In Which I Muse On A Gadget Study And Its Choice Of Test Material

Oh, what would Papa think, to be so used

As he was for this study of iPads

And Kindles verses paper books. Bemused,

I'd bet. Though I am sure that there are scads

Of writers who would be quite chuffed to learn

Their prose is "pleasant and engaging" yet

Not very difficult for dummies. Spurn

Ol' Hemingway I don't, but I would bet

I'd read a little faster were there stars

And aliens and spaceships in the place

Of something dull and literary, bars

And manly man crap. Give me outer space!

So many of us, forced to read him when

We were in school might sigh if asked again.

Sonnet Dare: An Acrostic Of My Former Twitter Username (Qatesiuradewyo)

Quick, Martin, throw that sonnet gauntlet down!
Apparently I said this at some point
To Martin Double-Dactyl master clown.
Essentially that's the story of this joint
(Spike Lee, I do apologize for that;
I don't think that you'll ever read this, though).
Unusually I don't feel I combat,
Rather I go quite smoothly with the flow
A sonnet should have as I take this dare.
Does this make me accomplished? I can't say,
Except it feels quite good, beyond compare.
Why, I think I could do this ev'ry day.
You'd probably get bored, though, if I did.
Oh Martin, here's your sonnet, crazy kid!

In Which I Become The Pie Monster For A Certain Someone's Benefit

While they were here, I took my Mom and Dad

To lunch in Cheyenne at a special joint.

Needless to say, our lunch was so not bad

That it was fab - but that is not my point.

I got a dare from Ommus once again

To sonnetize The Pie Lady this time

(That's where we lunched and where I found within

A Pie Monster). Now, yesterday my prime

Preoccupation was with Star Trek, but,

He's not so big on deadlines, Ommus, so

Today, a quiet day, I choose to strut

My sonnet stuff on him once more. I know

A sonnet is a strange place for trash talk,

But om nom nom, I'm eating. Take a walk.

In Which I Share My Cure For Earworms

It happens now and then to one and all:
A song plays in our brains in endless loops.
It's rarely one we like but we're in thrall
E'en worse when one we hate makes us its dupes.
Sometimes inflicting them becomes a game
(As Netta Ribken oft accuses me),
In which one tries to implant the most lame
Tune of them all with much unholy glee.
However, I am armed 'gainst these attacks.
The secret arsenal within my brain
Has Schubert's "Trout Quintet" upon its stacks.
Not only does it cancel lesser tunes;
It well evokes an angler's afternoons.

Here Come Some Special Boys

I realized to my chagrin this morn,

As I was listing off those who've inspired

Some sonnet silliness when I, forlorn,

Did find myself too clueless or too tired

To think of what to write -- they've all been guys!

Not one tweepzilla girl has helped me out!

So I put out a call to them. Surprise!

Not one has come through yet, but with a shout

Mike Oliveri in falsetto tones

Came gallant to my rescue, and his friend

Was man enough to dress the part. He owns

A sonnet once again. I won't pretend

I wasn't just a little shocked to see

John Roling's Hooters drag, though. Mercy Me!

Who They Jivin' With That Cosmic Debris?

I'm no economist, nor engineer,
But something in the skies torments my brain:
While it's a given now that with the sheer
Amount of stuff we've launched outside our plane,
A lot of paths will cross in orbit, there.
But lately it just seems that there's too much,
Too many things to track; it turns my hair
Pure white to contemplate. It seems, as such
It might be time to start to do more than
Just bob and weave our stations, shuttles out
Of harm's way when collision threatens. Can
We not begin at least to think about
Removing at least some of it? Or - shock!
Designing craft that throw off much less schlock?

BONUS SONNET: Written On A Dare

The gauntlet thrown, of course I pick it up.
A Twitterfriend has double-dog dared me
To sonnetize on Cheney. I said yup,
I bet I can before I'm off to see
How many Guiness glasses I can down
To celebrate this fine St. Patrick's Day.
I hope he won't turn this here sonnet down --
A meta-sonnet is fair game, I'd say.
We all know 'bout the ex-veep's latest mess:
His rush to out Limbaugh ol' Rush Limbaugh.
Dick Cheney, in his great Bitchassedness
Keeps dissing on Obama, won't withdraw.
But what do we expect from Tortur'n Dick?
Was he going to depart the field that quick?