Suppertime Sonnets

For Kevvy K

2026-03-18T14:13:52.486-06:00

I don't have any pictures on this phone;

It's been that long since we spent time enough

For photos. That you never were alone

Sat fine with me. You didn't need my stuff

On top of all your own. Health slows us down.

Especially when its troubles come too soon.

But while we could, we painted ev'ry town

From Laramie to Boise, night and noon,

Not red, but brown and gold. It sure was fun,

E'en though I don't much care for sports. Some guys,

It just don't matter what you're doing. One

Dumb night it's bowling bingo next we try

To can some dilly beans and watch the pugs

Knock over lawn gnomes, laughing through the hugs.

The Coolest Night

2024-07-08T22:57:00.001-06:00

I go to bed before the sun has set;

My graveyard shift a decade gone, but still

The master both of mind and body yet.

This first of sev'ral bedtimes always will

Feel like the real one, but this time of year

It's least successful of the many. There

Up in my attic bedroom, you can hear

My podcasts booming through the stuffy air,

The better to compete with noisy fans,

A-spin like windmills trying hard to fight

The heat that's built up all day long. No chance

That they can win, of course; no, not tonight.

Someday, of course, I'll say that 88's

A temp'rature to envy, not to hate.

I Should Be Writing

2014-09-22T01:28:00.001-06:00

No more excuses now remain, and yet
I have yet to take up that which I've longed
To do in earnest. Failure seems to get
The best of me ere I've begun. I'm wronged
In this by no one but myself. I'm mocked
Not by the blank page or the new-filled pen,
But by old habits of belief and thought
(The former more like disbelief; I've been
My nemesis for too long, know the tricks
Best played to thwart me -- when to mimic fear,
And when to use plain loathing so it sticks
There in the mind, so each and ev'ry year
It's harder to get started). How to silence these
But not the needed voices? Tell me, please.

Scotland: In Which It Needn't be the End

2014-09-19T13:26:00.001-06:00

O Scotland, none can say ye dinna try
(And here I cease to try in dialect
Lest I err and offend). I know that I
Was thrilled to see your efforts -- so correct
And civil, as the Scottish way should be.
It's hard to leave a nest, and in these days
Of bigger seeming better, hard to see
How paring down might strengthen someone's plays,
So I suppose at any rate. All change
Is somewhat scary. Think on it some more,
However. While to old folk this seemed strange,
Your younger set, as stubborn to the core
Chose independence. They might get their way
In future. You might yet win free someday.

In Which is Had a Late Night Fright, but By Whom?

2014-09-15T03:50:00.001-06:00

Unable once again to sleep, I sought
Relief in waters hot, of sulfur'rous smell.
Outside my door was waiting what, I thought,
Some kind of prank contraption. "What the hell?"
A radio antenna? Sculpture fail?
In silence, into darkness I stepped t'ward
The mystery. And then it moved! My flail
Of startlement near hit it. Almost gored
Upon a mighty antler, I withdrew,
Then, panting, frightened by a five-point buck
(That's on each antler; it's the West here). "Shoo!"
I said to him. I don't know why. As luck
Would have it, deer spaghetti was my lunch.
Was this revenge? I'd entertain that hunch.

Kirsten, Kirsten, Rest in Crazy Ass Enthusiasm

2014-09-14T09:46:00.001-06:00

A crazy-ass Zen saint, I watched in awe
As we grew up together. Nothing stopped
Her having fun. I never, ever saw
A person so alive. Oft my jaw dropped
To witness such enthusiasm. There
Has never been her like. My fortune's great
To have had her example and to share
Times good and less so with her. And now fate
Has, cruel, decreed that we have had enough?
"Screw that," Kirsten would say, and I agree.
In memory of her, I'll make neat stuff
And do amusing things, will try to be
A bit more like her. And sit in my dress
As she did, now and then. It was the best!

In Memoriam: PG Holyfield

2014-08-22T21:58:00.001-06:00

For nifty hats alone, he'd have my love,
But Patrick had so much more going on
A sonnet cannot tell it all. Speak of
A microphone and what just might upon
So small a thing be done, and there's a clue
Of what might lie beyond the wall. O friend,
A toast in some Tuaca, just for you,
The author of the Stanmageddon. Ends
Do pain so, but my tears are happy, for
I got to know you, if but slightly. In
Your honor do I make this pledge: no more
Will I let Balticons pass by. It 'tis a sin
To take for granted awesome gifts. I will
Give up no more my chances, love you still.

A Rainy Night at the Hobo Pool

2014-08-21T07:19:00.001-06:00

Steam rises, bubbles too, as soil and sky
Decide to bathe together in the rain
As darkness falls. I soak, relax and sigh
And let the heat and water take my pain.
It all dissolves away. And now the light
Which dances, stately, each eve on the pool
Performs a frantic foxtrot in the night,
Bestirred by slashing raindrops. I, a fool,
Who, dazzled by the fireworks that burst
As ev'ry drop disturbs the liquid sheen,
Thinks, of all who have seen this, I'm the first
To notice this. I weep to leave this scene.
Already, though, my ripples have died out,
Lost to the frenzied water's silent shout.

No Town for Young Men -- Except in May

2014-06-25T22:32:00.001-06:00

The river's course is slower in its banks,
From which it nearly overspilled; its roar
Resounding in our fears summoned the ranks
Of Guardsmen, football players... Days of yore
Saw us defend ourselves from waters' rage.
But now, enfeebled, we gladly depend
On others' youth and strength, and blame our age
For what our dollars cannot do. We send
The young to fight our battles ev'rywhere.
We did it once; it's your turn now, we say
To no one (for there is nobody there;
Our monoculture's drowned us out). Today
The sandbags block our views, but we just wait
To pay someone to take them, soon or late.

For Megan James, As She Recovers

2014-05-24T23:01:00.001-06:00

I am in awe; your ACL's been torn
For going on, I'm told, a good three years,
And you've been running on that. Don't they warn
Against these things in school these days? But cheers:
At last it is un-shredded. So now, BOOM!
The rest now should be cake. I say should be...
But something tells me you'll be in the room
We call our store too soon, that we shall see
You back behind your desk before you ought:
Unstoppable's the girl who runs on joints
Like yours have been. Before long you'll be caught
Within the rush again. Recall these points
However: rest is good. Take time for you
And be a bum a while, an hour or two.

Alcohol, Schmalcohol, I Know How To Soak

2014-05-01T22:03:00.002-06:00

The Hobo Pool at night, beneath the stars
Is best of all the places that I know.
Let others go get lit in groups, in bars.
Hot springs impart a solitary glow
To those who choose to pass time there instead.
No cares survive the heat, no aches the balm.
A soak a day, not long before the head
Meets pillows, leads one naturally to calm.
Long after algae's scrubbed from off the skin
And sulfur smells are washed out of the hair,
One's grasp on stress is tenuous and thin.
Why clutch at it? Why should one cling to care?
A wine or whiskey's fine for now and then
But daily? Best remember where I've been.

For @RodneyAnon, With My Sympathies

2014-01-27T21:22:00.003-07:00

Lots of Kevin Costner movies on cable tonight. And in other news, I just hurled my remote at the TV.
— Rodney Anonymous (@RodneyAnon) January 28, 2014

I pick up my remote and softly click.
It's Robin Hood, and it's not Men in Tights.
I pause and briefly let myself feel sick
And click again. The wolves are dancing. Nights
Like this create despair. I try once more
The dreams that may come to this field, nightmares!
The Postman almost evens up the score,
But no. And Waterworld? Nobody cares
That I need some distraction here, I see.
No bodyguards, no goddamn baseball, stop!
My heart's untouchable, but, woe is me
My brain is vuln'rable to ev'ry flop.
O Costner, you must answer for these crimes
Here or in Hell. Bring on, please, the End Times!

My Collie, My Folly

2013-08-28T01:36:00.001-06:00

My darling and my dearest fuzzy friend,
Is leaving me. This afternoon I'll say
Good bye. The very best of times still end
But it's unfair that this one ends this way.
Why did you, Molly, have to get so old
At such a faster rate than I? Why do
You have to go? I know, I know, I've told
Myself that now's the time to say thank you
For all the years of love and laughs, to see
How fortunate I've been to have along
This bit of journey, gently herding me,
A dog like you. I still think this is wrong,
This time, this situation, and I weep
And cannot even find there's peace in sleep.

Gubbish

2013-07-08T20:31:00.001-06:00

Oh god, I've seen inside, and it looks like
A set of wires and rubber bands and cogs
All gone askew, hooked up to it a mic
That amplifies the squeaks and squeals along
The length of you. I woke up in a book
Of Phil K Dick's, and now I can't unsee
What I took in behind your bug-eyed look,
And now I wonder if the same, in me,
Is what you've noticed. Were we both replaced
With broken down machines? Was tenderness
Illusory, a program badly traced
Into our circuitry until, I guess
It failed? Debugging skipped, we've gone straight to
The gubbish phase. Yet still I've love for you.

Did That Really Just Happen? I Guess It Did

2013-07-05T02:42:00.001-06:00

So this is it. The band-aid has come off.
I'm glad I yanked it quickly. So at last
Our wounds get air to heal. I used to scoff
At those who valued closure, but, outclassed
By cold reality, I now admit
The error. We were fools, perhaps, to try,
Two freaks like us, to think that we could fit
Into a normal love. My eyes are dry,
But only from the sudden shock, too fresh
To even feel it. What shall I do now?
Myself and sleep, for it is late, won't mesh;
You're not beside me. Dull, I wonder how
This ever, ever seemed a good idea.
My sweet, I love you still, but let it be.

Lines Written On Receiving An Unexpected Gift

2013-06-06T13:52:00.001-06:00

My roots are deep and strong, and now they're knit
Into a shawl, with prayers that I'll be well.
The purple yarn, with silver, is a fit
For all that regal heritage I tell
Those disbelieving others, who still say
A small town offers little. We who've known
The life, know better, know the finest way
Through sorrow and through pain is to have grown
Together in community with such
As those who made this gift for me. My tears,
I do assure you, are not sad. Too much
Emotion just leaks from my eyes, all fears
And hopes and love and gratitude combine
Whenever I wrap in this shawl of mine.

In Which Is Considered Evil Dead 2013

2013-04-13T09:26:00.001-06:00

An Evil Dead film done with a straight face,
In which the taxidermy never sings,
In which the slapstick's gone without a trace,
Might seem to be the silliest of things,
Yet earnest works when this much care is spent
On camera work, on angles, and on shots
That make each face strange ere malevolent
And gruesome art's applied. So there is lots
To recommend this movie. There is gore
Aplenty, speedy evil zooms, and all
That we expect, yes, that, and then much more:
This film is art! Yet funny, too. I'd call
It Evil Dead 3 -- Not Just a Remake.
Worth all the time and money that's at stake.

Hymn to Garaaga

2013-04-02T00:09:00.001-06:00

Garaaga, father devil, he whose spit
Dissolveth Adamantium, we pray
Thee, slaver not. Thy drool, when
It spews fourth, it melteth stone back down to clay,
And renders all these vessels, all these pots
In which the blood of victims, offered up
To thee, Garaaga, starts to leak in spots,
Quite useless things, and how then may you sup?
Garaaga, thou whose snot, when it congeals,
We sculpt into explosive statuettes,
Take thou this handkerchief. And when it heals,
That weeping sore, its pus, the way it sets,
When ground, can banish faeries! Truly you,
Garaaga, are the god of godly goo!

In Which Ring the Bells of a Big Blue Mobile Phone

2013-04-01T00:14:00.001-06:00

Souffle Girl is a puzzle; aren't they all?
Well, I suppose that, after fifty years,
The Doctor isn't really what we'd call
A mystery. And playing off the fears
That Moffat has of Twitter was a bit
Too silly, even for my silly taste.
All told, though, I'll say Matt has still got it
(My adoration, that would be); no waste
Of time or space, is he. Redecorate
Again, though? Go ahead, as long as you
Tell me a story. As for Clara's fate
Inside a Dalek, I'm down to see that, too.
The best for me, though, was Richard E. Grant!
This won't end well, now, will it? No, it can't!

In Which An Uninitiated Chick Watches the New GI Joe Film

2013-03-27T22:09:00.000-06:00

Since I took on a housemate, my abode,
Already quite a nerdy palace, yes
Is thoroughly and quite completely Joe'd
(And Who'd and whatnot), it's not hard to guess
What I've just come from. And as movies go,
Retaliation certainly has got
A lot of movie in it. We all know
It's just a toy commercial, and I'm not
Its target market, but I still had fun
(Except for all the screechy parts). But why
Does that one ninja chick, who surely must
Be stealthy, go on whizzing though the sky
In tights that emphasize her glowing butt?
How is that sneaky? Whatever, my brain
Is far too pummeled to end this refrain.

In Which We Clear The Way For Siglericus XXX

2013-02-12T12:43:00.000-07:00

Siglericus at last may reign supreme,
For Benedict hath left them in a lurch,
Unfortunate to some this might well seem,
But we all know it's best for any church
To have a shepherd for its varied flock
Whose blessings moist are freely given, but
Are never forced. And hey, is April first
So far from now? I feel it in my gut,
The stars are right. So happy we could burst,
Siglerians, rejoice! The XXX
Is just the first of many welcome signs.
Let Krakens rise, let loose McButter! Vex
The nonbelievers! Substitute for wine
The sacrament of gold Tuaca. Drink!
The world is not so flocked as we might think!

If You Can Read This, Thank A Bureaucrat

2012-10-30T12:46:00.001-06:00

The cops and firemen are heroes, yes,
The paramedics, and the power crews,
The folks who man the pumps -- we cannot guess
How many we will need of those. The news
Is full of people working to bring back
The world we knew. But let us not forget
The heroes stuck behind the desks. You crack
Your jokes about them, but without them, bet
Those cops would have their cars? The ambulance
Would have its bandages and stretchers? Would
The pumpers have the maps? I have a chance
Right here to thank the people who do good
Behind the scenes, who budget, plan, all that
Can only happen with a bureaucrat.

We Have To Quit Meeting Like This, We Have To Quit Meeting, We Have To Quit

2012-10-23T15:48:00.001-06:00

We're just here once, and, really, it has been
So long already since we two were born.
We've wasted time; it really feels like sin
To waste much more. We two, though, sad and worn,
Still fail. I flail, between our meetings, and
Forget you. Watch me now: I cry, I spit;
"Act like you give a shit," is my demand
Whene'er your arms come 'round me, as though it,
That one embrace, makes up for months, as though
You have the right to tell me "Come on back,
Drop ev'rything, do what I want." I know,
It's only me, old friend, who feels the lack
Of thought behind it, and who feels the pain.
Sunk costs are paid. What now is left to gain?

For @Lucysfootball, On The Anniversary Of Her Birth

2012-10-08T11:41:00.000-06:00

A poet's birthday is no common thing.
We're liable to react in strength, betimes.
And since we're paid (a pittance) for to sing
We're liable to react in strength, in rhymes.
But age is comforting: we've made it far
(Much further than we'd thought we would, perhaps)
If work's undone, we need to set the bar
Accordingly, is all. We'll take more naps,
Drink wine, eat ice cream, and approach our toils
Refreshed, ignoring voices in our heads
That scream "our time is fleeting," such as spoils
Our lines. But Amy knows, and never dreads
A natal day: she counts down, spazzes out
And blesses us at midnight with a shout!

In Which A Lad Is 43

2012-09-03T00:07:00.000-06:00

Before the sunset, in the gloaming, from
The batwing doors you stepped. Of course I knew
'Twas you, but for a moment I played dumb.
Those years were painful; I'll have naught to do
With them. But you saw me, have no regrets,
And said hello. And you, dear boy, whose name
Is childhood, stand, all grown-up, quite well-met,
And in your prime. Where others at this same
Stage hid their greys and wrinkles, you just wear
Them like they fit. I hope I can as well.
Life's long yet, and we've burdens yet to bear
Unknown to those who fight their age. I'll tell
You this: you comfort me, just standing tall
And nodding, taking it for good and all.