When you hear hurtful words, they may be true,
in which case you might heed and thereby learn,
or else they’re not and thus your point of view
can shift, indicting speaker. You can turn
away then from the fool insulting you,
and let that careless blurting speaker churn
alone in sinks of verbal paucity,
except you’d rather like her, if you’re me.
(Ottava Rima)
I like each poem I post, but some speak more
for me, and satisfy an itch I may
have not yet recognized. They might explore
a path unseen till now, or find a way
to pair the words that thrills me in my core.
I notice then no matter what I say,
what sings to me, true-put and firm-believed,
is likely to be not as well-received.
(Ottava Rima)
Is it too soon to put my nightclothes on,
at 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon?
It’s light outside but all my vigor’s gone.
Is it too soon?
My stamina is low enough to swoon.
I’ve wrangled stimulated kids since dawn.
We danced around like we were a cartoon.
I’m strong but not a mighty Amazon.
I’m ready for the silence and cocoon
of solitude. I rub my face and yawn,
“is it too soon?”
Roundel
When I was young, the bridge tolls were so low,
we often paid with coin before we crossed.
The money went from driver-side window
to hand of bridge employee. Some had grins
and others friendly words they would bestow.
At times we paid the toll for who came next,
and then a grateful stranger raced to show
us thanks. Now Fas-Trak and a higher cost
without a soul without – is how we go.
(Magic 9)
“No Outlet” read the sign I passed last week.
Before I saw its front, I tried to guess
its words. I backtracked just to get a peek,
expecting “Not a Thru Street” I confess.
When I was young, the wording was unique –
so “Cul-de-Sac” was seen, and more than less
“Dead End” made our imaginations run.
But now few signs give transitory fun.
(Ottava Rima)
He didn’t lose his personality,
but buffers, blinds and masks were pushed aside.
The chronic fears and stiff anxiety
became more obvious. His macho pride
was weakened by his disability –
his bluster rose in fits; he often cried.
He meant well, but the failings were revealed
that pre-stroke youth and energy concealed.
(Ottava Rima)
“How can I bring a child into this,
our fucked-up world? I just don’t think that’s right.”
I’ve heard the claim that global messiness
disputes gestation of new life. It might
make sense if birth were for the embryo
alone – to set an egg-and-sperm to grow.
How full or halfway empty is your cup?
We all need little kids, to cheer us up…
They called the generation Great, who bore
as children the Depression, and then fought
a few years later in the awful war
(that birthed the bomb) in which the world was caught.
But speaking as a child of that lot,
before the last of them has passed away,
I’ll mention errors everyone forgot
amid PR and movie fiction’s sway.
The cohort all agreed that they had earned
the right to self-indulgence, so they made
the suburbs, pill-abuse, and they unlearned
all debts to earth while chasing global trade.
Attending to resentment for lost youth
they focused on themselves, and tarred the truth.
I long to know the reason we’re all here.
I recollect that as my lasting goal.
As far as I remember, it was clear –
the question bloomed and never left my soul.
I set myself to plumb the depth of me,
eschewing all delusion and pretend.
In earnest I allowed no fantasy,
pursuing meaning as my means to end.
I mated twice, and each time tried to parse
the truth of him, inviting a return.
No matter how I tried the yield was sparse,
for shame and habit barred the path to learn.
I kept my aim. My mirror sight was keen,
but neither you nor I are fully seen.
It’s no big deal – it’s just a Wordle game,
and though at first I played at several types,
I never registered a username
or password. I ignored attempted hypes.
But still I see statistics all the same,
and while I’m not expressing any gripes,
some quick addition, if one cares to peek,
reveals a glitch display in winning streak.
(Ottava Rima)
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