We speak again and neither utters ill,
but not about my life, my news, my pen.
I feel relief but now I wonder: will
we speak again?
I’m tired of her bigotry on men,
her tendency to flouncing quit or chill,
her failure to admit how she was then.
But we go back too far for me to kill
a lifetime of affection, knowing when
alone I can recover love, until
we speak again.
(Roundel)
Aroused by corvid chorus yesterday,
I marveled at the raucous caws I heard.
There must have been a myriad at sway
above my yard. I like the ebon bird,
but not the clots of shit they leave behind
as they take flight. So I was gratified
that when they fled no defecant maligned
the redwood deck that carpets my outside.
Appreciating my good fortune then,
I raised my gratitude to where they roost.
The eucalypt that towers like Big Ben
and shades the yard and sprinkles nuts it loosed,
is standing up, root-strong, to storm mishaps,
and so far doesn’t threaten fell collapse.
Last Saturday was relatively nice.
She didn’t criticize or “should,” the way
she has for ages. I heard no advice
last Saturday.
And that was why my heart began to sway
to softness. My defenses then were ice
exposed to summer sunlight’s noon display.
The time I spent did not exact a price
that I could not afford – my sole dismay
anticipated grief, to be precise,
last Saturday.
(Roundel)
I note each year how Easter coincides
with Passover, for both are lunar-based.
They’re paschal holidays without divides
between solemnity and joy, embraced
with feasts of food and tables flower-graced.
I gather irises and lilies now
in photographs – with stalks my walks are faced –
receiving sights and scents these days allow.
(Huitain)
I have an extra ticket to the show.
It needs a senior user, female please.
My oldest friend’s the one I’d choose to go,
except of late she’s grown obnoxious. She’s
been acting harsh, entitled, to degrees
offensive and vexatious. I’d prefer
to want to ask, and then the impulse flees.
I’d rather go with anyone but her.
(Huitain)
I’ve grown too old for heavy sleep most nights,
and I no longer medicate with pot,
so now the dark is filling up with flights
of mundane dreams I formerly forgot.
The action’s never scary, and it’s not
a forecast or apparent prophecy.
It’s little issues, items lost, a lot
of errands. I don’t think anxiety
is evidenced by dreaming imagery.
But I’ve a friend who tries to sort my self.
She seems to burn to catch and counsel me,
yet she’s the one with Xanax on her shelf.
I must have tweaked my left knee recently,
for daily it protests a certain bend.
As usual it’s port that bothers me –
my starboard side has been my better friend.
I notice symptoms of debility –
a bode of failure or a warning trend?
Recording, I’ll give ink without a frown,
as long as I don’t let it take me down.
(Ottava Rima)
This crazy rainy season perseveres.
It’s falling now, and forecast for next week.
But every day the vernal sun appears
uprising earlier, its rays oblique
and strengthening at dawn and dusk, while spears
of daffodils and tulips shoot to seek
the light, their bells on stalks withstanding breeze,
below the growing shade of dripping trees.
(Ottava Rima)
My brother texted the elided phrase,
responding to my latest pal report.
My friend ignores the emails and delays
remittance so, the retailer’s resort
is interrupting service. First no pays,
then fighting prompts, is her outraged retort.
She focuses complaints in one loud rant:
demands they reconnect her, and recant.
(Ottava Rima)
It didn’t work. No matter how we ask,
the only one reliable is I.
Relocating the bins is no big task –
just once a week – but neighbors don’t comply.
They fill the bins but seldom cart them out.
“I’ll help if I’m around,” the young ones said.
But they are here (and studying, no doubt,
apparently disorganized instead).
It isn’t rocket science. If each dwelled
apart, they’d lug their refuse every week.
“Pretend that’s so,” today I whisper-yelled –
“A Sunday job that’s really not unique.
If when you try, it’s been already done,
well, that’s a benefit for everyone.”
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 