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)
I know smart people lusting to belong
among the class of writers who are famed.
They want to fashion fiction or a song
of which no other writer’d be ashamed.
Imagining the honors to be claimed,
the signings, the distinction day and night,
they dream of when success will be obtained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
As one they want to stand above the throng
of readers not considered, never named.
Distracted by the coffee, wine or bong,
and seldom putting ink where topic’s aimed,
they bide their time till inspiration’s flamed,
when only work gives brilliance to that light.
Intention’s by procrastination maimed,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
Their cravings are consistent and so strong,
I don’t believe such passion can be blamed.
But how they try to satisfy it’s wrong,
and by no tactics little can be gained.
I want their attitudes to be reframed,
their efforts pushed to steady sturdy height.
Advising, they respond by looking pained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
It isn’t any secret. No one gamed
the system. No one put them in their plight.
The work produces more than can be trained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
(Ballade)
The buses still require masking here,
and most of them will give you one for free.
But there’s no substitute for bearing gear;
at end of day, they make no guarantee
your bus will have one left – uncivilly
too many take too many and discard.
Last night some would-be riders couldn’t be
allowed to board – unmasked, their way was barred.
“I want the pill,” our ancient mother said,
last week when she was suffering fatigue
and urgent emptying of waste, instead
of constipation’s regular beleague.
She has her mind. No terminal disease
besets her at the age of 96.
Distrusting all her meds, she voices pleas
of petulance, impatient for a fix.
We calmly then responded and explained
it takes some time and interviews to kill.
“Oh pooh. I gave it to you dad,” she claimed.
Of course that wasn’t so. There was no pill,
she wasn’t there, and it’s no mystery –
she always has revised her history.
I think I wasn’t very good at sex,
she stated recently, age 70.
As if there were tutorials, complex,
athletic, something like pornography.
As if a mate who does my man expects
his way with her to mimic his with me.
I wonder they don’t know, though we share parts,
the act involves both genitals and hearts.
(Ottava Rima)
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