They plan to take the scaffolding a day
from now. We’ve waited almost patiently.
Tomorrow we’ll enjoy reverse-delay –
they’ll come a day before they promised me.
They’ll disassemble tubes and cart away
the netting, planks, and ladders. Then we’ll see
the work my neighbors suffered to afford,
and access to repair will be restored.
(Ottava Rima)
I took to poetry from loving sound
of language, and what meter does to me.
I wasn’t over seven when I found
I took to poetry.
My mother tried to stifle energy
expressing any feelings – always frowned
or snapped, or showed disdain impatiently.
“Oh, can it,” she’d declare. Her speech was crowned
with “nonsense,” “stupid” – she’d no sympathy.
So big surprise – I grew up stanza-bound.
I took to poetry.
(Roundel)
A week after I put these words in ink,
three months after the project was begun,
a day before I’m posting this, I think
my internet will be repaired. All done
will be the work in front, the drink
to celebrate completion will be poured,
and quality back here will be restored.
Four years ago, when tragedy befell,
I flew to her support, and didn’t know
a way to ease her pain or make him well.
Four years ago.
I simply stood beside her. I could show
my love no other way. My days were hell
and nights were worse — she couldn’t rise to low.
It didn’t help to urge. One can’t compel
adjustment or the way emotions flow.
In fact she’s journeyed where no one could tell,
four years ago.
(Roundel)
For what it’s worth, my ballot’s nearly done.
My system is to tune out and ignore
the TV ads and emails — every one
attempts to sloganize and simplify.
My reading really isn’t any fun,
but I cannot okay another’s brief,
invite more checklists, launch a hired gun,
or bless another bureau. It’s a chore
but I owe voting time, and I won’t run.
(Magic 9)
I love this garden cottage. I’m amused
by squirrel antics, possum lethargy,
and even skunks at foraging. I’m used
to raccoon noises and temerity.
And I adore the doors of glass I see,
but I might need a threshold tall and wide.
Now squirrels search for food beyond their tree,
and I just saw a fat one dash inside.
(Huitain)
Because I took the job of paying bills
for all five owners of this property,
and seeking reimbursement for the spills
advanced on their behalf by only me,
and due to the protections and the drills
established for “our own security,”
when something goes awry or leaks befall,
guess which Samaritan must make the call?
(Ottava Rima)
I wonder have I grown too old to like
a peer, if I could meet one interesting?
Perhaps my heart’s too callused now and sore,
and throbbed too many times to sense the spike
of Cupid’s arrow loosed while on the wing
or perched upon my lintel or my floor.
Is it too late for fate to give a shove,
and send me in to chance another spring?
Is there sufficient time to now adore
a person I’ll admire? Might I love
once more?
(Curtal Sonnet)
Restarting yoga after 17
days resting, testing to recovery,
I understand the practice more, and mean
to focus my intention with each breath.
I took the floor right after some caffeine
and poetry, and relished every pose.
Although I’m not a flexible machine,
I will proceed. Today’s discovery
includes improving skeletal hygiene.
(Magic 9)
Now I declare I’m back. I’ve tested thrice
the last six days — each time was negative.
I didn’t pay a heavy Covid price:
my lungs were spared; the fever didn’t give
me worse than weary feeling, almost nice.
It broke and I’d a week here too restive.
A little antsiness the last few days
beset me and induced a soft malaise.
(Ottava Rima)
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