I don’t know what variety it was,
but there are three adjacent to the fence.
I’m noticing it recently, because
the guy who tends the garden pointed thence
a month ago. Its death conveyed no sense,
but he and I intend to make amends
to dirt and drainage – then at some expense,
replant the spot with what he recommends.
(Huitain)
I recollect that lunch I had with you
a decade and a half post our divorce,
describing how my own self-knowledge grew
to counter some old causes of remorse.
Then glibly you replied you’d known no guilt
since we split up, as if I were to blame
for any rue you felt before the jilt.
You staggered me with that embittered claim.
For I knew then how you abused our son
with anger so extreme, and slaps and yells.
And recently I learned, when he was young,
how you neglected him – your drinking spells
and inattention. Guilt’s poor penalty,
and you deserve all current agony.
I didn’t know your dad was negligent.
Before we split I saw him love you so,
I had no clue he grew incompetent.
I didn’t know.
Our breakup wasn’t angry or below
the surface, didn’t come as accident –
pathology now clear then didn’t show.
I thought him careful, kind, and with intent
to nurture you and teach you how to grow.
No witness could report his sad descent.
I didn’t know.
(Roundel)
The mortar’s not supposed to turn to dust.
It shouldn’t bulge and powder-drop this way.
I’ll call and pay a tradesman if I must,
but that’s an errand for a later day.
I’m sure there’s water – we had so much rain,
there has to be at least a pond outside
my eastern wall. At worst it may not drain
for months, and it’s too shaded to be dried.
My cottage is so old that it abuts
two neighbors’ yards. A foot from my brick wall
a fence of brick is built. Between them juts
some gutterwork, but it can’t channel all
that fell throughout December’s storminess.
Concerned, I see some mortar effloresce.
I tried a cookie recipe last week.
I substituted walnuts for pecans
and used straight allulose, but my technique
was sensible (as were the written plans).
And I’ll report they have the taste I seek:
full chocolate while adhering to the bans
we’ve chosen – anti-sugar, low on grains –
desserts without a tax on guts and brains.
(Ottava Rima)
I’d like to but I can’t claim that I’m wise.
I know what I don’t know, and modesty
increases with my age, to my surprise.
But I’ve spent years composing poetry,
and metric art is born when I revise –
I hear the peal and feel the honesty.
It takes a second reading, or a third,
to bring integrity to every word.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m healthy but I need to take more care
with how I eat and drink and move around.
I’m better now, inhaling only air,
but three score thirteen years have brought profound
adjustments. Overall, my body’s sound,
but healing slows and appetites as well.
A breeze can almost bruise, but I’m not downed –
I think I’ve time before they toll my bell.
(Huitain)
I thought it was a kindness, every day
to call a friend who’s ailing and alone.
I often had to search for things to say –
my plate’s still full and so to fill the phone
with items I’d share details – chat away
the minutes with minutia. Then she’d groan
it’s TMI or boring, flung or spat.
I think it’s time to take a break from that.
(Ottava Rima)
I boiled water for a nasal rinse
and fogged my kitchen windows thoroughly.
The garden view is looking wintry since,
but spring in fact approaches bloomingly,
so pollen irritates me, probably,
producing mucus and persistent drain
that coats my throat and chokes phlegmatically,
distilling a desire for some rain.
(Huitain)
Determined as I was to stay inside,
I lasted seven hours. Then the sun
invited me to walk – not far or wide
and nothing even hinting at a run.
Suggestion of the coming vernal tide
beguiled me to witness everyone
on sidewalks in my budding neighborhood.
And sure enough, the amble did me good.
(Ottava Rima)
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