Enough Already

Last week I had to rest my foot so much,
that though I read and screened, and tried to find
some ways to use time well and stay in touch
with news, I’d little other on my mind
than getting back to walking. That was such
an occupier, rate of mend inclined
each stanza, overused, redundant too,
till I was just as bored with it as you.

(Ottava Rima)

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While Icing

On Tuesday last, before I left my place,
I iced my slowly-mending foot again.
I thought the wound was healing, but the pace
of my recovery was dismal-slow.
I had to be upright to wash my face,
to brush my teeth, to necessary-walk.
My age retards, but I could see a trace
of normal dorsum. Still unsure of when,
I took to making social plans, in case.

(Magic 9)

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For the Record

The benefit to penning notes like these
(most days a rhyming form of diaries)
is I can scan the posts I’ve left behind,
and let those metered syllables remind
me clearly of a symptom suffered, which
I thought might be forever. So the itch
persistent on my neck and chest abated –
a month from now, foot pain may be outdated.

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Static Strategy

What can I do, when weather’s cold and gray
although we’ve passed the very end of May,
and age requires weeks instead of days
to mend a little injury? Just praise
my fortune that I have this cozy home,
the leisure to compose a little poem,
the funds to buy and time to cook my food,
the easy chair to foster gratitude.

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Another Aging Lesson

Two weeks ago, when first I hurt my foot,
I little thought how long I’d be impaired.
I wore new shoes and carelessly I put
my step so balance went, discomfort flared.
And probably I should have then bewared
and stopped my forward motion, sat a spell.
But I walked on (as if 15, I dared).
I paid for that – my foot is still unwell.


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It’s Too Late

I taught a roommate how to binge on food
when I was 17. We walked around
and cycled flavors with an attitude
that we’d amend our ways and diet soon.
As old as 58, I even skewed
to overeat once more before a shift
to moderation, ceding to a mood
rebellious. Such a plan now years confound –
by reflux, bloat and rapid gain endued.

(Magic 9)

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Restriction here promotes expansion there,
inducing mindfulness as I adjust.
No driving means inhaling more fresh air.
Eschewing meat necessitates some thought
about the way I buy and order fare.
And taking time away from screens and phone
enheartens me to amplify the care
of me, to try the methods undiscussed
when I’m allowed to wander anywhere.

(Magic 9)

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Don’t Your Research

Suspecting it when I was yet a youth,
the years of college formed the certainty:
critique contains few instances of truth –
coincidence is common – one can see
significance in number, or can be
convinced with tint or tone, by phrase and word.
The Internet now spurs – velocity
and breadth are amplifying the absurd.


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He says his ego died but that’s a lie.
He claims he’s not depressed – we don’t see how
that statement can be other than a try.
He’s prompt to self-aggrandize even now,
and though the damage showed him how to cry,
his posture doesn’t stop attempts to bow.
But sadly those direct his eyes to see
his feet, and not his anguished family.

(Ottava Rima)

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A 20-something in our H.O.A.
reported someone planting in the yard.
In fact the man was weeding – “He’s okay:
if you don’t understand, just disregard.”

And then there’s New York Bill, who hasn’t dwelled
on ground floor yet. He claims he doesn’t know
a garden – horticulture never gelled
for him. He’s clueless how to help things grow.

Incredible? A little weird to hear.
It’s not that I expect a verdant thumb.
But all the ignorance they volunteer
appears to me an overdose of dumb.
How many skills can humankind forget?
The problem may not be the Internet.

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