I played a Scrabble game with family
on Sunday, as it rained outside their place.
I saw them looking at their phones – all three –
a little funny and a small disgrace.
Desiring memory of every face,
I didn’t shout. I chuckled an appeal –
“It’s time to look at others, and embrace
the difference playing online, versus real.”
(Huitain)
The smoke from border fires starts to clear,
and soon home skies will let some blue appear.
My sinuses react to pollens here,
and patience with the kinfolk veers to queer.
I have no observations to en-poem.
It’s timely to get ready to go home.
I dreamt last night my toddler was misplaced.
I saw her last with toys upon the floor.
Pursuing treasures small, she crawling chased
some marbles and then sought a little more.
And I lost track of her – my dreaming tour
went elsewhere. I awoke to worried cares.
Where was she? Then I let time reassure –
she’s 47 now, asleep upstairs.
(Huitain)
I had to overhear the arguments –
there wasn’t any room to get away.
Disparity in their intelligence
was always large, but now the field of gray
has shrunk to black-&-white. Denied dismay
in one promotes false attitude and naps.
The other runs to growth and turns to play.
A path two decades shared erodes in scraps.
(Huitain)
I try to early-leave for every flight
(less nervous if there should be a delay),
and usually the train conveys me right
on time, but there were rough events today.
Police have something wrong to clear away,
or so each PA syllable explains.
I reached the airport, but I write to say
I had to board no fewer than four trains.
(Huitain)
I realized Tuesday as I walked to work,
and planned to see police who had secured
some missing items, circumstances jerk
me back and forth of late. I’ll grow inured
in time to what occurred, but I’m not cured
as yet – the stimulation doesn’t stop.
I yearn for bored, and long to be assured
there is no other shoe about to drop.
(Huitain)
I never felt my name was right for me,
my parents’ choice too girly, and the last,
acquired through a marriage that would be
dissolved deservedly and somewhat fast,
yet after naming kids and company.
I bore it, but until events just passed,
attempts to steal this old identity,
I didn’t know how dear these tags became –
I’m driven to protect and keep my name.
(Ottava Rima)
I froze my credit. I secured each door.
I spoke to fraud departments and – oh wait!
Although I see no evidence of more
intrusion, looking at the redwood gate,
I note it isn’t latched the way I’m sure
I left it last. I’m strengthening its state.
I can’t prevent a climb but I can block
at bit, retard. I gild it with a lock.
(Ottava Rima)
Eight days before today, I wrote these words,
expecting when it publishes I’ll be
at table watching feeders ringed with birds,
and interacting with a family
I fly to now with loving frequency –
four days, five hundred miles in the air.
I write expecting equanimity –
may irks be minor and my manner fair.
(Huitain)
I learned about a rabies incident –
the victim of a mad dog didn’t get
the painful gut injections that prevent
the hydrophobia that will beset
and, odds are, take the life of who was bit.
The doctors had to battle, one-by-one,
each dire symptom as in time it hit,
until the course of illness had been run.
The victim lived. I recollect that tale
as fresh attacks are made on my I.D.
It seems through vigilance they’re bound to fail,
because of acts by banks and even me.
I didn’t buy a lawyer, tech vaccine
or Ring, but it appears my credit’s clean.
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