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)
I host disoriented dreams of late.
My sleep is light – the borderline between
awake or not is weak and inchoate.
A rise to consciousness occurs without
a sense of my location or the date.
And what is interrupted, when I rouse?
Particulars of puzzles that await
my pleasant efforts with a pen or screen,
and seem a natural way to recreate.
(Magic 9)
Unknown to me although we’ve shared our years
in empathetic close fraternity,
I’m sometimes stunned as evidence appears,
unknown to me.
I tried imagining that I were he.
I paid attention to his words and fears,
but my best guess includes uncertainty.
If distance so exists in us, it clears
a field for folks outside the family
to linger shallow-seen as sunset nears,
unknown to me.
(Roundel)
A younger relative offended me
with nasty tantrum words and flouncing out.
She seems too old (past 39) to be
relapsing into sarcasm and pout.
She “circled back” days later, to review
the circumstance and context of her fit
(still young enough to grasp at “closure” you
and I would deem a waste of time and wit).
She opened with apology, but then
attempted to excuse herself – confessed
she asked her spouse if he would speak to me.
I love her but I never said “amen,”
and now I wonder how it could be best
to delegate deserved apology.
My daughter says what makes her feel her age
is when her brother’s birthday comes along.
Her younger sibling constitutes a gauge
correcting self-impression. Is she wrong?
I think not, as I read a likely page,
and excavate a lyric from her song.
My baby brother’s pushing 65,
and soberly I’m feeling less alive.
(Ottava Rima)
 | sputterpub on Vacuum |
 | Ronald E. Shields on Vacuum |
| sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
Sputterpub's Blog 