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.

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?

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!

Mac Tonnies: A Sad Anniversary

There's still a Mac-shaped hole, but when I peer
Into it now, I see a new world, filled
With people and ideas that help me steer
My thoughts away from sorrow, and rebuild
This life of mine. My awe at what I've found
Within that absence cannot be expressed
Except imperfectly. And though the sound
Of that dear voice still echoes, I can wrest
Myself from sadness, knowing what we'll make --
In part to honour him, in part to show
Who we are whom he touched, who cannot shake
His influence and would not -- how I glow!
The possibilities are just as wide
As they were when we had him at our side.

Lines Written Circling Pearson International Airport

It's not good-bye, not anymore, not now

That Twitter keeps us well and truly linked,

I tell myself, yet fail to keep my vow

That I would never cry. As such, I blinked

Back tears when parting from my Paul at last.

I shall return next spring, and meanwhile there

Is much to start and finish. Art thoughts blast

My brain; creative mainlining and care

In choosing how we spent this visit means

The well is truly full; work beckons; we

Collaborate and have our own tasks. Scenes

From gleeful planning sessions, setting free

Our wild imaginations boost my cheer,

But I'll not see my loves until next year.

Tweet

Thoughts As I Circle George Bush International Airport

As William Gibson said of "soul delay,"

I feel a tether to my heart unspool

And trail behind me. It seems strange to say

I'm homesick for Toronto, but a fool

For it and those who live there I've become,

And no return in soon enough. I find

I may regain my equilibrium

If I can simply keep these things in mind:

Mere days and three more plane trips stand between

Me and reunion, and it's so that those

From whom I've parted (though their lack is keen)

Are truly not. So as the distance grows

And Houston's sunset now fills up my sky,

It's only happy tears that fill my eye.

Tweet

In Which Old Friendship Stays Deep: @Globetrot and @ShannonKastner And Me

Oh, how did sixteen years go quickly by
Without the sight of this pair? They are two
Of my most cherished friends. I did rely
On both of them to keep me sane -- lo, youth
Is not so kind to geeks in rednecked lands,
And we had vast and empty spaces 'tween
Our tiny towns. Someone who understands
That knowledge is its own fun, has a keen
And lively int'rest in the world beyond
Wyoming can get lonely, might go mad.
But Shannon and her Steven, of such fond,
Untarnish'd mem'ry made things not so bad.
We kept in touch and last night I refreshed
My eyes and spirit with them, and feel blessed.

Sonnet Dare: In Which @iamhewhoisiam Demands A Hearteater

I've eaten hearts for lunch and dinner; game
Meat is a pleasure, healthy, tasty, fine,
(Far better than some other meals I'd name)
Pan-roasted, served with veggies and some wine.
But that's too literal, I'm sure, for what
Rich Leslie dared me write today, and so,
Though I am sure that he's expecting smut
(This is a fam'ly sonnet blog) I'll show
That my own heart, that metaphoric seat
Of tenderness, has felt the prick of forks
(Though I find no one's out to taste this meat;
I serve it to myself when Love disports
Himself with me and mine). And so, you see,
Nobody ever eats my heart but me.

In Which A Remedy Is Very Strongly Suggested

A fit of rage can happen in a snap,

When someone says the wrong thing, when a look

Makes you feel dumb or small, when all the crap

A day might offer happens, when you cook

As though the lid's too tight and pressure's built

Beyond what you can take, when you're about

To scream and yell, or tear your hair from guilt

Or a misunderstanding, when the shout

You need so to release cannot be heard,

When tears could come but shouldn't, when a cry

Would only make thinks worse, when vision's blurred

By angry tears or just exhaustion, I

Am there with you; Remember and take heart

It doesn't mean a thing that we're apart.

For @Michbek's Birthday

Michbek, you goddess of the old-time smut,

You Henry-Fielding loving, goofy gal,

Who can but love you, who indeed can but

Adore you and your work, my dear old pal

(I say that for your birthday; naught but tact

Comes from my pen, as oh so well you know!),

Companion through the long nights when I act

As a bitch-goddess puppet. How to show

My true esteem? Your husband's shown a way

So here I am, on his blog and on mine

To wish you hrair returns of this great day,

To wish you cheesecake, chocolate and wine,

And thank you for the entertainment. You

Are quite a wonder, dear girl, through and through!

With Love For The @BardoRobot On His Birthday

Lake Marie Runoff, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

Dear Rob, you came to me, a parting gift
From someone we both loved and lost, and I
Can't say enough how easily you lift
My spirits when they're low; and when they're high
You send them soaring higher. How I love
Your raccoon stories and your photographs,
Your drawings and your models and above
All else your kindness to us all. Such laughs
I've had from your creations and your tweets,
Those tingles that you told me to await
Come to me every day, O sweet of sweets.
So let me, ere it becomes far too late,
Wish you the best on your birthday, my dear,
Dear Bardorobot. Start a wondrous year!

February 15th

Those roses, so much cherished yesterday,
Clutched close and sniffed, then put in water, look
More than a bit diminished, though they may
Last days yet ere they're cast away. It took
A moment's thought to get them at the store --
A quick stop, mayhap, on the day's commute.
The hope still lingers, though, that they mean more
Than just some token holiday salute.
Have they been given just to keep the peace?
Would they appear without this odd mandate?
When they fade and are tossed does that release
An obligation for the year? Such weight
To put on fragile blooms, and yet we do
Keep using them to say that "I love you."

In Which A Warning Is Whispered

Be careful, oh, if you ask for your space,
For those who really love you will accede
To your request, e'en though more than a trace
Of pain is theirs. Real love gives what you need
If it trusts in your word. So thus to me
It's happened: earnestly a plea is made,
And earnestly believed and honored, see,
Despite the private tears. And as I'm bade,
I've backed off, promised so to calmly wait,
And, waiting, tried to go about my days
With bravery, then suddenly -- too late --
I find I've lost what most I'd deeply praised.
The accusation's laid down at my door:
Desertion and indifference, the score.

In Which Humans Are Sometimes Cool: Together We Are Mighty!

There's limits to how cynical I'll be

(Remem'bring, too, its roots, that word's, in stuff

Dog-like and pure and poor and largely free

Of selfishness). Sure, there's reason enough

To think the worst of projects folks put forth,

But then sometimes such thoughts turn inside-out.

Ms. Ballantine reached out in all her warmth,

A chorus rose, first murmurs, now a shout:

"Together we are mighty!" Sonic Boom

And Tee need love, but tangible support

Will help more than your words as vast costs loom,

And they two face a future one Mom short.

Six thousand bucks and change already fills

That coffer, and I trade my sneers for chills.

In Which I Try To Elucidate Why I Love Thanksgiving So

Each holiday together is a small
And sep'rate miracle as time goes on.
I dislike somewhat that we have to call
A special day to do it, then be gone,
But so we do and here we are again,
To dine and dig each other. As these go
Thanksgiving is my favorite, has been
E'er since one in a church in college, so
Damned groovy, that, it changed me through and through.
Good food and love can always make a day
A special one; add friendship to it, too,
And gratitude comes naturally, I'd say.
I know for most today just starts a round
Of celebrations - but this one's profound.

In Which My Own Dear Personal Dad Has A Cool Birthdate

Today's date is 09/09/09,

Which we agree is cool all on its own.

It's also quite a day for me and mine:

My father's birthday. How the years have flown

Since he would come home in his uniform

And Kris and I would rush him in the hall.

We're grown now and occasions when his warm

Embrace can hold us both are rare. I call

Him hero still; he always finds a way

To make a diff'rence for the better in

Our lives and others'. How can I convey

My love for him in fourteen lines? I've been

Attempting it for hours, so I'll just say

I love you, Dad, and oh, happy birthday!

In Which I Put On My Teeth-Kicking Boots

O Jennifer, I'm glad that you're in love
And glad for Melzer, too, but knock it off.
A promise made and kept I am proud of:
If you slack off I kick your teeth and scoff.
It's great to start short stories but more so
To finish them. Now quit blaming your job,
Your dog, your grim apartment and your woe
That Dragons Con without you this year. Sob
When you have finished what you have begun.
And know that I am taking my advice
As well. As acolytes unto the Cult of Done
We must advance. Just think about how nice
'Twill be to have accomplished what we meant.
Such ample dividends on what we've spent!

SONNET DARE: What A Difference A Decade Can Make

In this pop-culture-referencing age
A few years diff'rence can prove quite a gap.
As time speeds up it's harder to engage
An older or a younger soul whose map
For territories we traverse may bear
Much older or much newer ref'rence points.
To say naught of the things which make one care.
Then, too, one may leap, one on creaking joints
May get along more slowly. In this case
To love is even more an exercise
In using one's imagination than
Already is the case. If one is wise
One sticks to one's own kind but there's no man
Or woman who is wise in love -- to which
Fact we owe all that makes us such a glitch.

In Which Cocktail Hour Finally Gives Us An Excuse To Stop What The Rain Could Not

Late afternoon, after a hard day's toil

In my backyard with Dad cracking his whip,

It's cocktail hour. We watch the stormclouds roil

And lightning flash oer all that we did strip

Of weeds and bunch grass at no little cost.

I eschew power tools whene'er I can;

Expensive to maintain, then there's exhaust

Inhaled while working. But as Carol Ann

Sherrod might say, you does with what you has.

And what I had was a vast crop of weeds

Beyond what I felt I could cope with as

A single girl. But now my father bleeds

From helping me. The least that I can do

Is get him drunk, and yes, my mother, too.

Father's Day Sonnet: In Which I Celebrate My Own Dear Personal Dad's Verbal Gifts

My Dad's been a Patrolman, Sheriff, Judge,

As acts to follow go, he's pretty hard.

A storyteller, too - I don't begrudge

His greater skills than mine there. And regard,

His phraseology is unsurpassed:

He has heard, sometimes, fishworms fart before,

You're "Little Buckaroo" until you're classed

Perhaps as "Sports Fan," "Bub" or "Coyote", or

Some brand new sobriquet as yet unknown.

As "drunker than a waltzing go-to-hell"

And "Glad you got to see me" both have shone

Forth brightly from his discourse, you see well

Where I come by my weird-ass verbal feats,

Raised as I've been on such lexical treats.