In Which An Old Pal Turns 30: Waka Waka Waka

Can it be thirty years since we first learned
A hungry man can live on yellow dots?
How many million quarters have been burned
To hear the waka waka? Must be lots!
I ever was a duffer at this game;
One only was there in my little town
And that where I dared not go, to my shame --
The high school kids were scary, hangin' down
At the convenience store, when it was new.
Now where the arcade games were, you will find
A low-rent humidor of cigarettes.
I wasn't totally deprived, though, mind:
I too wasted much time with no regrets.
I had to go to Rawlins, that was all
And play at Roller City. 'Twas a ball.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Consider Overstrained Emoticons

I look upon my keyboard's topmost row,
And what a strange assortment meets my eye!
A choice of numerals or marks that go
(For the most part) at the tail end of my
Long sentences -- or such was once the case
Ere email and its ilk came on the scene,
And people sought to make of them a face
To try push the words past what they mean
In dictionary senses: Sarcasm,
A gentle tease, confusion, any hue
That ears or body language could draw from
The spoken word, or eyes see as a clue
From handwriting or facial expression.
Emoticons, ubiquitous, have won.

In Which I Break My Brain Trying To Bring Back Memories

This week in Saratoga, I got back
A pile of photographs I once had mailed
Home to my parents. From within this stack
Smiled all of my Brazilian friends I've failed
To keep in touch with. Once they taught me bits
Of Portuguese - that mostly over drinks
With the result that my command's the pits
When sober. Time passed faster than eyeblinks:
Years later I'm on Twitter and, for fun
I try to talk to guys from Portugal,
About books, stars and things in their own tongue.
They're kind, amused as I bust out my skull.
Fernando Fonseca and dear Jorge
Candeias, thanks seems not enough to say!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Celebrate Decades Under The Sun

When I, for one, think of the 70s

It smells of printer's ink. And what I hear?

A newsroom all abuzz with cursing bees,

The clinks and clunks of linotype. I fear

That I am marked for life by all those days

Spent after school on Main Street at the Sun.

How else explain my decades-later craze

To come back home and join the staff? What fun

To have a byline where my Mom's had been

Chuck's, Candy's, Starley's, Cheryl's, Lori's too!

To take the Wallace Biggs again and win

Like they did. Would that I were there with you!

I'm proud to be a Togie writer, glad

That Dick Perue was there, an extra dad.

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