I think she gets a dopamine release
when standing on her soapbox to announce
the things we ought to do or have to cease –
no sooner do we gripe than she will pounce.
She thinks her subject knowledge will increase
our piece of mind, but there is not an ounce
of love or friendship in her teaching quart.
The only fix we want is her support.
(Ottava Rima)
My symptoms aren’t constant or severe.
I don’t believe I need an M.R.I.
And anyway, I cannot see a clear
or easy way to get one if I try.
The state of care is not the patient’s friend.
I’d have to book and wait and after all,
the managed health care system won’t attend
to me except with rigid protocol.
If I agreed to pay the listed cost,
exorbitant before insurance cut,
I’d find my aim distorted, and exhaust
my efforts better put to mend. So what
I’ll do is rest and stretch my neck a bunch,
and try to end this tendency to hunch.
I caught the baby’s cold and I feel worse
than she, apparently, because I’m old.
(Of course, she can’t communicate in verse
or prose, so maybe what I claim’s untrue).
I got my body home, where I could nurse
myself, and chuckle every time I sneeze
(alone I will not let the bug disperse –
infection stops with me for this bad cold).
I’ll draw a bath and let my germs immerse.
(Magic 9)
In looking for a work she’s never read –
a book that’s also cinema-conveyed –
I offered Fielding’s best to her, instead
of any other plot that’s been screen-played.
And now she’s halfway in, with tickled head,
and I’m a little jealous. I won’t trade
my having read Tom Jones, but it’s a pity
I can’t find many other books as witty.
(Ottava Rima)
If I met someone whose chief fantasies
were scripts of being cared for, comfort skits
in winter scenes or nestled in big trees –
of cleanliness in plush and furry wraps,
of hideaways in warmth amid a freeze,
of faceless folk attending to her needs,
then I would grasp her narrative with ease.
The only history her case admits
is nurture dearth and care frigidities.
(Magic 9)
I’ve read too many bargain e-books now.
I have to stop responding to emails
that hawk cheap work by folks who don’t know how
to craft true characters or narrate tails
that live up to the promise of the blurb,
deserve the stars, or earn the rave reviews.
Of late my reads are likely to perturb
instead of treat – annoy and not amuse.
Too many stories have the hero spy
on psycho neighbors, roommates and colleagues
nobody will encounter. Plots rely
on people never speaking, or intrigues
that cause more nausea than we all feel.
I’m turning back to classics or to real.
A winter baby, I have liked the cold
as long as I recall. I fantasize
of comfort teemed with blankets, heat controlled
by fireplace or furnace, darkened skies
by night or storm. Imagining I’m holed
up in a cabin, cozy, satisfies.
I’m lucky I grow chiller with each year,
or I would loathe the heat we’re having here.
(Ottava Rima)
I’ve lived through times abhorring butt and gut
(although I always liked myself enough),
but mostly I’ve accepted shape and cut
those negatory voices from my head,
admonishing self-judgments while I shut
the pressure down, and entertained myself.
But lately I’ve no vigor to rebut
the fact of growing girth and lumpen stuff.
I’m taking steps to trim, no matter what.
(Magic 9)
At home 6 days a week last month was tough,
but Omicron was large and kids are wee.
The days were long, but there was time enough
to postpone any task, and challenge me
with some new venture, made of different stuff,
but I got no idea till recently.
And now I’m back to out more days than not,
I have to fit each function in its slot.
(Ottava Rima)
You describe the light.
I’m trying to catch the sound.
Existence expressed.
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