In Which I Emerge Windblown But Happy From A Salon

It should not really matter, but it does;

No matter what, I'm still a girl, although

A girly girl I never really was.

No time to fuss, I'm either on the go

Or planted somewhere with a book. How I

Might look has been of less concern to me

Than how I feel. It's strange, then, that some dye

A new haircut and styling goop can be

Transformative. I've never gone this dark

Nor curly, nor high-maintenance, could this

Somehow be one more odd attempt to mark

That I'm no longer some young chick? I miss

Those years not one bit. So why should I care?

But I have got to say, I love my hair!

In Which Spring Break Affects Even Your Humble Sonneteer

I do believe that spring may come at last.

The bank clocks says it's seventy degrees

Outside. And water drips and spreads as vast

And dirty banks of snow melt (they'll refreeze

Again; it's only March) become the mud

That marks the season. Spring break in the park

With my friend Bonnie, a stir in my blood

Arose as kites flew overhead. A stark

And vivid contrast to how I have spent

Such afternoons of late, huddled and cold,

A bikeskimo in layers of clothes and bent

Close to the handlebars, windswept yet bold.

Now ease and sunlight mean I have to share

The greenway with more folks, but I don't care!

In Which I Indulge In Solar Physics From My Patio

My iPod Touch has brought me lots of fun,

Podcasts and tweets al fresco, but there's more,

For 'mongst the apps I've got is 3D Sun

(I went a little crazy at the store

This first month). Each new day, my gadget brings

New data from our two STEREO probes

That orbit Sol, our star. They snoop on things

That once were stellar secrets. How the lobes

Of my brain light up like a solar flare

(Occipital, parietal and, indeed

The frontal, too!) whenever I look there!

Auroras and coronal masses! Need

I say more? Just today, for me to crave

The program played some wild sunspot shortwave!

SONNET DARE: In Which Enceladus Has Something Still Lacking

Gigantes don't just happen; they must grow
And growing boys need lots and lots of food.
Enceladus, for instance, don't you know
Would find it more than just a little rude
Were he deprived of his burrito fix,
Though he be circling Planet Saturn as
A rocky little moon -- he's number six
In size. And he was never killed; it has
Been told Athena threw a mighty spear
And felled him, but that's far from true as we
Well know; he's out there shining, cold and clear
And with a nice supply of water. He
Just needs some feeding up. A Taco Bell
Would fit the bill. I know he'd find it swell.

SONNET DARE: The Tastelessness Of Tea

The year was Seventeen Seventy Three,
A tax protest took place that we recall
Right to this day. They dumped a bunch of tea
Right into Boston Harbor. It was all
'Cause of a tax on which they could not vote
Or work in any way for to repeal.
Two Thousand Ten Has come and, now, the quote
Tea Party enquote is not the same deal.
They're far from disenfranchised, free to gripe
E'en if their gripes get somewhat out of hand.
I cannot say their arguments are tripe
Completely but, we have to share this land.
The wheel will turn; again they'll have their chance.
I wish they'd see that and sit out this dance.

In Which I Lose My Mind But Gain More Time Sinks

I'm told I have a tendency to spin

Scenarios with little data, so

I should not be surprised that I am in,

Hip-deep, a new obsession. We all know

I'm prone to those as well, so, no surprise

When someone turned me on to these new games,

These interactive fictions, a few tries

Had me quite hooked. Rejoicing in such names

As "Jigsaw", "Edifice" and "Fragile Shells"

And puzzling me at ev'ry turn, these things

Have eaten up my brain for longer spells

Than any have in months. It's running rings

'Round bad TV and neuroscience class

In my obsession race. I hope to pass!

In Which is Formed #WinosForLHC

A live stream as they start the LHC?

Well, sign me up; I cannot be alone

In wanting to watch them make history!

Now in the past it has been error-prone,

This vast machine. Its kryptonite is bread,

Its dipole magnets at one point did need

Repair, and in '05 there wound up dead

One Jose Lages -- tragedy indeed.

Now in the past, for NASA, we have done

Our part to bring success, so why not for

The search for Higgs-Boson? It might be fun

To watch the next experiment, and more,

To raise to science a nice glass or two

Of mead so Loki lets us play on through.

Friday Flash: The Interstellar Feller: In Which An Unpleasant Conclusion Is Reached

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...

No more on foot; Yectara promptly calls
The shuttle down. Soon she and Dr. Vuhl
And Pepi are in flight. And now it falls
To other crewmen to assay the cruel
Fate of Pepito's captors, standing dead.
Some residue is left in cups; it proves
To be mojito analogs. With dread
The xenochemist, Quodlaro, removes
To where he has seen growing an odd plant
That smells like mint but is, he's fairly sure,
Most deadly toxic, pest-bane, one that can't
Be made safe for consumption. With a pure
And earnest look of horror he concludes
Pepito killed his hosts with drink and food!

In Which A Very Ordinary Day Is Had

No words escaped my lips today; once more

Not even Molly, my dog, heard my voice.

No glamor or excitement, just one chore

That came after another, by my choice.

Not ev'ry day should be a quiet one

But when one comes, please help me not to scoff.

There's pleasure to be had, and even fun

In doing nothing on my last day off

Except for laundry, dishes, reading and

Attempting not to spend it all logged on

To feeds and other sites (though this, my grand

Scheme to unplug was not -- this is forgone

As those conclusions go -- successful). Though

I've maybe wasted time, 'tis good so, no?

In Which I Ponder Bees Social, Solitary And Invisible And @Agent139 Is Partially To Blame

Today's been a fine day to think of bees,

Though I'll not see them for some time as yet

Here in Wyoming. This morn it did please

My RSS feeds to tell what I'll bet

Should not be a surprise: a social queen

Of Megalopta genalis, her brain

Learns better than one who has quit the scene,

And chosen solitude. Then one I'd fain

Know better, James Curcio, brought to light

Invisible bees, minions which attack

Malevolence alone, but picked a fight

In saying they do not have drama. Back!

A Queen Bitch, now you see her, now you don't,

Will always bring the drama, if you won't.

In Which Civility Is Longed For

I think of sportsmanship today, and cry

A bit, so poorly honored are its truths.

Today, in victory, one side gave lie

To something we were taught, no?, in our youths:

A gracious winner's what we want to be.

Instead the losing side's called stupid, or

Is wished to illness. Sadly, though, I see

That losing side is just as bad, though more

Is glaring at me from the victors' taunts.

Death threats and histrionics, are they worse

Than sneering gloats? I think not, and it haunts

Me just a bit to see this. While a curse

Is just a word, remember we must share

This world with people we dislike. That's fair.

In Which I End A Day Sucking On Lemon

Some days, I've realized, should never start.
No matter what I did today, 'twas wrong,
And only became more so though my art
My skill and my good will both felt quite strong
To fix what I had broken. As my work
Proceeded, one word only could describe
The outcome of my efforts: FAIL. There lurk
Still echoes of bad dreams of how my tribe
Has failed me, though I thought I overcame
That sense of loss this morning when, ere dawn
Some "ass-on-cushion" time (I cannot claim
This phrase as mine; the author's Isoban)
Brought me great peace and puzzlement. Oh how
That notion seems to me when viewed from now.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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 Remarkable Coincidences Are Remarkable, And My World Proves Smaller Even Than I Thought

My buddy Dan, with whom I used to read
And dote on Dr. Seuss in the Ravine
Back in my college days, with whom I freed
Myself a little bit from all the mean
Constraints of young adulthood, has become
Professor Sonenberg. Though we have grown
Both up and yes, apart, no longer young,
Now share a strange new link that's all our own:
Josh Newton, soon Dan's student, sought me out
On Twitter, likes my sonnets, and he knows
More people in my life, I cannot doubt,
Than even we are sure of yet. This shows
The world as smaller, stranger than I thought,
And still bears more surprises, like as not!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which It Happens Again

(Digital painting by Jose Anibal Gonzales)

Two fragile, slender twins entered my dream
Again last night, ghosts from another time
Or universe, determined so to haunt
Me through this period. It's passing strange,
That nephews I don't have perturb my sleep
And all my waking hours with the sound

Of plaintive cries. Their fear's a painful sound,
They're stalked by death, these two, within my dream,
A death that is their heritage. To sleep
Is to commune with this pair across time
And wonder what they need from me. Their strange,
Uncanny claim on me's an endless haunt.

Meanwhile, conjured a friend of mine a haunt,
That comes among us without sight or sound,
A program or a virus that eats time,
Attacking clocks and spreading, like a strange
Intelligence, man-made, whose only dream
Is robbing from us hours in which we sleep

Or work, but I suspect it's really sleep
That we would lose by losing. That would haunt
Us all, forced to be conscious all the time
And doubting our reality, each sound,
Each thought resembling something from a dream,
Experience, each one, beyond just strange...

What are these tales for? What could be the strange
Intent of these blond boys, this program? Sleep
Brings questions but no answers as each dream
Spins and careens; we go from haunt to haunt
Of memory and unknown worlds of sound
And sight, familiar and yet not, each time.

Awake, too, in my bed, I watch the time
When Morpheus avoids me, when my strange
Immersions cough me up and ev'ry sound
Is alien, each shadow lack of sleep
Will magnify, another curious haunt.
Exploding head's as weird as any dream.

I love to dream, and do it all the time,
And welcome, yes, the haunt and all the strange
Ideas, but wish my sleep could be more sound.