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)
Acknowledging hurt feelings can be wise,
but blaming may be stupid and unfair.
Perhaps you could switch roles, and recognize
your sister’s thought, intention, love, and care.
What would you have her do? Can you advise
behavior that will get her anywhere?
If there’s a wound in you, I won’t fling salt.
But what’s the situation with the fault?
(Ottava Rima)
Returning from the city, I detrain
in downtown Berkeley, Wednesday, 8 at night.
Emerging, no one waiting can explain
why half of Shattuck’s blocked, and every light
we see is from patrol cars angled right
and left across from us. There’s nothing dread
or obvious. I bus two blocks past Dwight,
the chop of helicopter overhead.
(Huitain)
I comprehend our planet’s sick, but here
and now appearances are all benign.
The gardens bloom, the sky is blue and clear,
the drivers and pedestrians align
in local courtesy. It’s hard to fear
catastrophe when every view is fine.
Shipped fruit and radiation rot within –
reminding me of death beneath the skin.
(Ottava Rima)
I’ve loved my brothers over 60 years.
We get along, and one I often see.
The other (middle) left us for the spheres
ex-patriot and, now retired, he
lives half a thousand miles from home base,
where even yet our mother carries on.
We text or talk, but seldom can embrace
the one of us we view as long withdrawn.
He never was emotive – he just shrugged
and turned away, while I was known to rage.
The youngest aimed to make us glad, and hugged
his way through living. Now we’re of an age,
the first grows wise, the third’s all happy clangor,
but middle’s stiff and narrow-spined, with anger.
Impatient even now, past 95,
she seeks a speedy fix for any ill.
She’s been this way as long as I’m alive –
task-oriented with a stubborn will.
Each fall she takes she’ll bruise and bleed, but still
she lives and mends in months, to our surprise.
She’s slowing slowly on her roll downhill
but healing – even kidneys and (now) eyes.
(Huitain)
I had a spare hour last Friday at 2.
I stretched out full-length on the floor.
I didn’t have errands or labor to do,
and outside the rain fell some more.
The fire glowed orange – its heat was a treat –
it’s spring but the sun wasn’t there.
I took 60 minutes, and peace was complete.
My spirit felt lighter than air.
To feel my best, I guess I can’t forego.
I thought to skip a day, to try to rest,
but less than half an hour I’ll bestow,
to feel my best.
I overdid last night, to fete a guest –
a lot of wine, some sugar, pasta dough:
a festival a challenge to digest.
And it was good, but waking I was slow –
a little headachy, I can attest.
I mimicked every posture on the show,
to feel my best.
(Roundel)
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