Suppertime Sonnets

Werribee Dining by Kirsten Corbett

At Suppertime, I Muse On My Crockpot

My parents are still here due to the snow
That’s falling fatly on us in Cheyenne
And to my invitation to do so;
Round Two of hospitality’s the plan.
It’s cocktail hour as I start to wind up
The preparation of our fine repast:
A chicken dish with apples I’ve lined up
Since ’round the crack of noon. I cut up fast
An onion and some garlic cloves; I thawed
Some frozen chicken and some orange juice;
I mixed that juice with spices and, no fraud
Dumped all into a crock pot, turning loose
The slow heat on the food, right then, at noon.
Now to add in some apples; ready soon!

In The Golden Afternoon

Now here is an enchanting afternoon:
Insomniac, I go out to the swing
To read and laze a bit; I’ve nothing soon
That must be done, no not one pressing thing.
It’s warm and sunny. My friend Adam’s book,
A Danneman to smoke, the air is sweet—
Then through my front yard’s trees I chance to look.
My neighbor gardens shirtless down the street.
I shouldn’t, but I watch, and feel the breeze,
And slowly swing. The birds sing, insects trill,
And leafhoppers land on me. How they tease;
They tickle me with tiny feet. Hold still!
Around me, ants and beetles softly creep.
I close my eyes at last, and fall asleep.

In Which I Go Wild About A Comet Sample

A sample from a comet called Wild Two
Has yielded up results that could support
Panspermia, the notion that the stew
From which we’re made just could be an import
From outer space. Yes, found was some glycine,
Without which many proteins cannot form.
And lest you think that this can only mean
Contamination—you’re not even warm!
The Carbon therein has one more neutron,
Than what we mostly find down here on Earth.
We’re stardust, perhaps also comet-spawn,
Enough to inflate anyone’s self-worth,
E’en if, as may well prove to be the case,
It turns out we’ve got relatives in space.

Sunday, Stupid Sunday

A horrid combination these two make:
Of torpor and of loathing do I speak.
A Sunday afternoon at work can take
All that I have and leave me feeling bleak.
It’s August, but this morning bore a chill
That froze my breath in mid-air as I rode.
One tire was slightly flat, I think, which will
Make bike-riding much harder, as I showed
Myself anew. Hours later, I’m still spent,
And listless, filled with hatred ev’ry time
A task occurs, or question. Like cement
Undried this day pulls me down; it’s all I’m
Aware of at this point; I feel its weight.
Oh MAN, three hours to go yet. That’s just great.

On How I Would Really Love To Go Home And Take A Nyquil Right Now

I have a *COUGH* slight problem with my voice.
Like marathoners *SNEEZE* my nose doth run.
The Kleenex box is empty. I’ve no choice,
*ACHOO* cuz I must end what I’ve begun.
The late adopter of the *SNIFFLE* bug
Is usu’lly the one who *MOANS* the most.
The ones who brought it *STAGGER* home and drug
Themselves and leave the well to coast
On through the week *BLESS YOU* as best they can
Until they, too, succumb—then it’s too late
To go home *HACK*. The job still needs each man
Or woman to keep on *EXPECTORATE*.
And so I tough it out. Can’t help but whine
A bit. At least, though, my job still is mine!

In Which Cocktail Hour Finally Gives Us An Excuse To Stop What The Rain Could Not

Late afternoon, after a hard day’s toil
In my backyard with Dad cracking his whip,
It’s cocktail hour. We watch the stormclouds roil
And lightning flash oer all that we did strip
Of weeds and bunch grass at no little cost.
I eschew power tools whene’er I can;
Expensive to maintain, then there’s exhaust
Inhaled while working. But as Carol Ann
Sherrod might say, you does with what you has.
And what I had was a vast crop of weeds
Beyond what I felt I could cope with as
A single girl. But now my father bleeds
From helping me. The least that I can do
Is get him drunk, and yes, my mother, too.

November

The trees are naked in November sun,
Shed leaves are dry and clatter through the street;
Cool browns, dull greys, some golds but only one
Bright hue relieves the muted palette. Sweet,
The year is ending. Dormancy prevails.
Yet deep inside each thing is closely held
That which against all chills’ attacking fails.
Not death but strength tones down the colors. Quelled,
Then, should be any talk of loss, ennui
Or sadness. Beauty sometimes takes on stark,
Surprising forms if one has eyes to see.
It’s there throughout these days, e’en in the dark.
Take time today; go outside and admire
The bold tenacity that guards the fire.

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Dream Of A Better One

Today I wrote a sonnet in a dream,
Dreamed, too, that I had posted it right here,
Where this attempt is now. But it would seem
The adder whom I dreamed stole it. I fear
It was the best one that I ever wrote.
I certainly believed this as I slept.
I reach now for it, just to watch it float
Away. I sit and wish now that I’d kept
On sleeping, even though t’would be a waste
Of precious time, called free, that’s really not
At all free. How I live my life, in haste
To reach these days, only to nap and rot
When they arrive! And yet, shining and rare
That sonnet, dreamed of, still awaits me there.

Kate Sherrod is a recovering politician, essayist, poet, amateur entomologist, and budding graphic novel author currently residing in Cheyenne, WY. She is the author of Suppertime Sonnets, a blog on which she composes and publishes at least one pseudo-Shakespearean sonnet a day.