In Which I Thank My Medicine Men

It takes strange tools to patch a torn-up heart,
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.

In Which I Don't Even Try To Dress It Up - I'm Angry And I'm Hurting

A week has passed; my tears have mostly dried

But I am far from healed; I'm angry still.

Still can't quite grasp that Mac Tonnies has died,

Keep watching for him, wond'ring what he will

Dig up for us next. Anger chokes my throat

Each time I look and find him gone again.

Did people in his call center e'er note

Just how remarkable he was? But then

How well do I know my work-mates? Something

Has got to change, to stop, has got to give.

That wondrous Mac went unmissed three days? Bring

Me tissues, please; I'm crying more. We live

In heartless times when how someone's first missed

Is by a distant friend he's never kissed.

Friday Flash: No Return To Mount Shasta Is On The Horizon

Sonneteer's note: this is the tenth 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here and Part the Ninth here. Wow!

Awake again and riding on the lines

Of monofilment her thumbs produce,

Yectara listens not unto the whines

Of fear or of concern her crew lets loose.

The navigator jerks when once he knows

His station is her destination. He

Makes weakly his salute and vainly throws

His glance amongst his crewmen but all we

See from them is that special empty stare,

Awaiting further orders from their queen.

"To Epsilon Aurigae we now dare,"

Yectara barks. The navigator's screen

Is quickly tuned to seek out that far star

And all the worlds around it. "There you are."

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

In Which A Snowy Day Sets Me To Dithering

Contrary impulses have seized me, and

I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.

I still am sick, could barely lift a hand

To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips

And legs that should do that work - yet I would

So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white

Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -

In Saratoga, so that's out. All right

But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp

With Molly in the park? I really ought

To stay home and get well at last. I stomp

An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got

A poor track record, being sick and then

Undoing efforts to get well again.

In Which I Fidget A Little Over NaNoWriMo

I am a both-feet jumping kind of girl,
As I told a good friend just last week. I
Spoke then of matters other than the whirl
Of furious creation that soon to fly
Into my face: NaNoWriMo doth come!
My life, already out of shape, will warp
Still further, though not quite so much as some:
I have not made an outline, do not sport
So much as one lone character sheet yet.
That feels like cheating, like a lack of trust
In my November self. I shall not get
Into that frenzy 'till I truly must!
Though just here in this sonnet, I'll admit:
My friends who've done so seem prepared as spit!

In Which I Squee For A Wonderful Guy

Today is Seventh Son Day, a long while

In coming. As we watch his numbers rise

With J.C. Hutchins, let us pause and smile

For him and us. At last our poor wee eyes

Partake in what our ears so long have known!

That baby-faced JC is sure no slouch,

That there's no pleasure quite like when our own

Do well. That sprawling out upon the couch

With paperback or Kindle is more fun

When it's a friend in there. Oh, JC, dear!

While Personal Effects was a delight

And brought the chills and of course brought the fear,

It's this one that feels like the triumph of

Your work and friends and all you've come to love!

In Which A Friend Steps Up Into A New Role

John Ladd, I think I'm making a great trade

A column or two for your magazine

(I hope that what I've done do make the grade)

On our poetic, internet-ic scene,

For counseling on my misdeeds in chess!

As coaches go you're patient, funny and

You give me hope that I might blunder less

In future games! Your wish is my command

On future essays. Any you may want,

On any subject for Paradise Tossed,

Is yours! Few are the bloggers who may flaunt

A captive sonneteer so to be bossed!

My gratitude, dear John, for all your aid.

As well for all the practice games we've played!

In Which Al Bruno III Ripens Some

I knew him first just as one Ab3,
An author of a Binder, lo, of Shame.
Such lore of gaming horror could not be
Quite real, I told myself, as I became
A devotee of misadventures like
The Achy Breaky Mythos. "Funny" does
Not e'en come close; today these tales still strike
Right home; my eyes tear up! But all that was
Long years ago. These days he's pioneered
Five-second fiction, sick and wrong and great,
The Third Al Bruno has, and I have cheered
Each new bit of his novel. Lo, that fate
Should bring his lurker, me, to be his friend!
Oh, happy birthday, Al! Days without end!

In Which I Rewrite A Lambert Hendricks & Ross Classic Because I'm Feeling Silly

In order to keep me well on my leash
A threat was made one time to take away
My bottle. You may well imagine - sheesh! -
The furore that ensued. "No!" I did say
Unhand that; 'tis well known I can't get well
Without the fruit of many a fair vine,
Yea even were it only Muscatel
(Though I prefer a somewhat nicer wine).
And though ye may beat my head out of shape
As long as I am left enough to toast
My health and yours, yes, please leave me my grape,
Then truly you may lead me out to roast
In hot sun or on fiery coals, your choice.
With whistle wet you'll barely hear my voice.

In Which I Try To Maintain A Healthy State Of Denial

No, no, that's not me coughing, or at least
Not from a bug or virus; 'tis a mere
Rhetorical device. It has increased
In volume, sure, as I know you can hear.
But I'm not sick. And no, no fever burns
My face and chest; my disposition's warm
By nature. No, just as each season turns
Adjustment's needed to this hardy form
Which I inhabit. What's that? Not a sneeze.
You're quite mistaken. I said you are QUITE
MISTAKEN. Well, a little hoarse, I -- please!
I talk all day to earn my keep. By night-
Fall all that I sometimes have left
Is this wee croak. No, I'm not sick; you're deaf.

Friday Flash: In Which Some Background Info On The Grokulator's Crew Is Gained

Sonneteer's note: this is the ninth 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here and Part the Octthhhh here.

What would Mac Tonnies say were he to learn

How right he'd always been about those who

Have shared our Earth with us thru ev'ry turn

Upon its axis? I most surely do

Assure you that 'twas these, the cacogens,

Who ply their mistress with space smelling-salts

Who did so, in and out of time. Not friends

But neither foes were they, just made their halts,

Between trips in the Grokulator's hold,

Within Mount Shasta, where they kept their watch

Not on us, as we think but on the cold

Deeps of the night sky until that time when

The Grokulator'd make a trip again.

In Which I Discover That Chess Is Good Medicine

I took a duck right to the face today

At two hundred fifty knots, as the meme goes.

My throat's new lump just will not go away,

My heart feels like it's taken thirty blows

From someone's mallet. But a game of chess

Long distance, over slow and thoughtful time

Has proved a worthy cure for my distress,

Reminding me I've partners yet in crime,

E'en though my dear Mac Tonnies cannot be

Among their number anymore. Each move

Captures my thoughts, attention, makes me see

More possibilities and does much to improve

My frame of mind, to have it well-engaged.

Thanks to my friend for this small war we've waged.

R.I.P., Mac Tonnies

Standing next to a fuse-box, originally uploaded by Mac Tonnies.

Mac Tonnies, how I longed one day to meet
And talk with you directly. I've admired
Your books and blog and links. Your ev'ry tweet
Brought strange new wonders. You knew you'd inspired
A lot of my big project. I'm so glad
I told you this and shared with you my plans
Which you refined and cheered on. Now, well, "sad"
Is quite inadequate. Among your fans
Your voice, it will be missed - by ev'ry one
Who wants to take enigmas with more than
A grain of salt and not make woo-woo fun
But really try improving the slight span
Of knowledge that we have of what's beyond.
I'm devastated, Mac, that you are gone.

In Which My Thoughts Go Round And Round Like Deep Blue's Wheels

I'm restless. I've had quite an afternoon,

With much occurring and yet naught at all.

The tension's built up too much and so soon

I've got to let it out. My bike doth call.

What did I ever do before Deep Blue

When situations rose that drove me nuts?

I no longer remember, have no clue

Just how I used to pull myself from ruts.

My bicycle and sonnets rule my days.

'Tis discipline, I think, which is all good

But days like this I feel somewhat enslaved

To both, but realize, try as I would

That habits, good, or bad, govern me still

I only think I've something like free will.