Sonnet? Nay, This Is A Yawn-et

I worked a night shift earlier this week,
It's part of how I earn the right to roam
This spring. And it was fine, but now I speak
Of aftermath, for once I moseyed home
At 1 a.m., it was not straight to bed
I went, but to the couch to read and write.
Next morning did I sleep, much like the dead,
And barely even dozed all through last night.
And now at work, my Monday, how I yawn!
My thoughts are jumbled and often I forget
Just what I'm doing. Soon, though, I'll be gone,
A beeline for the boudoir made; I'll bet
That I'm asleep before the sun is. Wow.
I wish I could be there, even right now.

On Christmas Mornings Past

One Christmas in Chicagoland, I laughed
As Mark got ev'ry Beowulf there was
Except the Seamus Heaney. Photographed
There with my friends in my red dress, the buzz
Of being new-elected still had me
Bewildered at my fugure. That was eight
Weird years ago. At other times I see
Through watery eyes -- for it was once my fate
Allergic to the hay, to still take rides
Upon a wagon, stacked with it, through town
To look at lights, sip cocoa, at the sidea
Of childhood sweethearts. Weird what circles 'round
In memory, on holidays. This time
I'm just at work, but these are all still mine.

In Which I Tap My Foot And Try Not To Watch The Clock

Just 40 minutes now stand in between
Myself and freedom, and there's much to lure
Me out of here this Mridray: there's my keen
And burning lust for comics (yes, my pure
Delight in that crossover, Hellboy and
Those Beasts of Burden, has caused me to seek
Back issues of the latter), and -- how grand! --
My co-author has come through with a squeak
And zapped me chapter two of what we hope
Shall be a great weird western novel (I
Can't have a gander now though, because, nope,
My use of beta software wouldn't fly
Here at the day gig). And there's work to do
On my days off, oh yes. Oh, fly, Time, shoo!

In Which I Commit A Stupid Error

To make sense now is daunting, even though

I did just sleep for sev'ral hours. It's

My fault and no one else's, as you know.

The day gig's short on staff -- this is the pits,

But it's an opportunity to lay

Aside more funding for my coming jaunts

Whereat I'll wander, meet new folks and play

(I hope) some games. Today, though, this just haunts

My body and my soul. My error lies within

Accepting overtime piecemeal without

Considering the pieces' fit within

A larger context of a day. A bout

Of sleeplessness of nearly twenty-four

Resulted. Brain's a puddle on the floor.

In Which I Regret A Choice Somewhat

Outside the glare is fierce; a strong, dry breeze

Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass

Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees

And I can't get myself up off my ass.

My head aches just to look out windows, and

It's only June as yet. In some despair,

Remembering my thoughts, I understand:

I made the wrong choice back in April. There

Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose

These normal hours, must endure the heat

And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those

Who've made the cool of evening their beat.

Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours

Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.

In Which I Outsmart Myself

Shift trading is a nice thing, quite a perk.
Such practice is how I made Balticon,
And shall make other trips this year. Shift work
Does have its benefits, but look upon
My error on this morning and beware!
Right now my workday really starts at nine,
But she who traded with me, who did share
A need to tweak a schedule. Unlike mine,
Her workday starts much earlier, I knew,
But last night I convinced myself that I
Should be there right at five. That's what I do!
Arriving, my surprised colleagues weren't shy.
"Six thirty's when you're needed," quoth they then.
I sighed and pedaled off, fooled once again.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Am Cut Off From Twitter And Have The Blahs

Today I'd simply mope, or do some chores.
The lawn of weeds out back needs cutting; there's
Still laundry and some dishes. All this bores
Me e'en to list. I'm burdened by these cares
Alone in my big house, so might as well
Trade current blahs for future pleasures, if
I have the chance. And this is why I dwell
Today at ye old day gig, somewhat stiff
And grotty, trading my day off for one
In future months when I'll be somewhere new,
With people whom I've chosen to have fun
Alongside, whom I choose to be with. True,
There is no guarantee I'll live to see
Those days, but it's still worth a try. Ah, me.

META SONNET: In Which I Narrowly Miss Repeating Myself

I'm off the rails, confronting what I've feared,
A near-miss repetition! Already
Have I, right in this blog, quite roundly cheered
A comic that I like. Perilously
I nearly wrote again about Chew; just
As I began to type I thought to check --
A step I hate to take, but take I must;
I'm fallible -- I'm grateful that this tech
I here employ allows so quick a search!
'Tis a good comic, but the world's still vast;
Too much so to repeat. Left in the lurch
A meta sonnet bails me out at last.
It's Frunday, and shift work has drained me dry.
Sometimes placeholder verse is all I'll try.

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which I Muse On FREE, Copyright, And Work

A weekend? Not for me; I go to work
As though it were a weekday. I'm not free
As others are. This obligation's mine:
To be here when I'm needed. It's their right,
Those who do pay my wages so to choose.
I sell my time, exchange it for my pay.

But what I do, the toil for which they pay
Is not what I regard as my life's work.
My livelihood is separate; I choose
To keep my purpose clear and my mind free
Pursuing what I love, as is my right,
But never treating my soul as a mine.

While others' paths are diff'rent, quite, from mine:
They trade direct their musings for their pay,
I do not find, for me, that this is right.
My job allows me to pursue my work
As I see fit, and thus I write care-free,
When, what and how thus just for me to choose.

And there is this, too, in just how I choose
To publish and to share this work of mine:
You, reader, see this poetry for free.
I don't depend on willingness to pay
And make a gift of my improving work
Which you accept, or don't, as is your right.

In honesty, the thought of copyright
On this is really not something I choose
Or else I would not blog; I'd hoard my work
Until I found a way to profit. Mine!
I'd cry, you cannot read until you pay!
And this diminishes what should be free.

We once believed that all mankind was free,
And born that way, each endowed with his rights.
Now more and more it seems we're asked to pay
In various coins, surrenders. Do we choose
This actively? I think not. Friends of mine,
You let things slide 'cause stopping them is work.

I gladly pay for good stuff that was free,
In gratitude for work that's been done right.
But still insist the right to choose is mine.

In Which I Begin To Nod Off Earlier Than I Should

Computers screen a myoclonic jerk

Well from the view of supervising eyes

Were any here; it's Sunday here at work

And neurally I'm cut right down to size

(Ironic since I found a way to learn

Of all things brain and nervous system at

No cost to me - right here). I itch and burn,

Discomfort keeps me jumpy as a cat

And focus is a memory at best.

I don't regret what I did with the time

I "should have" slept, not when I'm truly blessed

With friends whose schedules are not quite the crime

'Gainst nature that mine seems on days like this.

A nine-to-five routine now sounds like bliss.

In Which I Fall Again And Again

Ere dawn and crossing a dark parking lot,

On Sunday morn, most gingerly I stepped,

On packed down snow and ice I saw -- I've got

A good idea of where that is; have kept

From slipping all this winter, save last week

On Friday when I landed on my bum

In that snowbank before my car. A squeak

Of shoe on ice and I was down, but, numb

I rued it and moved on. But then came this

New incident: a damp sidewalk before

The entrance fooled me and ere I could hiss

Or scream, right down I went, right by the door.

My shoulder took the weight, then took a twist

As, trying to get up, up's what I missed.

At Work With A Sinus Infection Makes A Sonneteer Very, Very Cranky

Cheese graters scraping raw nerve endings; that's
What hearing human voices feels like now,
Or having been thrown in a sack of cats
All on the fight; I cringe at each meow.
The purest air still singes at my nose
As though it were an acrid, poison gas.
My ears implode, and just touching these rows
Of keys to type this in's like nails on glass
Or slate. Infected sinuses - a curse.
My temper flares; it's well that I'm unarmed.
A murder rap would only make things worse.
When Mom reads this I know she'll be alarmed,
But she knows it's just something that I do.
I'm worse, please be assured, when it's the flu.

In Which Shift Work And Ebay Prove A Poor Match

A Yaesu FRG was my first pick --
A proper shortwave radio my need.
A taste for analog tech makes me tick,
And Ebay seemed the best place for to feed
My hunger for a new toy. Oh, alas,
The auction ended while I was at work,
And so this dreadful thing did come to pass:
The Yaesu got snapped up by some rare jerk
While I was earning what I need to live.
Split seconds were the difference. One more
Was snapped up while I toiled. For now I give
Right up. But there are other toys galore.
A Hallicrafter S28 will be
A compensation. Now, just come to me!

In Which I Am Mugged By An Unpleasant Day

If this day were a person, I would fear
Him like the bullies who betimes would stuff
Me in my locker during freshman year.
He'd have one eye, and, if that weren't enough,
Six fingers on each hand, and fewer teeth
Than he has got tattoos. His reechy breath,
As sharp as that buckknife there in its sheath;
No need to brandish it. I'm scared to death
That he is not done threatening me yet!
I would he went away, left me alone,
Except I don't know just who else would get
A visit in my stead, who might be thrown,
A morsel into his rapacious maw.
But if he looks away I shall withdraw!

In Which Poncho The Pug Gets The Jump On Santa

Pug-sitting, and it really could be worse;

The dogs were all alone from 6 a.m.

To 5 p.m. I could have had to curse

Disasters on the floors from one of them

(Or maybe both); some business or some torn

And shredded shoes - he's just a baby yet,

Is Poncho - but there's nothing to adorn

The carpet that smells foul. "Like, hey, no sweat,"

He seems to say, the puppy who's my guest,

"Eleven hours? Hey, I am young and tough,

And crate-trained so I know it's for the best

That I don't make a mess indoors. 'Twas rough,

Though, to withstand temptation all the way,

But packages get opened anyway!"

In Which I Prepare For A New Adventure!

It's Friday in my strange, shift-working world,
And nearly time for me to call it quits.
I stretch out with a smile, my limbs uncurled,
Preparing to go north to match my wits
With my friend Jana on a real chessboard
Instead of one on Facebook, and to quaff
Some margaritas. I'll emerge restored,
I think, from Chugwater (now don't you scoff;
It may be podunk to the untrained eye
But it is all about who lives there, no?)
I'm sure that soon the time will simply fly
Too swiftly and 'twill be time to come home.
Oh -- wish me luck, would you? She's kicked my ass
Of late. I'm tired of losing; e'en with class.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Sonnetize Under The Influence

No sleep today, and down a pint of blood,
Six hours and a half till I can go
Back to my home -- by car! -- no flecks of mud
Upon my naked shins, no telltale glow
Across my face from happy bike commute,
I'm witless, all cognitive dissonance
And everything I hear sounds such a hoot
I giggle like a stoner. Grateful chance
Has me here in a workspace by myself
Lest others think the daughter of the vine
Hath plied me too much with our fav'rite juice.
Across the fishbowl's glass, beyond the shine
Of glare I see the Twins and Tigers duke it out
But can't make out who's winning, but don't pout.

In Which Sleep Is Proven A Questing Beast And I No Pellinore

Requirements of the service, lo, have bid

That Tuesdays I work nights in this month. Lo:

I bow my head to this, but flip my lid

At what else this foul day has wrought, and so

Sit up when I should still be fast asleep.

My house's new roof had some flaws, and rain

Was coming through the ceiling. It would keep

On doing so till fixed. My quest became

To get this repair done ere winter's snows.

Success, at last, is mine, but why today?

Just as a pleasant dream ramped up, here shows

Up all the crew with power tools and, hey,

With noise and strangers fill my afternoon

And morning, too. Quick, hand me the harpoon.

In Which I Am Chastened By A Scene At A Fast Food Joint

How old is he, the man we saw at noon,

A whisk broom and a dustpan in his hands,

A cannula connecting his nose to

A backpack tank of oxygen? He stands

Just slightly stooped, a hard-working rebuke

To how we haven't cared well for those folk

Who've toiled their lives away, then by some fluke

Of fate that's really more a bitter joke,

Though well-advanced in years, still find they're stuck

With no recourse but to take on such work

In fast-food clean-up, just to make the buck

Or two he needs to stay alive. The smirk

His supervisor gave us while this wage

Slave shuffled past still calls up rage.

Sunday, Stupid Sunday

A horrid combination these two make:
Of torpor and of loathing do I speak.
A Sunday afternoon at work can take
All that I have and leave me feeling bleak.
It's August, but this morning bore a chill
That froze my breath in mid-air as I rode.
One tire was slightly flat, I think, which will
Make bike-riding much harder, as I showed
Myself anew. Hours later, I'm still spent,
And listless, filled with hatred ev'ry time
A task occurs, or question. Like cement
Undried this day pulls me down; it's all I'm
Aware of at this point; I feel its weight.
Oh MAN, three hours to go yet. That's just great.