You comment you can be yourself with me.
I took those words to heart like a bouquet.
I watered them for hours mentally,
and as they blossomed, feel the urge to say:
“My friend, your mirror’s tarnished, if you see
an image that looks other than okay.
You’re not desilvered. If I may be bold,
you’ve sterling qualities, more good than gold.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” she said again,
a phrase I’ve borne and failed to understand
lifelong. (I recollect I heard it when
attempting to express emotions fanned
by friend or school). Before age 9 or 10
I learned she scorned my poetry; she planned
a life as tactical for me as hers.
Rejecting her examples honed my spurs.
October morning walk to H’s place,
while taking in the Halloween decor,
inhabiting the here-and-now, in case
I need to be alert for something more,
I’m ready to submit this aging face
to unguents luxurious and pure,
and grateful for the weather nearly warm.
Next time (December) I’ll contend with storm.
Why stay alive when nothing prospers you?
When you’re no longer able to disperse
your energy in mundane tasks you threw
upon your list; or pluck from out your purse
the coins you sought to save to spend on few;
when you engage refusal and rehearse
four petulant complaints of nothing new?
Why wake this week, to demonstrate no tact
and hurt the hearts with whom you interact?
We’ve pros and cons at any age, and yet
the decade I would call the worst to date
has got to be the 5th. Did you forget
the multitasking brooking no debate?
The loss of will or skill to stay up late?
Diminished stamina, uncertain time?
The start of body aches that don’t abate,
besetting what all claim should be your prime?
From half past dawn till nearly noon, the peace
was fractured by responsibility.
The tones of power washing didn’t cease,
and every pane was polished visibly.
The next event did nothing to decrease
the obligations – scheduled dentistry
is necessary but uncomfortable.
With costly elements, my plate was full.
Construction paper, tape and scissors small
enough for them and usable by me,
assembled on the table I’ll recall
and reinforce with pix and poetry.
Instructed by 3rd grade authority,
a 4 year-old and I each made a card.
We followed his directions happily,
compatibly, in sync and not on guard.
Well more than once, a doctor’s looked and said
a minor issue won’t heal on its own.
“You’ll have to see a specialist instead.”
But I’m forever lazy with the phone.
What could it hurt, to talk to blood and bone
or better, my immune system, I think.
I did that, and though why is quite unknown,
the matter rather soon began to shrink.
The first rain of the season made my roof
attractive to loud animals. My dreams
were broken twice by thumping, skidding proof
of scavenging or racing chasing schemes.
By silhouettes on skylight glass it seems
I hosted first a rowdy raccoon set.
Some hours later, by the early gleams
of dawn, on rain-wet glass two felines met.
Of all the critters in this garden yard,
the squirrels often give the most surprise.
Appearing light, they hit my rooftop hard,
in thumping races for whatever prize
is up or down – persimmons or supplies
redeemed from refuse (raiding like a rat).
They’re vandals who look cute to human eyes,
but terrorize the landscape getting fat.
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