Perhaps the garden soil wants some food,
or maybe west is not the way to face,
or (likeliest) by too much shade I’m screwed,
but my wisteria does not keep pace
with all the neighbor vines around my place.
Where those abound with blooms, I’ve sparsity,
with scanty buds and stems resembling lace.
I’ll compost, but I’m keeping every tree.
(Ottava Rima)
Supplies for plumbing made her father’s field.
Her granddad and his brothers did it first.
They bought the land their stores stood on, and sealed
the family in wealth as values burst
for Southern California coastal real
estate. But when her faucet broke, her thirst
for new took her to shop on Amazon.
It’s like her sense of heritage is gone…
(Ottava Rima)
Attracted to the winter all my years
(perhaps it was that January birth),
when chill will stimulate, and dark appears
so often it gives firelight more worth,
I can’t ignore the present buds and spears
of vernal growth – renewal on the earth
around. I watch the sunshine sweep my floor
now winter’s gone, but not for evermore.
(Ottava Rima)
The vet about my old retriever said,
“That nose will work as long as beats her heart.”
I think of that, as I view tasks ahead
of me, and make a list, and set apart
my leisure while they’re done. Until I’m dead
I think I’ll have some errands left to start.
I needn’t see them as a stress or strife,
but rather they’re my daily sign of life.
(Ottava Rima)
So used to mini-pretzels and the sweet
of Netherlands, they gave me a surprise –
a choice of little packages, complete
with popcorn or new crackers met my eyes.
I chose two crisps of quinoa snack to eat.
They weren’t bad, and though I don’t advise
that you or I should buy them if we find them,
as mid-day airplane food I didn’t mind them.
(Ottava Rima)
Our roles reversed when I was 5 years old
(she didn’t notice and she won’t agree).
Determining that I’d be self-controlled
was my reply to the barbarity
of mother, nurses, powers over me,
that overruled what should have been a hug.
She’s nearly 98 but seems to be
a child yet. I see, accept, and shrug.
(Huitain)
My parents are the ocean and the earth,
though neither carries gendering or sex,
or any measured motive in my birth,
and don’t directly breathe. I am complex
but not confused, about what each expects –
I take my lesson from the ebb and flow
and fundament. Their wisdom intersects
and underscores all benefits I know.
(Huitain)
I try to spot Mt Shasta when I fly
from SFO to PDX – half-way
it makes my milestone. I couldn’t spy
its loftiness in yesterday’s display.
The sky was clear, but so much snowfall lay
below our path, the mountain didn’t stake
its usual command of peak array.
Instead what dazzled me was Crater Lake.
(Huitain)
I knew him well, or so I thought back then.
We married and we talked incessantly.
The sex was good and we were best of friends.
The subsequent divorce, it seemed to me,
avoided bitterness, was short on rue,
and never severed memories with tears.
We neither named it failure – to pursue
our separate paths did not negate our years.
But recently I dreamed that he lived still,
and afterward he rented space in mind.
I longed to ask for stories of his youth.
I didn’t know my ignorance until
I woke too late – his history’s consigned
to my imagination, and untruth.
Astounding weather, but it’s not as bad
as news reports present, for most of us.
The fact is even too much rain’s a glad
event. We’ve been sore-dry for years, and thus
we’ll weather weather. Ants can’t drive me mad;
while reservoirs recover I won’t fuss.
The leak under my door, the moisture spied
at base of brick, I’ll calmly take in stride.
(Ottava Rima)
 | sputterpub on Old Haunt |
 | zumpoems on Old Haunt |
| sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
Sputterpub's Blog 