The marks of age surprise me even now,
when I’ve been senior over seven years.
I’m startled every time I meet with how
too readily I’m injured. Like my peers
I’m quick to bruise and slow to mend. My brow
is corrugated just as worry clears.
For lately though I shuffle, I am not
as nervous – I outgrew it, or forgot.
(Ottava Rima)
I’ve paid for cable TV 30 years,
and all my life I’ve used a landline phone.
And as for Comcast Internet, it nears
about as long as cable in my home.
It’s primitive, I know, but many peers
are likewise habit- and nostalgia-prone.
My son stepped in, imposing modern day,
and took with love old-fashioned plugs away.
(Ottava Rima)
The question asked – What quantity of you
is water? I expected it was much.
But 61%? Turns out it’s true,
of humans fully grown. A baby’s such
a budding creature, full of life and new,
perfection-plump and cushiony to touch,
she may be fluid 96%.
(I overstate, but you know what I meant).
(Ottava Rima)
I didn’t feel particularly stressed
when I arrived. But she was still at nap,
the house was neat, the other grownup dressed
and leaving on an errand. I made lap
with book and water – of a sudden blessed
in quiet solitude. I had a gap
invade my schedule and I realized this –
a respite well-deserved engenders bliss.
(Ottava Rima)
An hour early at my desk today,
I published verse and started to compose.
Awake at sunrise has become my way,
but till this morning I inclined to news
and solitaire and puzzling to delay
the work of thought and exercise till 8.
The early hour nudged, as if to say
why wait to be productive? So I chose
reversal – early work instead of play.
(Magic 9)
At least 2 times a week I pass this tree,
and I have worried that it might be dead.
Well-shaped and large, it’s shown no greenery
when all around are plants a-bud in bed
or trellis-woven, fenced or blooming free.
I’ve longed to see it leafing out, instead
of rearing naked-limbed majestically.
Today I saw some sprigs of green emerge
that charm my eyes and make my smile surge.
(Ottava Rima)
I love the sound of winter rain.
I’d love it August, May or June.
But we don’t get that warm refrain,
so I’ll enjoy the sprinklers’ tune.
It wasn’t the pot.
It was some virus in me.
Coffee tastes good now.
I don’t blame you for giving me this cold.
Apology’s unnecessary now.
There’s rhinovirus prevalent as mold
in darksome damp, and nobody knows how
or why or when we sometimes will succumb.
You’re not responsible, but if you say
“I’m sorry” with a sympathetic tongue
I’ll thank you for concern, and love’s display.
It’s time to turn the sprinklers on. Today
I checked the settings and I flipped the switch.
We used to wait until the end of May,
but winter didn’t pour on rain enough.
The situation elsewhere’s worse. They say
that west of Rocky Mountains all is drought.
The Texans ought to science more than pray
(unless their prayers are to a water witch).
It’s bad. It will be worse. I’m here to stay.
(Magic 9)
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