realize Anew That Oragami Is Not For Me

My sister will be here in two days' time,

Which means 'tis nearly Christmas and I must

Get wrapping all this loot. My gift is rhyme,

And maybe taste in presents, but I just

Can't seem to make this paper do my will.

A mere three scraps of tape is all one needs,

Allegedly, to seal them, but my skill

Makes that a joke - it's four at least. My deeds

With giftwrap would put Lovecraft, lo, to shame:

Geometries unseen emerge with each,

E'en if the box is quite Platonic. Lame?

Too tame a word for what I've within reach:

These packages are better termed as blobs.

At least provoking laughter if not sobs.