The laurel leaves are lovely, but it’s best
to leave them on the branches or the ground.
They aren’t soft enough to offer rest
while yet you live. In truth, the wise have found,
while honoring the past, it’s no behest.
Without more innovation, we’ll be drowned
in tides nostalgic, brimming with felled trees,
bogged down and dammed by static histories.
I hate it when a fly comes in my room.
Yet I don’t want to murk my view with screens.
I took to closing doors to bar the zoom,
but August heat and dead air’s what that means.
A stranger commented – no fly convenes
within on purpose – they prefer outside.
Of late I open wide, enjoying scenes
and air where no fly chooses to abide.
Remembering how much my brother’s feet
repelled me, as I watch the grandkids spurn
a sibling’s trespass on their space – discrete
in limits – it’s not difficult to turn
to evolution’s rule. We’d risk effete
mutation if we interbred. We learn
with moody pheromones to seek elsewhere
the body with which we can safely pair.
I watched a show about the ultra-rich
engaged in and investing big to find
a longer life. And then I wondered which
rewards inspired such, and for what kind
they hungered? Why and what would scratch the itch?
Of their exploits no trophies come to mind
that merit admiration. It’s obscene
what some will pay for extra dopamine.
The movement of the hour hand defies
mammalian observation, just the same
as floral growth is hidden from our eyes.
For we evolved to play the hunting game,
reactive to attack but not too wise
about slow changes. That’s how aging came
on me – too soft and subtle to detect.
What I can’t see I’m learning to respect.
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.
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