I’m paging through this blog a year a day
to find the date I finished posting prose.
I aim to lose the papers that display
old poetry cloud-clustered, for I chose
to edit most and repost anyway.
My strategy is to recycle those
originals. But I’m surprised to see
how long I went before all-poetry.
I call the office, weekdays, 4 pm.
And when I’m in the city at that time
I sometimes stop, cough up commuting phlegm,
and perch here where the kids are wont to climb.
I adult-talk before I play with them.
Today I tag this sitting tree with rhyme
and photograph – some day to be recalled,
when offspring memories are overhauled.
The lunchtime wine was great at 1 pm
but afterward my head began to ache,
my throat to dry: results a diadem
impressing me with lessons I should take
away, about restraining for the sake
of comfort at a precious matinee.
I sought to see that film. Next time I’ll make
a goal of good hydration my cachet.
The phrase “by baby steps” does not make sense –
to walk matriculates the human stage
from infancy to toddlerhood. Defense
of verbal right, upon the air or page,
propels me to employ, at no expense,
some syllables more faultless to engage.
I’m pruning, shredding matter where it mounts,
and bit by bit I’m closing old accounts.
I headed for the kitchen late last night,
first justifying what I meant to do.
My reach for snacks diverted at the sight
of water wanting bubbles. And when through
with that activity, an echo drew
me back to a replay of compliment.
I heard again sweet praise. In that review
excess was dammed. Delay renewed intent.
For now, I’m feeling younger than my years.
I’m noting painless days, agility,
and optimistic attitude. What rears
in me for now is positivity.
Although I have concerns, no freight appears
to press me down, and flexibility
is even better than the breadth I seek.
I take no prisoners, at least this week.
If there’s a theme for this July,
I say the word is “prune.”
I’m daily shearing plants to try
to own my garden. Soon
the weeds will lose their ground. And I
am shredding a lagoon
of paper. Anti-multiply
is my motif since June.
Among descendants, there are issues now.
One has a mystery disease of eye.
Another seems amnesiac on how
to handle money, budget, or apply
parental strategy. A third won’t try
a path to health without a doctor’s fix.
I turn to pruning plants and prose, and sigh:
amazed I’m well at 10 past 66.
The word was “sexercise.” The mode was text.
The seatmate on her plane was fun at first.
But what a move he opted to make next:
unwitty and unsubtle, like the worst
he voiced when young. His posture, as he nursed
his cocktail and confessed he’d done some harm
and made mistakes in life, should have reversed
her hopes. It’s clear the asshole lacks all charm.
An imperfection in a favorite book
(less glaring than the one in Fielding’s tome),
impressing me so much, because it took
a hundred reads and screenings to perceive,
does not decrease my pleasure. I’ll still look
with admiration at the plot and words,
but take a mote of comfort I can brook
defects in my own produce, prose or poem,
with stamina and style unforsook.
 | sputterpub on Old Haunt |
 | zumpoems on Old Haunt |
| sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
Sputterpub's Blog 