Ungracious me, I’m sure I didn’t thank
my friend enough for giving me a purse
I’d rather pick myself, if I am frank.
For truth be told, my losses were no curse.
It wasn’t hard to notify the bank.
To find replacements I am not averse.
Good gracious me, it would have been preferred,
if she had bought instead my careful word.
(Ottava Rima)
My family in Oregon have fried
this summer, as the Northwest veers to warm.
And East Coast relatives have all supplied
complaints of smoke and ash from firestorm.
But here this year we’re comfortable outside.
The weather has been mimicking our norm.
The atmosphere is sick. We’re still impaired,
but this notes we in ‘23 were spared.
(Ottava Rima)
The symptoms – evening time a clot of phlegm,
and midnight dryness in my throat or nose.
Then every day at nearly 8 a.m.
I count 10 sneezes till the mucus flows.
I wonder if I’m ill or should suppose
I’m aging into local allergies.
But as I suffer the 11th sneeze,
I feel a cough roll upward like a plow.
And then bronchitis prompts a modest wheeze.
Apparently I host a cold for now.
(Dizain)
The sympathy’s appreciated. But
it leads me to believe I ought to feel
more grief and insecurity at what
occurred last week. The violation’s real,
yet I’m serene in cranium and gut;
this thievery’s a petty kind of deal.
A mess suggests whoever played a part
was needy, grabby, leagues away from smart.
(Ottava Rima)
The violation must have taken place
on Friday over night, while I was gone
to children and their children, to embrace
young torsos and the games they’re doting on.
The Sunday morning mess and loss, at dawn
discovered, brought denial, then dismay,
but not for long. I’m not depression’s pawn.
I’m cleaning, dusting, purchasing today.
(Huitain)
Arriving home, the first clue was the gate,
but maybe neighbor Sally missed the latch
when she replaced the nozzle we both hate.
The second oddity I didn’t catch
until I glanced outside at half past eight –
my laundry door ajar that gaped a patch
of void which when it’s closed it never shows.
I didn’t see the mess till I arose.
(Ottava Rima)
Two score and seven after giving birth,
I choose these words to publicize a child
my husband and I loosed upon the earth
who’s always been a force, and seldom mild.
In some ways she reminded me of me,
but we’re as unalike in wit and taste
as I am from my mother – differently:
I didn’t try to mold her. She was placed
upon my breast, alert and beautiful,
her focus forming as she tasted air,
from Day One bright and rarely dutiful,
implacably herself without compare.
She wasn’t easy but she widened me,
expanding how I deem reality.
“Odds are…” “You never know…” we tossed around.
“Of course it isn’t likely, but he may
be prompted to improve.” And then she frowned,
asserting yet another bald cliche.
But I’ve seen new examples that confound
her banal expectations, so I say,
“My optimism’s cautious but sincere.
Let’s keep the faith. We might as well. We’re here.”
(Ottava Rima)
I know she’s fueled by malice and complaint.
I’ve watched her all my life, and heard a lot
of judgment, criticism – nothing faint
or circumspect, and not to be forgot.
Though motes of truth were scattered in her shot,
unduly mean but not a fantasy,
of late her snips and snipes at me have not
an intimation of veracity.
(Huitain)
I bought black market drugs some years ago,
when I was young and laws had not yet passed.
Back then, of course there was no way to know
their provenance – who held them next to last.
But that was better than Big Pharma’s show
(concealing fact and leaving me aghast).
So though I suffer stuffy aging head
I’ll duck the pharmacy, and breathe instead.
(Ottava Rima)
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