I’m here so much I have a nice routine
alternative to home, without some stuff,
considerately muting my machine
but solving, writing, walking. It’s not tough;
I get my exercise, familiar scene,
variety but salt and wine enough.
And precious time to more than talk: to touch
a favorite who returns my love so much.
Exactly when I needed it, I feel,
an expert spoke to me about a way
so apt to make the sitting-still appeal,
yet loose ideas within cognition’s sway.
Eight minus one in lessons on the reel,
and I completed them as of today.
Securely I now comfort-meditate.
You’d better, friend, if you’d participate.
(Inspired by Light Watkins and his acronym EASY)
My son reminded me, a week ago,
when I defended how to use a word,
that language is made up. Like I don’t know?
I don’t oppose the current; that’s absurd.
But histories are elegant; they show
us patterns of our thoughts. And what occurred
creating numbers let our markets grow.
Exchange of information is the aim,
and bartering needs quantity and name.
I tripped a day ago, but didn’t fall
too hard. Encountering a sidewalk crack,
I stumbled two steps angling to a sprawl
on dirt and weeds beside the concrete track.
I’m pleased to note I didn’t strain my back;
I broke no bone, although I bruised a palm
and slightly wrenched a wrist. Not out of whack,
I aim to notice more, and maintain calm.
He called her arrogant, because she said
she’d read the finest novels in her tongue.
He should have used another word instead,
for she had gorged on stories, starting young
and unremitting, sitting late in bed,
denting cushions, warming seats among
commuters, finding weakness, loving peaks.
She studied books, and knows of what she speaks.
It isn’t just possessing extra time,
though I am old and clearly doing less.
I always got some leisure; I’d a prime
directive to indulge myself, I guess.
I read so much and viewed it as no crime,
I picked the English major to address
my need to read and puzzle. But when young,
much time when up in smoke or for my tongue.
A flicker in the kitchen signaled me
when I arose today, before the sun.
The fan above the stove’s a mystery
that now and then blue-lights, but it was done
in minutes. I resumed contentedly,
but then I heard loud buzzing caused by one
invasive fly. No sooner had I creased
a magazine to hunt, than vexing ceased.
Behavior reckoned age-appropriate,
appareled and accessoried just so,
comporting as our culture deems most fit,
requires sense I never seemed to know,
compliance that in soul I didn’t grow.
And even now I don’t possess the gauge.
I boggle at where expectations blow.
Consistently, I fail to act my age.
I know we call them weeds, but they look good
along the entrance path. And even though
they’ll either dry to straw-pale clumps that should
be pulled or, irrigated, overgrow,
for now I like the way they edge fence wood
and soft-imply sweet water underflow.
Geranium lucidum makes a crowd
of green that for a month will be allowed.
From expectation to reality
exists a space where worry might be sown,
where stress can root and angst can come to be.
The span is temporal and may be bridged
with sturdy planks of equanimity.
I’m learning to reduce projection now,
and register result while earnestly
accepting what from sensing can be known.
The gap is shrinking to infinity.
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