A week ago, while reading in my chair,
the vernal sunshine beckoned me to start
the ceiling fan, and open to warm air
the door of glass beside me. Looking down
I noticed withered bugs or dust motes there.
I took a cloth and swept them off the wood.
My index finger pressed the threshold where
it meets the frame. It didn’t fall apart,
but it depressed, rain-sodden, begging care.
(Magic 9)
I used to ride BART to the city and back
four work days or more every week,
preferring the last car, where crowding was slack,
employing an end seat technique,
enjoying my privacy, able to view
whose ride was proceeding near mine.
But that was the scene then. It’s now been a few
years I’ve not commuted. Decline
is apparent. The last car is soiled. Some seats
are dismantled and cushions are torn.
It’s used as a bedroom and toilet – defeats
and raggedy garments are worn.
Avoiding all seats near the end’s now suggested,
unless I want travel with senses molested.
The photograph’s from April 21st.
A morning shot, the blaze remote-controlled.
The chill of dawn had thoroughly reversed,
and forecasts showed an end to waking cold.
A month of Spring had already been tolled,
but California’s calendar diverts
from elsewhere norms – the time has come to fold
away the wool and kindle blaze alerts.
(Huitain)
The challenge is to certainly decide
to rest an ailing area again.
It’s quite improved since yesterday. I’d ride
my stationary bike, if I were ten
years younger, like I felt last week inside.
But now is here and otherwise than then.
Tomorrow I expect to feel less old,
for one more day, restrained and self-controlled.
(Ottava Rima)
I think I can ease this though I’m over seventy-three,
in spite of the fact that they told me there isn’t a fix.
The sad diagnosis the doctor depicted for me
goes back to a summer of pain in Two Thousand and Six.
I then learned some postures and stretches in weeks of PT,
respecting my left lumbar hernia, nursing my discs.
It’s hurting of late so I’m heeding the speed of my moves,
reminded to baby the spot till my status improves.
She didn’t fall, exactly – more a slide,
slow-motion and against the idling car,
until she gently met the asphalt. Pride
dictated her denial, but by far
it was the softest topple. Sure we are
relieved we saw no injury. We held
her and uprighted her, without a jar,
escorting her upstairs in fact unfelled.
(Huitain)
The quiet’s weird, when what we have in mind
are floods of Spring that flow from snow that neared
or passed recorded history. I find
the quiet’s weird.
They plastered pictures when the drifts appeared.
The pack’s too deep, but news is deaf and blind
to threat so imminent it needs be feared.
Response should be adopted that’s designed
to mitigate the melt that must be cleared
before the gyves of icicles unbind.
The quiet’s weird.
(Roundel)
Assuming I would spend the night away
from here, to help escort two kids to bed,
and maybe process laundry late today
(my Wednesday contribution to their chores),
I didn’t have a clue I’d hear him say,
“It’s okay, Mom. Let’s make it good for you.”
I didn’t know my back would need allay,
the washer a new part (today it’s dead).
We’ll play and then I’m coming home to stay.
(Magic 9)
This child entertains me, and provokes
ideas that ring as fresh in my old head.
Discussing losing things and even folks,
I told him he can’t lose himself. “In bed
and dreaming, maybe,” I then modified.
“You might lose bits of your identity.”
“No, Grandma,” he acknowledged and replied.
“That’s actually when I find more of me.”
A friend suggested lunch and I agreed.
We settled on a Monday meal, although
I love to spend that day at home, to read
and write and edit, talking to myself
as much as I require, want or need.
On Sunday late the email hit my screen –
her plate was full – our lunch could not proceed.
My glad relief informed me. Now I know
my Mondays are reserved for inner feed.
(Magic 9)
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