How fortunate I feel for living here.
Not only does this cottage suit my soul,
but I selected gentle atmosphere,
away from floodplains, chosen with a goal
of walking where I need, with merchants near,
and thus with timing under my control.
You’ve heard me advocate this type of choice,
but I can’t make you heed my happy voice.
(Ottava Rima)
Don’t heed me now. I’m no authority
on building rhyme and specifying how
one might’s well work at writing poetry.
Don’t heed me now.
The syntax needs be natural. I’ll allow
a word’s reflecting etymology
(its present obsolete or middlebrow).
But don’t abuse good sense or sanity,
and let’s play pen with this essential vow:
to ply with caution the apostrophe.
(Don’t heed me now).
(Roundel)
We planted succulents a year ago.
Removing ivy and some old bamboo,
I wanted drought-resistant green to grow,
intent to tuck the roots in rocks. But you
said soil wouldn’t stay in place, and so
we wedged in pots (some hidden, some in view).
They did okay, but rain brings a surprise –
the echeveria’s now adding size.
(Ottava Rima)
I wrong her when I say she shut me down
the days I tried to tell her how I felt.
What hurt was her disdain – that sour frown
and “Can it!” never made my passion melt.
But now I see distinction – there were times
when raving I would shout and storm her ear,
and she’d say “That’s okay – these are no crimes –
just ventilate – it’s me, your mother, here.”
And then I wonder why she loathed me calm
upset, but ranting tantrum she withstood.
My verses all encountered upraised palm,
but uncontrolled emotion rang as good?
Succeeding storms was my apology,
but never did I void the poetry…
Outrageous is the way the parent raved
when Grandma’s offering was overheard.
The father sought to rule how all behaved
while abdicating care – it was absurd.
Preposterous and futile his attempt
to dictate from a couch or easy chair.
He had no interest how his children dreamt,
and no priority for acting fair.
If he’s to offload hours with each kid,
depositing onto another lap
while timing out himself, then he must rid
his brain of the idea that he can trap
their talk, restrict their games, or govern rest.
It’s no excuse he’s anxious or depressed.
The first three letters of my name are “Mar.”
In New York it’s pronounced like Apple’s “A.”
But California made it rhyme with “care”
(and though I’m no old horse, it stayed that way).
When voicemail’s left for me by cell, what’s there
addressing me, amuses me each day.
No programmer was influenced or bribed,
but “Mayor” is the way my name’s transcribed.
(Ottava Rima)
So far the winter here is crazy wet.
Reports about La Niña have gone mute.
Like seasons of my youth I don’t forget,
the storms arrive in waves from a commute
Alaska sent, Hawaii made. The threat
of parked high pressure’s this month destitute.
It’s likely nests and dens now overflow,
for neither ants nor skunks will stay below.
(Ottava Rima)
They seem too scared to me to be content,
too anxious to be thoroughly prepared
for all contingencies and each event.
They seem too scared.
Did parents over-hover? Were they cared
for to ridiculous and ill extent?
What caused their nervousness to be so bared?
Perhaps it was the Internet. What’s meant
to be informative’s too grossly blared?
They’re half-alive avoiding accident.
They seem too scared.
(Roundel)
I think I was in junior high or less,
when we were taught about the 4th estate.
We learned then that the vile “Yellow Press”
existed to twist truth, to propagate
fake news that grabs attention, to address
the weakest minds. By 1898
the term was used. Now cable and the ‘net
make yellow press an ever-present threat.
(Ottava Rima)
I future-focused when I was a kid.
I didn’t prosper in the here-and-now
in college in the 60’s, when we bid
farewell to past and future, trying how
for better presents – change that would allow
a shot to every group our culture missed.
(We mostly failed to honor that old vow).
At last I’m here, and have no bucket list.
(Huitain)
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