My brother’s Covid means we must postpone
the dinner reservation that we made
to celebrate completion of each speck
of year-end office work. We’ll use the phone
instead of seeing Mom for brunch, and trade
good words for food, and peace for pain in neck
(induced by any time with her these days).
A storm will make me happy that I stayed
at home, and watched the torrents on my deck.
This week supplies full meaning to the phrase:
“rain check.”
On Tuesdays I commute, to lend a hand
with work I’ve done for half a century.
My brain’s still functional – I understand
the guts of a consulting industry.
But he whom I support has got to be
at home in isolation (Covid’s way).
So I will put my mind to poetry,
and see how many puzzles I can play.
(Huitain)
For several years my gutters were untested.
I didn’t have to check the bricks for wet.
The drains out front were never storm-congested.
But New Year’s weekend was the dampest yet.
They call the wave an atmospheric river.
The forecasters have managed to deliver
an accurate prediction for the storm,
and lucky I was home and dry and warm.
Elsewhere the weather wreaked fantastic flooding.
Some levees failed, and mudslides covered roads.
Municipalities bore overloads.
My only woe is ant invasion budding.
The tiny pests are breaching doors and cracks –
their scurries evidence minute attacks.
Presented with assorted bombs to add
when I immerse to bathe, I chose Slow Down.
I wasn’t feeling agitated, mad,
or any shade of blue. I’d be around
my home for days – I wanted to relax.
It couldn’t hurt to let a bomb remind
me that I face no threat from life’s attacks
today. By choice and weather I’m confined
exactly how I wish. The bomb fizzed blue,
and like a fortune cookie, it contained
within its core suggestion maybe true.
I saved the message as the water drained.
And now my bathroom counter illustrates
four lines of verse I like, by Mr. Yeats.
I’ve never seen her fish for compliments.
A testimonial will make her wince;
she disregards most subtext and warm hints.
She understands her own intelligence.
Accustomed to disparagement long since
(her mother ever criticized her flaws
and no rebuttal served to unconvince),
she learned self-validation, just because.
(Huitain)
The forecast harks to winter long ago.
I’m cozy and more rain’s about to start.
Like pre-drought January’s past, I’ve no
doubt weather will be wet. I sit apart
from stress and crowds, and traffic’s softly slow.
A front that fizzles out won’t break my heart.
I know that climate change is real, and yet
for half a week I’m able to forget.
(Ottava Rima)
They cannot guess, because I love them so,
their company can tire and depress
my spirit. I’m aware of that, although
they cannot guess.
Sometimes the time with them is full of stress.
I think they’ll learn that when their children grow –
they’ll love and wish them well, but they’ll confess
that days apart can be the way to go.
Like me they’ll value then their own address.
It’s something only older parents know.
They cannot guess.
(Roundel)
Sheets in the dryer. Turn on the fire. What will inspire
a stanza today?
I don’t require a poem as in prior A.M.s – there’s no buyer
for posting display.
Nothing too dire’s about to transpire. I’ve got no choir
to sing or to pray.
And there’s no supplier of fuel for satire. This versifier
will put pen away.
I seldom take much time to fall asleep.
I slumber lightly but I drift off fast.
Last night, although I had no woes to keep
me conscious, no anxieties amassed,
I didn’t welcome Morpheus. At last,
from 2 a.m. to 7, I went where
my dreams are stored and fantasies are cast.
Today my bath will feature Sleepy Bear.
(Huitain)
I like a jigsaw puzzle, but my place
is less than half a thousand of square feet.
I only have one table in the space,
and puzzle pieces cover its complete
rectangle surface in the present case
(1,000-piece is twice what would be meet).
But it’s a loving gift, well-cut and -inked.
I’ll have to concentrate and get it linked.
(Ottava Rima)
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