At times the good do bad, an actor said,
and too the bad do good. The script went on.
Those phrases found a home inside my head,
and replay often now the movie’s gone.
That’s wisdom I pray will not be withdrawn,
just as I hope my brain retains this truth –
I can’t be sure tonight will end with dawn,
and I don’t really know my best friend’s youth.
(Huitain)
My brother says my coffee is the best.
It drives his partner crazy when he does.
For sure she roasts fresh beans, and shoots expressed
pure-water steam through grounds to brew her buzz,
while I used staler stuff. My maker was
a careless purchase, seldom washed, you know?
I think my coffee’s excellent because
I dearly and sincerely love it so.
(Huitain)
Two nights ago, I dreamt I missed your call.
I didn’t answer when you phoned at 6
a.m., a time you said we chose (of all
the hours possible, nobody picks
pre-dawn). This morning’s dreaming: I’m asprawl
in phones that look like mine, in random mix.
Attempting to connect before you’re gone,
I’m answering the phones that aren’t on.
(Ottava Rima)
My route to BART is level, scenic, fine.
It passes through two neighborhoods of stores
and blocks of homes and gardens that align
with asphalt streets and concrete walks. Outdoors
is lovely all the way, adorned with scores
of trees. I notice one specifically:
well-shaped and tall as half a dozen floors,
but not a speck of green is there to see.
(Huitain)
While reading news about how far we’ve sunk,
I heard a thud of something hit the deck.
I looked to find the reason for the clunk,
and there was evidence of body wreck
that dropped from high. It wasn’t any skunk.
A squirrel or raccoon had made me check,
or maybe it was from some ‘possum tricks.
I placed the hunk of bone upon the bricks.
(Ottava Rima)
Wisteria I purchased to replace
an older plant that was a casualty
of tradesmen working in this crowded space,
is trying in my shady yard to be
a healthy specimen, with purple lace
abloom in spring. That’s the variety
we planted, so I’m startled by this sight:
amid the violet, a spray of white.
(Ottava Rima)
My head’s okay although I took a fall,
misstepping off a curb the other day.
A little trip, and now the wounds appall
(my head’s okay).
My palms and knees and face wear an array
of bruises; both my shoulders ache; I haul
my form around surrounded by dismay.
But I insist on walking after sprawl.
I will not let my age my stride betray.
I’m feeling old and sore but, after all,
my head’s okay.
(Roundel)
My bachelor’s thesis, 50 years ago,
compared three misanthropes in English lit.
I remet Fielding’s hermit, got to know
Greek Timon, and read Gulliver’s emit.
The first and second came to hate their kind
when fortune failed and former friends forsook,
but Swift’s creation had his change of mind
from lectures, like from classes or a book.
Before the ink on final draft had dried,
I understood while bitterness can live,
objective hate must end in suicide –
a Gulliver should go, lest he forgive.
You claim to be an antinatalist –
a hypocrite persisting to exist.
The father told the son “Remove your hood,”
and I believe my visage disagreed,
so I’m the one admonished. I’m no good –
usurping Dad’s authority, indeed!
Another Pop another time decreed
a bedtime story done (at quarter length).
Then I was warned I’d best not intercede
(as if I had the heft to topple strength).
(Huitain)
I’m sorry now I wasn’t kinder then.
I would have blocked his lust if I knew how,
but I was inexperienced with men.
I’m sorry now.
Permitting moves I’d rather not allow,
I acted rashly mean and harshly, when
there might have been a better path to plow.
But I was only seventeen plus ten,
and half insane with stress, and didn’t bow.
I say in sympathy with me, again:
I’m sorry now.
(Roundel)
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