In Which Is Born A Strange Dynamic

There's grass in our backyard now! Doggies dream

Of such things, when of such they've been deprived --

Well most dogs, anyway. D'ja hear that scream?
"Eek! Grass!" quoth mine own collie. I've not jived

You there, I do assure you. When I go

Outside to sit and watch the sprinkler keep

The sod moist, does she join me? Mostly no.

Indeed, her mistrust seems to run so deep

That when her loneliness sets her to choose

To seek my company, she gives a scratch

Upon the backdoor -- but alas, you'd lose

The bet that she is coming out. The catch

Is that she wants me there indoors instead.

Politely I refuse. She bows her head.

In Which The New Year Blows Blustery

White holidays are back, and so begins
The long and messy slog back to the sun.
This last day of the year blasts off our skins
With bitter winds and cold. There's little fun
To be had out-of-doors tonight: streets of ice
Assure nothing but falls and crashes -- yet
I'm sure there's plenty whose pursuit of vice
And silliness will lead them out. I'll let
Them have my fun. It's home for me and mine;
Tomorrow's just another work-day. You
Who venture forth, do hoist a glass of wine
On my behalf, and I'll think of you, too,
Especially my far-flung loves. Someday
I hope to pass these times with you, some way.

R.I.P. That Big Ol' Tree

Long have we thought it dead, e'er since I bought

The KATE STATION, this tall, unlovely tree

That blocks my bedroom windows (as it ought

If it has been placed for one's privacy),

Though it still sported sickly leaves, a bit.

This afternoon sometime, it snapped right off,

Left five feet standing and twelve gone to shit

Sprawled out across the front lawn, and the trough

That was my day already, deepened. Mom

Reminds me that it could have been much worse:

It fell away from this, my house. I'm calm

E'en as I wonder who runs the tree-hearse

Here in these parts, and also wonder, too,

What made this happen. Wind? It scarcely blew!

In Which A Customer Is Lost

Turns out I could have spent the day else-how.

Instead I got up, emptied out this fridge

That lows and mutters like a dying cow,

And waited for the new one. Now a bridge

'Twixt me and an old corporation's burnt:

'Twas dented in the box, that thing I bought,

And it's deliv'ry cancelled -- which I learnt

Long after, after waiting, as I ought

Per my last message from them. When I called

Long past the window, as meat thawed and leaked

And other things got messy, first they stalled,

Then finally admitted that my pique

Was justified. Now, back to the first square

I must prepare to seek a fridge elsewhere.

A Sonnet Of The Mundane: Getting A New Refrigerator

It's ugly, has a tendency to freeze
What I would merely chill, and then it tends
To make such noise -- sometimes it's just a wheeze,
Sometimes a rumble -- that most of my friends
Say they can hear it on my podcasts (yes,
At present I record them sitting at
My kitchen table). Icemakers you'd bless
When hooked up to the plumbing aren't all that
When they just run on nothing. It must go,
And soon it will. Tomorrow, around lunch
Some nice young men in clean blue suits will show
And cart off my old fridge. Till then, the cruch
Is clearing out the present one before
They come. It's mostly condiments, so score!

In Which I Get Up From A Nap With Little Ambition

I'm sure that I'll regret it later. It's

Already dark; I missed the afternoon

With sleeping. Evening now, my old dog sits

(Or rather sprawls) atop my feet, and soon

I'll have a cup of tea. It's glamorous

To be me, and at home, while on the mend.

I feel your envy, know that you'd be us

If given any chance. Well, know, my friend,

It is quite peaceful. Rush hour's died down.

Reflected in my kitchen window, I

Look like I might yet live. Outside, the town

Begins to power off. A cloudless sky

Looms dark and quiet over all. Tonight:

Continued quiet. Might be time to write.

In Which I Sneak A Sonnet From Seat Fourteen

A brand new pencil's just a silly thing,

But it can bring such happiness! Fresh, sharp

And smelling so of wood. I gladly cling

To simple pleasures such as these, apart

From my familiar hominess. My hand

Curls round it, a new friend, so like the old

And well-used ones I left behind -- that grand

And horrid rush to be on time. Behold:

'Tis here and waiting for me, wearing down

In service of these lines. I'm ne'er alone

Though far from those I love (for here they frown

On use of tech that links us), if I own

Or have a pencil handy, I can call

Upon the thought of you, my one, my all.

More Than A Sort Of Homecoming

I've been in motion for a solid week,

Just lighting here and there for moments. May

I call a stop, for now, at last? I speak

Not to complain but rather to convey

My wonder at these orbits I did spin

And how I managed partially to share

Experiences with you. Epic win

On scales untold has been mine ev'rywhere,

Delight feels etched forever cross'd my face

(Disguised a bit, perhaps; exhaustion can

Deform the brightest smile). Now to this place,

The KATE STATION I'm come, and I'll say "Man,

It's good to be back home; I'll stay a spell!"

But soon I'll get the itch again. Oh, well.

In Which A Very Ordinary Day Is Had

No words escaped my lips today; once more

Not even Molly, my dog, heard my voice.

No glamor or excitement, just one chore

That came after another, by my choice.

Not ev'ry day should be a quiet one

But when one comes, please help me not to scoff.

There's pleasure to be had, and even fun

In doing nothing on my last day off

Except for laundry, dishes, reading and

Attempting not to spend it all logged on

To feeds and other sites (though this, my grand

Scheme to unplug was not -- this is forgone

As those conclusions go -- successful). Though

I've maybe wasted time, 'tis good so, no?

February

I like the snowfall, how it makes us stop,

Makes us stay where we were when it began

(If we are wise), how it can make us drop

Our plans and schemes, at least during its span

Of closed-down roads and endless, downward fall.

Late February, there's no holiday

Distracting us. It's winter, and that's all,

And it's enough. We've time in which to play

Within our minds. It's pointless to complain,

Get anxious, focus on some other place

Where we think we just really must be. Fain

We pause and contemplate th'actual space

In which we find ourselves, hemmed in by white

And drifted water, cov'ring so much blight.

Sonnet For A Friday Dusk

The cars go back and forth behind the fence.
A stream of traffic flows on past my yard
Unceasing. So it's gone and will go hence:
The white and then the red lights. It's not hard
To get annoyed at this and wonder why
So many people must go rushing past.
Just to and fro, and fro and to. The sky
Is deepening, dark blue, then black at last,
And out comes Venus, Mars and then the Moon
(At full, or nearly so), and still bright lights
In white, then red, zip by. I know that soon
The flow will slow somewhat; it does most nights.
But right now it's a rapid metronome,
The sights and sounds that tell me I'm at home.

In Which I Have Conserved My Words

A pleasure's there in silence to be had.

A day's gone by and I've not said a word

To anyone. While this might count as sad

Were it a daily truth, not to have heard

A human voice at all, not e'en my own,

For this small space of time feels strangely good.

The world moves at it the pace it's always known

Outside my windows, as I knew it would.

Meanwhile my work continues quietly,

Slow progress upon progress, this thing grows

From what I planted last year inside me

Into something that's new, something that glows

With all the energy I've put there for

First months, then days, now a few hours more.

In Which I Just Don't Get It

I think that I would take it as a gift
If all of nature did seem to conspire
To keep me home, if you can catch my drift.
That's not to say I'm seeking to hang fire;
It's never fun to be stranded. But hey,
It's Saturday, and there should be no rush
To leave a cozy home and hearth today.
The roads are closed; it's no one's fault. Why crush
Another's spirits, focusing on what
You cannot do or where you cannot go?
It's Christmas 2.0. Why not just shut
The door and snuggle up, let someone know
You love them, rest and smile and call it good?
Your work and toil will wait, as well it should.

In Which I Prepare To Be Invaded

The KATE STATION is home to a mere two:

The collie and your humble sonneteer.

In minutes, though, I'll be trying to do

All that I can, with all of my good cheer

To make some room for this, my family -

Mom, Dad, and Sister Kris and, don't forget

That Missy Shitz-poo dog. It's going to be

Our first time all together here. I'll bet

There's something I've neglected that will make

Things difficult for someone. Well at least

The books are shelved, and I've managed to take

Back this old kitchen table from the beast

That is my laptop and accessories.

We might even dine off it if we please!

When It Rains I Can Pretend I'm Camping

My house has metal awnings, front and back.

So when it rains, the water has a voice.

I sit beneath them, listen to the clack

And clatter of the droplets. Happy choice

It was, to build them on. All that ribbed steel

Is like a camper's roof. When I was young

And slept up in the bunk on trips, I'd feel

And hear drops inches from me. How I've clung

To memories like these as time has passed.

Now it's just me, my patio, cigars,

A border collie and the great contrast

Twixt grey skies and green yard, and passing cars -

But their noise is drowned out by all the rain's

Metallic noises on the awnings' planes.

In Which I Tap My Foot And Dare To Dream

Sonneteer's note: Special thanks to Felicia, the rainfairy, for the magnificently apt phrase "Jedi speed dial"

The last rainfall revealed a roofing fail,

Disclosed by a new ceiling leak. I called

The roofer who, like any male,

Said he'd call right back. Oh, how time has crawled

Since then. He came just last night, checked it out,

And mapped out just what tasks he'd need to do,

Then said he'd come today, would give a shout

To say what time he'd be here, see it through.

I've spent most of today beside the phone,

To find out when my peace will be disturbed.

But Jedi speed dial's not a pow'r I own:

I cannot stare and make it ring. Perturbed?

Well, just a bit. Meanwhile I'll take a nap.

That ought to make it happen in a snap!

In The Golden Afternoon

Now here is an enchanting afternoon:

Insomniac, I go out to the swing

To read and laze a bit; I've nothing soon

That must be done, no not one pressing thing.

It's warm and sunny. My friend Adam's book,

A Danneman to smoke, the air is sweet --

Then through my front yard's trees I chance to look.

My neighbor gardens shirtless down the street.

I shouldn't, but I watch, and feel the breeze,

And slowly swing. The birds sing, insects trill,

And leafhoppers land on me. How they tease;

They tickle me with tiny feet. Hold still!

Around me, ants and beetles softly creep.

I close my eyes at last, and fall asleep.

In Which I Indulge My Dork-adence

My chores are done, though there is more to do

(There always is, no?) and as this cool day

Is my last off for this week, I eschew

More toil and opt instead to go and lay

In my yard swing and relax, drink and read.

I've pomegranate tea and Richard Holmes'

The Age of Wonder. Envy me indeed!

I've liberty to dream as my mind roams

Across the stars and seas alongside such

As Joseph Banks and Herschel, Mungo Park

And Humphrey Davy. I enjoy so much

These chances just to read 'til it gets dark.

And once the sun is down I've still the hope

Of stargazing with my small telescope.

On Coming Home After A Minibreak Vacation

'Twas just two days and change and yet it seems
As though I have been gone for weeks instead.
The grass unmowed out front now also screams
For watering, as do the hedge and bed
Of irises and lilies. Welcome back,
Says my front yard as I arrive, so tired
From driving in the blazing sun in black
(Car and attire). See all that has transpired?
There's dust to dust and vacuuming to do.
Out back there's weeds to pull and trim as well.
And by the way when all of that is through
A podcast still needs edited. Oh, hell:
You're worthless as you slump into that chair.
Fine, take a nap, but then to work, I swear!

In Which I Say Good-Bye To A Tall Old Friend

Taking Down Grandfather Cottonwood, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

This afternoon, a tree is coming down
Beneath whose boughs my childhood swiftly passed.
I'm sure it's quite as old as my hometown,
This cottonwood. On av'rage these trees last
A hundred years, then die within their hearts
And slowly rot from inside out, then fall.
The neighbor's house would take the hit. So starts
An afternoon's work: best to cut and haul
The tree, in parts, away. Thus, soon, the sky
Above my parents' yard will miss a piece
Of long-accustomed scenery. Good-bye
Grandfather Cottonwood, good neighbor. Cease
This mourning now, though, Kate: there still is shade
Beneath the clones and saplings that he made