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)
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.
This path unrolls beneath my sandaled feet:
a shaded level ribbon through the poles
of evergreens fern-aproned, clean and neat.
This path unrolls.
I see no vehicles. I pay no tolls.
The view includes no asphalt or concrete.
The earth feels almost tender to my soles.
Except for birdsong silence is complete.
My eye’s my only lens, my only goals
are taking in all senses of retreat.
This path unrolls.
(Roundel)
I aim to spot Mt. Shasta when I fly
from SFO to PDX, or back.
I pick a starboard window north and try,
or portside when we’re on the southern tack.
If clouds permit there’s candy for my eye –
the peak’s alone – sightseeing has no lack.
With runways closed this time, we flew so near,
the viewing was magnificently clear.
(Ottava Rima)
Of course when I leave home I break routine,
and staying with my kids I go along
with their agenda, witnessing their scene –
a loving fly upon the kitchen wall.
I try to fill my eyes and heart – I mean
to carry home experience of them.
This visit their new custom is a clean
recess from phone. My habit isn’t strong,
but disconnect means here’s no shot to screen.
(Magic 9)
Confusing the birdwatching patriarch name
with Germany’s roadway for speed,
and hearing “gold standard” but in the wrong frame
(“iconic” I thought would succeed),
I started to smile and nodded my head.
I love them but speak differently.
Away from my garden, my bath and my bed,
translating’s amusement for me.
They set their phones down once a week of late –
from Friday night through Saturday forego
the tiny screen, the tinny tune – relate
to three or more dimensions, like a throw-
back (ages range from 12 to 48).
I’m visiting, and now they want to know
will I adopt their little sabbath stay?
I’m old. There’s nothing easier, I say.
(Ottava Rima)
Don’t stern-talk me, his sister said.
That didn’t work from Dad.
Attempts to shush me bend my head
and only make me mad.
You might try listening instead
(I really wish you had).
That pose supposed to ferry dread
looks insecure and sad.
“Relax” and “Lighten up” do not produce
results except exasperating stress.
And “shush” outside the library will loose
in most resentment and in some a mess
of anger they are driven to express.
If calm or quiet are the trends desired,
such voicing may seem passive but aggress.
Example is the recipe required.
(Huitain)
We sat upon the couch and talked a bit.
He wasn’t feeling well in back or head.
Fatigue besieged (as is appropriate,
with two young kids to wrest him from his bed).
Attending to the way he sat and said,
respecting his full plate and steady stress,
I raised my hand and cupped his cheek, instead
of speaking. He leaned in to my caress.
(Huitain)
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