Consuming science fiction as a teen,
continuing till I was 35,
I swallowed Asimov and I was keen
on Heinlein, Dick, and classic H.G. Wells,
LeGuin of course, and Herbert’s thirsty scene.
But latterly I’ve turned to history.
Rereading Austen makes me feel serene.
An optimist who managed to survive,
the past is my anxiety vaccine.
(Magic 9)
I need to slow the pace a bit.
I ought to learn to act my age.
That dash was inappropriate –
I need to slow the pace a bit.
I raced to you and tripped and hit
the floor (the cause? our puzzle page).
I need to slow the pace a bit.
I ought to learn to act my age.
(Triolet)
It never ends – as long as we’re alive
events occur, good, bad, and interesting.
A colleague 10 years over 65
fell yesterday. And that makes everything
we planned to do be tentative, unsure.
We think the cause was fainting after wine
and crashing to her tiled kitchen floor.
Now we await the diagnostic line.
Already she’d diminished at recall.
The dreaded “A” was added to her chart.
But now that she’s sustained this bloody fall,
and though we think she has a healthy heart,
she’ll probably be stuck here till her death.
It never ends, as long as we draw breath.
A first-born 5-year old, with cheekbone bruise
acquired on a Wednesday at his school,
said “I don’t know” when asked – would not accuse
or detail anybody acting cruel.
His folks appeared accepting of each word,
but happily they gave us space to chat.
I told my buddy it would be absurd
to not know how you got a mark like that.
He spoke to me of how his face was wrecked
(another kid engaged in bully shit).
I understood him trying to protect,
but then explained it’s inappropriate
to shield his caring parents from the truth
(remembering my own first-child youth).
That bedtime call we’ve both come to expect
did not go well. Devolving to a bawl,
his parents moved to sternly disconnect
that bedtime call.
I’ve known the boy since he was four months small,
and as his visage crumpled, I felt wrecked.
Aflood with love, I didn’t move at all.
His parents weren’t wrong. I don’t object
to consequence, but sorrow I’d forestall.
We tried again, and managed to perfect
that bedtime call.
(Roundel)
Last Monday shades of darkness were the rage.
I woke to overcast and clots of rain,
and then a crew arrived to build a cage
of scaffolding around the house in front.
They draped it in black netting as they stage
the building for repair and shingle work
the owners have arranged. Now we’ll engage
disrupted while they clean and sand and stain,
and I’ll just hunker in and act my age.
(Magic 9)
Addicted to a strident tone of voice,
a heart ablaze with indignation’s heat,
it pumps her up – encouraging her choice.
And though regret succeeds it, she’ll repeat
malfeasant tone and posture. We rejoice
she’s working through a process to retreat
from blaring out her livid points of view,
which first give her excitement, second rue.
(Ottava Rima)
A funny smell, persisting for some days,
befalls my nose and brain at times, and then
it disappears like it was just a phase,
and I forget till it occurs again.
It’s nothing nasty, never smelled before –
a little dry and peppery, benign
I think (and hope – of course I can’t be sure,
but I expect from death a bigger sign).
I’ve also noticed weeks when coffee’s taste
is wrong – so off, I sanitize the pot.
(I’ve almost had that Cuisinart replaced.)
The problem’s here for days and then it’s not.
I know the virus hijacks taste and smell,
but I (except for age) am testing well.
They don’t need rain or food or much of dirt.
Insecticide has no role in their growth.
They may not be attractive, but no hurt
befalls them from neglect. They bloom in both
concrete and asphalt, able to exert
their vigor – willing, drilling, never loath.
They always seem to bear abundant seeds,
and we, disdainful, classify them weeds.
(Ottava Rima)
They’ve started framing traffic signals now.
Somebody must have studied gathered facts,
and found a way to teach the drivers how
to notice what already eye-attracts.
A traffic plan made agencies endow
ideas only esteemed by bureaucrats.
The visible results make no one wary.
You know the drill – they aren’t necessary.
(Ottava Rima)
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