I won’t complain, except I have to go
to things I missed, required to remain
in Covid quarantine. It’s tough, although
I won’t complain.
A clutter of appointments now detain
me from the leisure time would else bestow.
But hey – I’m symptom-rid and not in pain.
My internet’s repaired. I have no woe.
In truth I’d rather read than entertain
three friends and work with colleagues. Even so,
I won’t complain.
(Roundel)
I’m just not good at waiting patiently.
A timepiece seems to occupy my head –
I can’t engage in acts wholeheartedly
when part of me anticipates instead.
From when I’m seated till my order’s sped
I don’t attend to restaurant chit-chat.
And when expecting a repairman’s tread,
I pace and flit, unsettled as a gnat.
(Huitain)
I hope it’s just some pollen-triggered phlegm,
an allergy response in throat and head,
and not a symptom, felt at 3 a.m.,
that I’ve a cold developing. I dread
the complications rhinovirus-led –
bronchitis, narrowed airway, weariness.
I’m recently too often in my bed –
today the signs are tinged with dreariness.
(Huitain)
I saw the sign a month ago, and thought
“how curious,” but failed to take a shot.
The light had changed – I crossed the street – there ought
to be another there, but there was not.
I wondered at the thing – was it forgot,
that “no to fomite spread” they told us folk?
And anyway the words were tommyrot –
the beggars’ button makes a walker poke.
(Huitain)
I don’t remember sadness when the nest
was emptying – I had so much to do,
there was no leisure for a heavy chest.
The kids were old enough, and able too.
I have some recollection of a fuss
I felt inside, when each was 6 or so,
and for the first time rode the yellow bus
to school, to hours I’d no longer know.
But nothing ever moved me like these days,
when someone I’ve attended twice a week,
and FaceTimed during quarantines, is old
enough to go to school, and often pays
a visit evenings with his parents’ clique.
I miss him now with pain I can’t withhold.
They plan to take the scaffolding a day
from now. We’ve waited almost patiently.
Tomorrow we’ll enjoy reverse-delay –
they’ll come a day before they promised me.
They’ll disassemble tubes and cart away
the netting, planks, and ladders. Then we’ll see
the work my neighbors suffered to afford,
and access to repair will be restored.
(Ottava Rima)
I took to poetry from loving sound
of language, and what meter does to me.
I wasn’t over seven when I found
I took to poetry.
My mother tried to stifle energy
expressing any feelings – always frowned
or snapped, or showed disdain impatiently.
“Oh, can it,” she’d declare. Her speech was crowned
with “nonsense,” “stupid” – she’d no sympathy.
So big surprise – I grew up stanza-bound.
I took to poetry.
(Roundel)
A week after I put these words in ink,
three months after the project was begun,
a day before I’m posting this, I think
my internet will be repaired. All done
will be the work in front, the drink
to celebrate completion will be poured,
and quality back here will be restored.
Four years ago, when tragedy befell,
I flew to her support, and didn’t know
a way to ease her pain or make him well.
Four years ago.
I simply stood beside her. I could show
my love no other way. My days were hell
and nights were worse — she couldn’t rise to low.
It didn’t help to urge. One can’t compel
adjustment or the way emotions flow.
In fact she’s journeyed where no one could tell,
four years ago.
(Roundel)
For what it’s worth, my ballot’s nearly done.
My system is to tune out and ignore
the TV ads and emails — every one
attempts to sloganize and simplify.
My reading really isn’t any fun,
but I cannot okay another’s brief,
invite more checklists, launch a hired gun,
or bless another bureau. It’s a chore
but I owe voting time, and I won’t run.
(Magic 9)
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