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 An Engagement Is Announced That Shows All Is Right With The World - Or That The Zombie Apocalypse Is Imminent - Or Both

My friend, James Melzer, cried out "Hey there, BEAAAAANNNNS,

How 'bout we climb up in that Zombie Tree

And fight off walking death from there. I means

For good. And between battles, why don't we

Make sweet love by the fire?" "Oh, well, of COURSE!"

Quoth our Jennifer Hudock. Hold the phone --

Did Melzer just sprout antlers by main force

Of Beanses' strange imagination? Own

It James, you are her hero and I'll say

The antlers suit you well, and as does that hue

Of green she's got you wearing. Shout "hooray"

My readers, at the wondrous schemes these two

Concoct both for themselves and all of us.

I'll say this news is worth making a fuss!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Take A Slightly Inebriated Bike Ride

A few beers 'neath my belt from Kevin's pad,

Deep Blue between my legs under a sky

Both deep and dark, a bright moon and a tad

Too much effusive joy to act as guide

I pedaled swiftly home. The Greenway's glow

In moonlight kept me safely within bounds

Though my gaze was turned up more, toward the show

Up there, as Venus shyly made her rounds

Close to our satellite, which so has caught

Our thoughts, imagination for so long.

Just slightly off my stride, I perhaps ought

Not to have been a-biking, but no wrong

Or harm came to me; truly I felt charmed

And now am home all safe and yes, unharmed.

In Which I Am Delighted By A Faux History

A quite unseemly love of fakery,
Of hoaxers and imposters of all sorts
Is mine. I am less fond of drapery,
But still, I like it better than, say, sports,
As topics for close study and talk go.
So when Forgotten Fashion caught my eye
I knew I had to have it. It's a "faux"
Account of fashion trends that had to die.
Outrageous, playful, strange and funny, each
Sly entry, so convincingly is phrased
That I'm sure that some, quite fooled, soon will preach
From it about that industry, so crazed
It is for all that's new and different.
Kate Hahn, your book is wonderfully bent!

Meta Sonnet: In Which I Consider The Role Of Technology In My Poetry For ParadiseTossed

Without the internet, they could not be,
These sonnets that I publish every day.
While, when first I did start, I thought I'd see
Some real-life inspiration in the play
Of people and events, quite soon I found
A richer vein on Twitter for ideas:
Those links and news which daily there abound
Are now essential; then, too, there's the squeeze
I sometimes put to friends there: sonnet dares.
Then, too, there is the question of research!
I am no chemist, for example. There's
No telling in what deeply horrid lurch
I'd be without those Wikis and RhymeZone.
I don't think I could write these all alone.

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Rush To Write One For The Sake Of Writing One

As bad things happen all around me, still
I have to at least try to sonnetize
To keep my resolution. I'd be ill
And hate myself for days if compromise
Made this the day I at last failed to post
A sonnet here. Please pardon this, my haste.
Completing these is what I love the most
About my days this year. This seems a waste
Of syllables, this poem, but all I've got
Is seconds, it would seem. And now my brain
Seems to have sunk into a state of rot.
Its liquified and would run down a drain
Were I to hold my head near one and shake.
So now you know what little sense I make.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Long To Be Outdoors All The Time In Autumn

It cannot be the smell of slow, cold death,
That drives me e'er outdoors this time of year
To exercise and draw in one deep breath
And then another, can it? Yet I fear
Sometimes that my deep love of Fall's just that:
A love affair with all that does decay,
Dry up, fall off, freeze, rot and then go splat,
Or just detach and gently blow away.
But summer's sun pins me down like a bug,
It burns my bare skin, gives me headaches, brings
Unwanted gawkers out who'll see me. Ugh.
Now as it wanes I think not of those things,
Just climb aboard my bike, relish the chill
And see how quickly I can climb that hill.

In Which I Squee Over... A Gemstone?

I must admit, I long have had a crush
Or two on men whom history has named
As Great, including Alexander. Mush
Replaces brains at any time this famed
Megalomaniac is brought up. I
Have won bar bets on what he called his horse
(Bucephalus) (my hometown's strange) - no lie!
So when I saw this gemstone that, of course,
Was just unearthed in Israel I was
Quite captivated. This carnelian stone
Depicts him young and hubba-worthy. Does
This make me sound a madwoman? I own
Such as an epithet for me. Hooray!
The news of this has simply made my day!

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.

Friday Flash: Everyone's A Critic

Sonneteer's note: this is the sixth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here and Part the Fiveth here!

The shuttle's plume of flame as it departs

Draws much attention 'round the neighborhood,

Especially that of good old Farmer Hartz

Whose field was decorated by the good

And hearty crew of Grokluator. He

Emerges from the farmhouse with a rake

He brandishes as what must surely be

His only weapon, but they are long gone,

The artists who made of his field a shrine

To Pepi's manly beauty. As the dawn

Breaks on Hartz' landscape, all that fine

Detail work is lost on the landowner

But 'mongst the news 'copters is caused a stir.

In Which I Shamelessly Rip Off A Chel White Film

Chel White has shown us what he goes through when

It's time to write. It feels so strange and true

That it is my own sharp, harsh medicine

For when my own processes leave me blue.

First off, I kill the lights except for that

Which shines out from my laptop's baleful screen.

Then smoke a cigarillo there, out back,

Behind my house. I write some words, then scream,

Draw weirdo red cartoons in a Moleskine,

Then wipe out roughly half the words I've made.

To round things out, I let The Dude (he's mine

Own greatest muse) say how I feel, then trade

Self-pity for the awesome pow'r of PANTS.

Then write a lot, crank up the tunes, and dance.

In Which I Watch A Strange Convention From The Sidelines (And No, It Is Not Bacon-Con)

I really just don't understand the birds!

Cheyenne's entire population of

American Tree sparrows, or two-thirds

Of it at least, are, for all love,

Now congregated tight in my backyard.

What's drawn them here to me? I cannot guess.

I simply watch them hopping, jostling hard

Against each other in the grass -- unless

The brand-new chilliness has caused

A mass die-off of insects? Winter's change

Makes these birds switch from bugs to seeds. I've paused

Now in this writing because something strange

Just happened: they've all flown up to my fence,

Then flown back to my lawn again. What sense?

In Which Vikram Seth -- and Lethe Bashar -- Make Me Feel Silly In More Ways Than One

Today I left my current reading back
At home, quite by mistake, but, lucky me:
I am compulsive, keep a mighty stack
Of books always. In my bag I'd a key
To at least one untasted universe.
Thanks to the same dear friend who hooked me on
Cao Xuecin, 'twas a novel, writ in verse,
By Vikram Seth, on which I'm simply gone.
I'm sheepish to say that The Golden Gate
Was new to me before Lethe mentioned it.
I'm stunned at the perfection of this bait
For keeping me from other tasks. Its wit,
So sly yet sad, has me laughing out loud,
Much to comrades' confusion. Hope he's proud.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Frank Roche Wears Many Hats

You may know he's an HR Superman,
But everyone has got his secret side.
Behold Frank Roche, whose interests do span
Beyond the common lot, and woe betide
Those who might underestimate him. Lo!
For while he rocks the suit set with his sage
Advice on dealing with employees, go
With him into his inner life; engage
With him on deeper levels and you'll see
When a fedora's switched for black beret,
A pack of cigarettes close by his knee,
A hepcat doth emerge! I can't convey
The wonder that is there just 'crossed the gap:
Francois Gauluoise, the beatnik poet. Snap!

In Which The Seasons Change Very Swiftly

Just yesterday I wrote of the approach
Of Autumn, felt and seen by many signs.
I missed it once again; winter doth broach
Our talk already as the month declines.
Today's the equinox if one believes
The calendar, but, in Wyoming, learn:
Already we have snow. I'm sure the leaves
Would have been pretty if allowed to turn,
Likewise, the crabapples that I've watched grow
In my backyard might have made lovely jam
Had they a chance to ripen. But I know
Such hopes are most quixotic, as I am
Each April when I dream of such. Alas!
How swiftly those Fall minutes seem to pass!