There is no common enemy between
a grandparent and children of a child.
The middle generation isn’t mean,
and Grandma may show other moods than mild.
It’s more that old and young are not beguiled
by job demands, by income’s heavy ask.
We both know how to nap. We’re reconciled
in finding, and we neither multi-task.
(Huitain)
Be kind to others, counselors advised.
What goes around will come around – you’ll see.
I tried and failed a lot (for I despised
how peers appeared). It didn’t work for me,
until I learned the clue to self-esteem.
Discovering I needed to be proud
tomorrow, of myself, each choice I deem
a chance, so only courtesy’s allowed.
And though sometimes somebody did me wrong,
I soon learned I’m too lazy to hit back.
I’d rather not engage my brain in strong
response or hunt for who might next attack.
The best revenge is living well, indeed –
pragmatic selfishness became my creed.
When I was young, a trip to Disneyland
amounted to the ultimate in fun.
Attractions were so perfect I would stand
in awe of line control – how everyone
seemed patient and the wait for rides not tough.
They kept us moving and we felt amused.
I marveled how they organized such stuff –
the best manipulation is excused?
And maybe that was training of a sort,
for ever since I sense the least attempt
to make me want, direct my thought or thwart
my weirdness. Somehow I was formed exempt
from advertising selling what or how…
immune to algorithms even now.
A rare event – I must’ve gotten high,
for suddenly I’m craving food right now.
I limit carbs a lot, and also try
not eating when I’m fasting. I know how
to almost-Keto dine until today –
I’m nearly overpowered by the drive
to load a baked potato all the way,
and let this potted self-indulgence thrive.
Instead I’ll sit in my upholstered chair,
and read six paragraphs before I doze.
I used to think a nap a waste of rare
time off, but I’ve obtained what aging knows –
a spate of rest in comfort is a gift,
I write, as my attention starts to drift.
My habitat is hidden from the street.
I bought it for its perfect privacy
amid a zone hospitable to feet,
where I can hunker, carless, and be free
from anybody dropping by. My door
is locked and I don’t want to be surprised.
I’ve learned I need my bath and bedroom more
than your companionship. I’ve analyzed
our history. Perhaps I could have made
the marriage work if I had had my space.
But I don’t want to try. I wouldn’t trade
my state, and I protest when you assume
because I turn the lock my heart is closed.
I’m out 4 days a week! I get exposed.
My favorite color’s blue, and yet it’s green
that draws my eyes, escorts relief’s return
and opens me to hope. A forest scene
does not forebode – the myths they had me learn,
the symbols shown, to me they didn’t mean
a truth, but made my indignation churn.
For woods, the moon, and water I still yearn.
I gladly greet these fronds of garden fern.
(Ottava Rima)
So vivid are my early memories,
I trust my recollections till age 8,
when time was passing slowly and no squeeze
of adolescent pressure, blooming, weight,
distracted my attention. Then the freight
amounting blunted sight with addled stress.
My teens and ever after I conflate.
Your question will need research to address.
(Huitain)
She always sensed how much she didn’t know.
Awareness of her ignorance increased
with every year and every book. But “blow-
hard” she was called – her talking seldom ceased.
Imagining how smart a brain could be
was not outside her reach. She’d ever sense
a height of bright beyond her boundary,
but some said she self-loved intelligence.
“You think you’re always right,” she heard a lot.
“Conceited,” others called, and “pompous ass.”
She learned the words. She argued they should not
be used, but never changed her ways in class.
And even now she’s old, she wonders some,
how she might speak without affecting dumb.
I climbed into my bed with gratitude.
The day was long and rest a welcome plan.
I plumped the pillows, lit the lamp, and viewed
the current novel, Kindle in my hand.
No sooner was location 80 scanned
than twice an insect tried to bother me.
I don’t know what it was that sought to land,
but tired I ignored the mystery.
(Huitain)
It was a dream: a sleeping aperitif,
disquieting and striking and extreme,
behavior bound to carry heavy grief –
it was a dream.
It had a sudden murder for a theme:
me perpetrating death as its motif –
the horror unaccompanied by scream.
I couldn’t take my action back! As thief
of life I felt regret and anguish teem.
I woke up then, and flooded with relief
it was a dream.
(Roundel)
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 