colophon

The raison d'etre of Sonnetblog is slight.
As stated, it's but an attempt to wield
Creative urge by taking pains to write
A weblog that to sonnet form must yield.
If one day this site's volume has revealed
The need, the author will at last index
The contents. 'Cept for that you should be steeled
For spartan ambience. Just watch me flex
For all to see my pigeon mental pecs.
Yet rest assured, developers, that yes,
The XHTML's not so complex
But fully hews to standard CSS.
The Sonnetblog's an offshoot of 'Bred Crumbs.
And natch, its update power from Blogger comes.
— August 15, 2002

02.28.03   [Plain of Existence]

It's something I expect from corp'rate chains
With menus made by marketers, not cooks.
And stopping in slim Jared's place explains
Why they have "sandwich artists" on the books;
As these sad souls give you their vacant looks,
It's clear they're hardly sandwich scientists.
But even in my workplace diner's nooks
(Staffed none too brightly, also true) persists
The ignorance that makes me clench my fists:
They do not get I want my sandwich plain.
I order thus, yet still begin the lists —
"With onion?" No. "And mustard?" No! In vain
I state my wish; each day, they're stunned anew.
As plain as "plain" is, they're bereft of clue.
This condiment assumption baffles me.
Are my plain sandwich ways so really weird?
Why so perverse to want the core to be
The all, instead of trapped beneath the tiered
Accessories, the tangled garnish beard?
Why does my preference so confound the drones?
Is individuality so feared?
I love meat, but I never eat the bones,
So why then would they think I'd ever jones
For rigid, tasteless, ungreen lettuce stems
Or bitter, teary stink-fruits white as stones?
And it would be like painting priceless gems
To let meat flavor founder in the seas
Of ketchup— What? Well, yes, I'd like some cheese.

02.22.03   [Sightings]

  • A man on BART wears glasses but must hold
    His Ludlum book five inches from his face
    And turn his head to scan the story told.
  • An addled woman just outside my place
    Directs at me from out her aged face
    An exclamation I can make no sense
    Of — warning? But of what? So just in case
    I look around, see nothing there or thence.
    She walks away, relieved at my expense.
  • A run-down man just managing to stand
    Upon the escalator, sans pretense,
    Adores the magazine that's in his hand.
    Toward the old woman on the front, with bliss,
    He puckers forth, and gives her pic a kiss.

02.13.03   [Up the Academy]

With nominees the Oscars greet the dawn,
And more this year than ever in the past
I greet their machinations with a yawn.
Though much acclaimed, this year's Best Picture cast
In apathy from me is not surpassed.
In spite of all the acting chops it has
The Hours of estrogen I've not amassed.
Chicago's flair is not my kind of jazz
(Loved Moulin Rouge, but that was thanks to Baz).
No Pianist when I've not found the will
To bear the toll of Schindler's List. And as
For Gangs, historic Leo holds no thrill.
Rings II is there, but Oscar, keep your token.
Your old elitist spell on me is broken.

02.03.03   [Honor Columbia]

It is a mark of these accursed years:
That there was news became clear first, and when
The news itself did not outpace my fears
I felt relief. A sense of loss grew then,
Yes, for the lives, but more the hopes of men.
If this disaster is allowed to slow
Our reach beyond the earth, then once again
The future takes a grievous, crippling blow.
But shouldn't the profound achievements glow
When measuring our brave stretch into space
Enough that even such a pitch-dark low
Can for a moment dim but not erase?
As we assess, endure, and fortify
Let's not forget our need to learn, and fly.
Home

NOTE: To see the intended layout of this page, please upgrade to a browser that meets Web standards.

Words and images copyright ©2002-2008 Tim Bland, unless otherwise noted or externally linked.
Sonnetblog is a division of 'Bred Crumbs [timbland.com].