I love this garden cottage. I’m amused
by squirrel antics, possum lethargy,
and even skunks at foraging. I’m used
to raccoon noises and temerity.
And I adore the doors of glass I see,
but I might need a threshold tall and wide.
Now squirrels search for food beyond their tree,
and I just saw a fat one dash inside.
(Huitain)
Because I took the job of paying bills
for all five owners of this property,
and seeking reimbursement for the spills
advanced on their behalf by only me,
and due to the protections and the drills
established for “our own security,”
when something goes awry or leaks befall,
guess which Samaritan must make the call?
(Ottava Rima)
I wonder have I grown too old to like
a peer, if I could meet one interesting?
Perhaps my heart’s too callused now and sore,
and throbbed too many times to sense the spike
of Cupid’s arrow loosed while on the wing
or perched upon my lintel or my floor.
Is it too late for fate to give a shove,
and send me in to chance another spring?
Is there sufficient time to now adore
a person I’ll admire? Might I love
once more?
(Curtal Sonnet)
Restarting yoga after 17
days resting, testing to recovery,
I understand the practice more, and mean
to focus my intention with each breath.
I took the floor right after some caffeine
and poetry, and relished every pose.
Although I’m not a flexible machine,
I will proceed. Today’s discovery
includes improving skeletal hygiene.
(Magic 9)
Now I declare I’m back. I’ve tested thrice
the last six days — each time was negative.
I didn’t pay a heavy Covid price:
my lungs were spared; the fever didn’t give
me worse than weary feeling, almost nice.
It broke and I’d a week here too restive.
A little antsiness the last few days
beset me and induced a soft malaise.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m trying not to think ahead too much —
indeed that habit only makes me fret.
While thoughtfulness is fine, I need to clutch
the Covid lesson, so I don’t forget
to live each day in present tense, and let
the future come but not before its time.
I’m extraditing worry, and I’ll set
this counsel in eight syllables of rhyme.
(Huitain)
When someone says they’re proud of what a friend
accomplished or the way a soul behaved,
I get it, but I more than comprehend —
to me the feeling pride suggests they saved
or urged or counseled, had some agency,
and now they are acknowledging good work.
I don’t mean to dispute the eulogy,
but pride from distance seems to carry murk.
I process language differently than most.
I used to watch my dog react to scents
and understood my nose was like a ghost
compared to hers — her smell intelligence
described existence alien to me.
Just so, I’m made of diverse glossary.
I’m feeling bland and somewhat out of sorts.
Recovered now, I do not understand.
I’m like a gem that’s really made of quartz.
I’m feeling bland.
My health improves; I ought to put my hand
to tasks deferred, and yet my mood retorts —
I’d rather not do anything I planned.
My energy is low. My will supports
no exercise or writing. A demand
to do just agitates and then aborts.
I’m feeling bland.
(Roundel)
I’m told they can’t repair my internet
as long as there is scaffolding out front.
Of course that doesn’t settle my upset
(no splice available, no splint or shunt?).
But what’s the point in voicing gripe or grunt?
There’s no one to appeal to or cajole.
I have to wait for others. To be blunt,
the situation’s out of my control.
(Huitain)
I don’t know why I woke at 4 a.m.
I wasn’t worried. Had I had enough
of rest in 10 days home? I doubt the REM
was adequate — my eyelids feel as rough
as if I were awake all night. I’m tough
and not at work today — a small mishap
is minor — sure I’ve dealt with bigger stuff.
There’s time this afternoon to take a nap.
(Huitain)
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