Pulpo Paul: In Which A Psychic Cephalopod Is Saluted

Cartoon by Daslav Goicovic. Click here and check him out!

O Pulpo Paul, your record now has reached
Perfection for this World Cup! Truly you,
Are all that is sagacious; you have breached
The psychic wall and squidgeled right on through,
Predicting not just that your German squad
Would wind up in third place, but, too, that Spain
Would take the tournament. Drop your facade,
Now, and reveal your nature as the main
High priest of the Great Old Ones 'neath the waves!
Somehow those mussels told you who would score
And who would make the greatest, wildest saves,
E'en ere you read their entrails. Oh, what more
Might you now offer? Can you talk to Mac?
We'd love to hear from him again. Call back!

SPOKEN SUNDAY: VILLANELLE: Metamorphosis

Sonneteer's Note: This is another contribution to #SpokenSunday, for which I've chosen, perhaps insanely, to write villanelles. CLICK HERE FOR THE AUDIO VERSION.


A car, a man, a skateboard -- that's the scene With which this tale of woe and change began.
No ambulance was called though. Instead, Dean,


Just took himself to urgent care. The keen
And frightful pain was hard to bear; the man
Had walked in on a fractured pelvis, green


And ailing. There was, too, a ruptured spleen,
The surgeons found, and told his wife, Diane,
He'd be as good as new. The breaks were clean.


The new hip was a splendid one. Unseen,
Its bearer formed a madly wild new plan,
And soon appeared in hospital, a mean


And urgent laceration in between
Two parts of one joint festered 'crossed that span.
Then more appearances, near seventeen.


An x-ray or airport detector screen
Would flag him as a menace on each scan.
He shrugs, though; that is just his new routine
(If there is still a ghost in that machine).

In Which Some Mud Gets The Better Of Me

It rained last night, but that was long ago,

And there was little mud left I could see,

So while a certain wariness, I know

And in which I engage, is needed, the

Small lake within the tunnel did surprise

Me just a bit, but that was nothing to

What waited at its end, just where a rise

Begins, with a sharp curve to pedal through.

A sharp turn means my bike and I must lean

A bit; and just there where I did so, there lay

A mud slick. Ere I knew, my bike slid clean

Out from beneath me, yet, to my dismay

Still landed on me. Glad I broke its fall,

But now I hurt all over, overall.

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepito Takes Charge!

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

Launched forth with just a kick from his sickbed,
Pepito, like a guided missile aims
For his Yectara, grabs her, tilts her head
Up towards him as though for a kiss, but maims
Instead the module in her throat with which
She's wreaked such lovely havoc. "Naughty," he
Says quietly. Her lips begin to twitch --
In anger or desire, we can't see.
He takes her hand and leads her, confident
In zero gee as we've not seen before,
Toward the bridge. She knows not his intent
But meekly follows, wond'ring what's in store,
And contemplating that warm, rosy glow
Suffusing him above and yes, below.

In Which I Subtly Pimp An Anthology

The mirror which confronts us ev'ry morn,

So often holds such secrets, we believe,

As only we have known since we were born,

Has watched us smile and wonder, even grieve.

What would it say to us if it could speak?

What secrets does it hide beyond its edge?

And knowing us as it does, just how weak

And sometimes strong we are, what could it dredge

From memory to show the world if such

Were possible? What horrors, if exposed

This way, could ruin us? Reach out and touch

Its surface. What? There is none? You supposed

A thing with that much power would just let

You do that? Now, see what else you will get.

In Which Destruction Looms Complete

My love for beetles may not quite exceed
The love of Haldane's god for them, but might
Were they not also party to a deed
That haunts me with ill dreams in darkest night:
My fav'rite place on earth is dying fast.
Unlogged, unburnt (that part's our fault), it serves
Now as a beetle banquet. In the past
The trees stood green and tall, now -- this unnerves
Me vastly; red and dead, awaiting fire,
E'en as the barkies thrive, twig beetles join
The party. They'll kill off the rest entire;
Then fire will finish. We have now no coin
With which to bargain. Ah, my Snowy Range.
We have destroyed what we tried not to change.

In Which I Make A Silly Historical Analogy

Three hundred and ten years ago, one man,

Unlovely, sickly, challenged, royal, died.

And many thought that they had just the plan,

And ere long ev'ry nation chose a side.

'Twas France and Spain against the freer world,

And thirteen years of bloody war ensued,

That ended in a new world order. Hurled

To prominence were many who embued

Such qualities as we admire today

In football. Now, come Sunday, we shall see

Two old belligerents clash in a way

More peaceful, to our pure and utter glee,

As heirs of the Stadtholder and the Kings

Face off upon the pitch. What joy this brings!

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.

In Which I Eagerly Anticipate A Visit From @MarianCall

In two days time, we welcome Marian Call.

Her tour this year will hit all fifty states.

In Wyoming her stop is -- and I'm all

Excitement to announce this, O my mates! --

In Cheyenne. Heroes Only is the sole

Emporium of comics that will host

A concert on this tour. D'you find this droll?

A sweet chanteuse a-playing at what most

Would name geek central? Ah, but you've not heard

Her album, Got to Fly, then, I suspect.

Nerd-friendly? She is proud to claim that word

As epithet, or was last time I checked.

So come and join us on this Wednesday night.

You'll see this lady's future's firefly-bright!

SPOKEN SUNDAY: VILLANELLE: Recruitment And Its Perils

Sonneteer's Note: This is my first contribution to #SpokenSunday, for which I've chosen, perhaps insanely, to write villanelles. CLICK HERE FOR THE AUDIO VERSION.

"A hard, hard thing, the journey into space;

No matter how luxurious the ship.

There's hardships it is best just to embrace

Recycled air and food, and, for to chase

That down, there's water that has made the trip

Through all your shipmate's kidneys. You must face

These difficulties and much more. And brace

Your fragile self: in order to equip

Our voyage, ere we leave the rocket base,

We must examine you, verify race

And health." The poster read. Undaunted, Skip,

Adventurous and young, signed up to chase

His dreams among the stars, and by the grace

Of unknown gods, he won out, got his chip

(To pay for necessaries). How his face

Lit up; that is until he found in place

Of his small bed, a monster! In its grip

He writhed to no avail. Such was the case,

Of scrumptious Skip, of whom there's now no trace.

SONNET RANT: In Which Capitalists Are Rebuked When They Complain About Capitalism

Free enterprise, what makes this country great,
Say many, but there always comes a time
When jingoists and their ilk must partake
Of their own words, when they cry "it's a crime
That this guy's charging me so much for work
He's done for me today!" and when said day
Is one of rest, when he was home. That "jerk"
Is just as free as you to spend, his way,
His precious summer hours. And this July,
This Fourth, well it's a holiday for all.
Yes, your emergency sure sucks, but I
Don't see why that means that, when you must call
For help and interrupt another's fun
That he can't charge you more. That's freedom, son.

In Which A Childhood Fear Surfaces

It's taking me much courage e'en to look
Upon the photo I've put on this page;
Blame China Mieville for it; his new book
The Kraken, just so happened to engage
Me quickly in a quest again to see
What's haunted me since childhood. Lo! Behold:
Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni
The merest thought makes my blood run so cold,
I'm eight again, in Wyoming, landlocked
But still quite sure this monster lurked below
My bedclothes, clacking beak, thoroughly stocked
With tentacles and after me. I know:
'Twas silly of me, out here, to believe
A giant squid could get me of an eve.

In Which Operation Healthy Backfires A Bit

No alcohol and almost no caffeine,
Lean protein and as little processed crap
As I can keep from eating; that's my scene
This summer. But I fell into a trap:
For also I get lots of exercise
From bike commuting, mowing my own lawn
With my reel mower, and, to my surprise,
I'm up to a round hundred push-ups; dawn
Will also see me doing crunches -- those
I'm almost to two-hundred of. I'm proud
To share this, but there is a price. This blows.
I drink a lot of water, as I'd vowed,
But too much protein and a lack of salt
Means that my dizzy spells were all my fault.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which The Sleeper Must Awaken

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

United in a hubub, cacogens
Both great and small inquire as to the source
Of this distress. Beamed pinpoint by a lens
That rosy ray of data is, of course
Instruction from Yectara's secret, cruel
And unknown lord. It is not aimed at her
This time, however, but upon her jewel,
Pepito. 'Tis his forehead in the blur!
His eyes, unclosed since he did chance to stare
Into the weird, kaleidoscopic hues
Of his odd captors planetside, now bear
A hint of sense; he blinks away the ooze
Of eyedrops, sits upright and sweeps away
His bedclothes. An extraordinary day!

In Which I Lament Something That Is Lacking In Summer 2010

July's begun, a time when many seek
Surcease from scorching in the cool and dark
Of friendly local cinemas. I weep,
Though, as I once again survey the stark
And hopeless offerings for these great screens
This season's bringing. This year, there's not one,
I care to see at all. Some say this means
I'm just too picky; no, I have some fun
At stupid 'splodey blockbusters, as long
As they have ought to recommend them save
A bloated budget. Is it just so wrong
To want a story with what goobers crave
(A lot of CGI, they guess). I rue
This year. I think I'll stick to Doctor Who.