A little frayed on Friday afternoon,
unraveling a bit, and at loose ends,
unable to relax or to commune
with indignation from my kids and friends,
I forced myself to walk five blocks, and soon
recovered equanimity. The blends
of breeze on quiet gardens soft-erased
unease, reminding me that mood’s a waste.
(Ottava Rima)
She plans to wait, she tells herself, to start
a program of improvement, picks a date
a week away: a number set apart.
She plans to wait.
She’ll do it for reflection’s mirror mate,
and lower blood pressure, and stronger heart.
She’ll leap before the effort is too late.
Accessorized, she even makes a chart,
and picks a favorite pen to tabulate.
The one idea she now thinks isn’t smart?
She plans to wait.
(Roundel)
I didn’t change, but their perceptions did,
now I’m so old nobody’s acting mean.
My parents tried to govern me as kid,
and peers applied full pressure to this teen.
I tried some weak compliance but I failed –
it bored and led to self-dislike’s extreme.
I sought avoiding future guilt, and nailed
the way to immigrate to self-esteem.
“She thinks she knows the answers,” some complained,
and others said the future’d bring me down.
But nothing broke too bad – some feelings sprained
and healed in time to flip a worried frown.
I’d love to credit wisdom, but I see
old age conveys invisibility.
As far as I know no one’s angry at me.
(I haven’t offended, I guess).
I’m not used to blameless (and don’t want to be),
but I sure enjoy the recess.
All of a sudden Madam’s sounding wise.
Can she be aging to smart?
I’ve gotten so expert at loathe and despise –
must I adopt a new art?
Just when she’s nearly defeated belief,
I’m starting to think I’ll be feeling some grief.
It’s good they empty bins on holidays,
because we missed the service here all week.
The water workers blocked the block both ways,
when we had extra garbage from the slobs
who occupied upstairs, who said the phrase
“I’m sorry” glibly while they never shared
facilities or fairness all their stays.
Their passive-irresponsible technique
was toxic. Now it’s garbage men we praise.
(Magic 9)
Stand up or duck down.
I don’t have to say much more.
You know how you are.
Co-residents moved out of this address,
who never did the slightest common chore.
They gathered years of junk and stuffed their mess
into and near our bins, and left it for
the rest of us to clear out (meaning me,
for somehow all my neighbors don’t have time,
and though I asked for help, their strategy
is modeled from a lazy paradigm).
So I moved bins and relocated bags.
I pushed up sleeves and aimed attention down.
Restored to order, now my vigor flags,
but I no longer have the urge to frown.
And heading home (though this may sound absurd),
I sensed approval from a hummingbird.
A broken clock’s correct two times a day.
So though a friend said you give good advice,
on every topic you’ve too much to say
(and anyway, that friend is imprecise).
A thousand words may hit on wisdom twice,
but that’s no cause or reason to feel proud.
I wish you’d cogitate with care. Be nice,
and try to be more patient and less loud.
(Huitain)
It’s understood we’ve stages in our grief
when someone we have loved exists no more.
But what of institutions? My belief
is we’ll experience one less than four.
Denial and depression are for sure,
but who would nod or bargain? Compromise
is futile and acceptance isn’t wise.
(Rhyme Royal)
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