The older I become, the more I hate
behavior impolite or words that try
to rile. I have learned to modulate
the older I.
I never went for any sort of lie.
There’s murk and chaos in dishonest state.
Exaggeration makes me question why.
But what I truly seek to abnegate
is ordinary rudeness. Till I die
I’ll try to gentle-speak and soft-create
the older I.
(Roundel)
I noticed failure and it puzzled me.
A person I respect and know is smart
decided to restrict her tendency
to buy another purse. I watched her start.
I heard the resolution to be free
of sales for half a year. No shopping cart
would tempt her, on the screen or in the store.
She lasted 40 days and bought some more.
It wasn’t an addiction – that was clear.
It didn’t rise to be a test of will,
and reason didn’t get to have a voice.
My friend shook off restraining atmosphere,
rebelling that she’d let no rule instill
obedience. She flounced and made her choice.
Oaks Bottom was our site on Saturday.
Two miles and a half of out and back,
between the rains, between the swamp and sway
of moss and lichen, on a muddy track.
The owls we requested were away,
but ducks were dipping down without a quack.
Blue herons graced our vista – awkward stalk,
as if the mud beneath them stalled their walk.
(Ottava Rima)
Obnoxious was the attitude last night.
And boring was the wish to disappear.
The tone morose, the body language tight,
one might assume there’s suffering. It’s clear
the teenager would rather not be near
the family. Big deal. That’s no surprise.
It’s not a disability or queer.
We love, but can’t respect affect’s disguise.
(Huitain)
Fatigued and travel-stressed, I rested well
last night and woke an hour late today.
I had alone-time then, a pleasant spell
of news and coffee, and I got to play
the solitaire I wished. I’d things to tell
and hear when she returned. A small delay
before a bath I filled with stretch and pose –
the hosting dog beside me and adoze.
(Ottava Rima)
“I can’t keep track of where you are,” Mom said.
My brother asked, “You’re flying off again?”
My oldest friend observed I often head
up north to spend some days with family.
I have no wanderlust. In fact I dread
my absence from the nest I’ve built for me.
Around my house a lot, the truth instead
is you and she and he are home-stuck, when
I venture (never far) where loving led.
(Magic 9)
How fortunate I feel for living here.
Not only does this cottage suit my soul,
but I selected gentle atmosphere,
away from floodplains, chosen with a goal
of walking where I need, with merchants near,
and thus with timing under my control.
You’ve heard me advocate this type of choice,
but I can’t make you heed my happy voice.
(Ottava Rima)
Don’t heed me now. I’m no authority
on building rhyme and specifying how
one might’s well work at writing poetry.
Don’t heed me now.
The syntax needs be natural. I’ll allow
a word’s reflecting etymology
(its present obsolete or middlebrow).
But don’t abuse good sense or sanity,
and let’s play pen with this essential vow:
to ply with caution the apostrophe.
(Don’t heed me now).
(Roundel)
We planted succulents a year ago.
Removing ivy and some old bamboo,
I wanted drought-resistant green to grow,
intent to tuck the roots in rocks. But you
said soil wouldn’t stay in place, and so
we wedged in pots (some hidden, some in view).
They did okay, but rain brings a surprise –
the echeveria’s now adding size.
(Ottava Rima)
I wrong her when I say she shut me down
the days I tried to tell her how I felt.
What hurt was her disdain – that sour frown
and “Can it!” never made my passion melt.
But now I see distinction – there were times
when raving I would shout and storm her ear,
and she’d say “That’s okay – these are no crimes –
just ventilate – it’s me, your mother, here.”
And then I wonder why she loathed me calm
upset, but ranting tantrum she withstood.
My verses all encountered upraised palm,
but uncontrolled emotion rang as good?
Succeeding storms was my apology,
but never did I void the poetry…
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