My mother tried, when I was young, to teach
me all the manners deemed to be polite.
I wasn’t to allow my talk to reach
religion, or political insight.
If I had nothing nice to say, I might
say nothing, or discuss the temperature.
And though the weather’s now not dull or trite,
I still ignore her reprimands, for sure.
(Huitain)
Perhaps I’ll start to dance again,
or practice yoga now I’ve earned
the time and place to stretch and bend,
the patience that I’ve sorely learned.
I’m in the office once a week.
Perhaps I’ll start to dance again,
at home with time I used to seek –
increase my use of oxygen.
The kids who were my charges when
their parents worked – they’re now in school.
Perhaps I’ll start to dance again
before I dodder, drip or drool.
I’ve learned my way to settle in,
to cultivate a type of zen,
to let the rest of me begin.
Perhaps I’ll start to dance again.
(Quatern)
My love’s comportment won’t embarrass me.
I brim with pride instead of shame, in fact.
Nobody else can share my privacy.
My darling doesn’t do discourtesy,
but flourishes as my ideal of tact.
My love’s comportment won’t embarrass me.
I’d relish what would be reality
if I could meet the partner I’d attract.
Nobody else can share my privacy.
I wonder how more perfect love could be
than what we’d have, that pure and so exact.
My love’s comportment won’t embarrass me.
I’d hurry home to share philosophy,
to open heart-to-heart, to keep our pact.
Nobody else can share my privacy.
We’re not insane. We know a fantasy.
We don’t ignore the way our dreams diffract.
My love’s comportment won’t embarrass me.
Nobody else can share my privacy.
(Villanelle)
Five years ago I volunteered my time
to help the son and spouse with childcare.
I still had opportunities to rhyme
and exercise, exchanging office air
for inside/outside kid activities,
from four months old to walking, talking play.
I got to share in first discoveries
of all the local world, in full array.
An office day and three with family
engaged my weeks until the virus hit.
Then quarantine forced extra time on me,
for language play I found appropriate.
And now the kids are old enough for school,
I’ve even more of leisure to retool.
Some personalities are extra-large;
apparently they come in varied sizes.
Your tendency’s to fill a room, and charge
into your current subject, no disguises
or affect. Then for sure this one despises
you, while many like your bold technique.
I know you know. My words hold no surprises.
Just pause a second. Let the others speak.
(Huitain)
Suspecting but uncertain till the worst
of Presidents pre-empted all the news,
I understand when one’s behavior’s cursed
by anybody ill-inclined and mean,
the castigating words should be reversed,
and fired at the speaker. What was laid
into the target’s by the blamer nursed.
The playground said “I’m rubber, and you’re glue.”
That early wisdom ought to be rehearsed.
(Magic 9)
The cost of age is charged in starts and fits –
to few somatic failures are a blitz.
The first attack on me was gum decay,
and soon my neck was wrecked for sideways play,
but after treatment I enjoyed respites.
On lumbar left I suffered next the hits
of herniated disk – it was the pits.
But oxy and new stretches helped defray
the cost of age.
The course of wearing rests but never quits.
Though one avoids complaints, and counterfeits
a limberness, at times the shoulders pay,
and hips and knees chip in at end of day.
No lucky elder fails to fail, for it’s
the cost of age.
(Rondeau)
The first few weeks of endless quarantine,
when all stayed home and no one knew the score,
although we feared, nobody acted mean.
The freeways with no traffic were serene,
and aisles were near-empty at the store,
the first few weeks of endless quarantine.
We bought up sanitizer for hygiene.
We purchased toilet paper and sought more.
Although we feared, nobody acted mean.
In Venice the Lagoon was testing clean,
and China skies refreshed like years before,
the first few weeks of endless quarantine.
Then local birds and quadrupeds were seen,
and garden sounds were heard outside the door.
Although we feared, nobody acted mean.
Pandemic started with goodwill between
us all, before the wrath of masking war.
The first few weeks of endless quarantine,
although we feared, nobody acted mean.
(Villanelle)
There used to be a woman living here –
the oldest member of our H.O.A.
and mean as spit, abusive, raining fear
and loathing till they carted her away
(a memory care unit has her now).
But in those days, she did her part and more –
she gardened, vacuumed, hauled the bins, knew how
to scream and bitch, but also do a chore.
And I, then second-oldest, also toiled.
I paid the common bills and kept the books.
When she was gone I took on more, and tried
enlisting others – young and acting spoiled.
I didn’t yell. But all I got were looks,
no matter that my words are dignified.
I must have been too young to know my mind.
I fought against her coldness and contempt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
I thought her rules were calculating, blind
to every goal and effort I’d attempt.
I must have been too young to know my mind.
She seemed too busy, deaf to me and blind,
as if my best ambitions she’d preempt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
When I resisted any role assigned
to me by her, I thought I was exempt.
I must have been too young to know my mind.
It took three score of years and ten to find
the empathy to gather what she dreamt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
At last, when she had thoroughly declined,
I saw through eyes like hers the good she meant.
I must have been too young to know my mind,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
(Villanelle)
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