Traditions form within a week for me,
and I adhere to them with loyalty.
Somewhat indicative of OCD,
I spend my time with regularity.
Until I intersect epiphany,
and notice I’m too jammed diurnally.
It’s then I look at how I’m using time,
and turn from solitaire to making rhyme.
It’s never easy buying gifts for Mom.
She’s uber-practical – if she can’t see
a need or it’s not her idea, her palm
is in the air, between herself and me,
declaring she can’t use it, and what’s more,
insisting that I take the item back.
She won’t afford it shelf-space, but implore
me to rehome, regift, return, repack.
I searched this time for something that would keep
her comfortable when she’s alone awake.
I thought about the nights she gets no sleep,
and found a bed support designed to make
the reading easy, heated, buzzing, lit.
She gave it back. Now I’m enjoying it.
Securing more ricotta to explore,
I baked with herbs and egg a low-carb scone.
I cut rosemary sprigs outside my door,
and trimmed the thyme I bought and toted home.
Green onions finely chopped and almond flour
were whisked with egg and cheese to make the dough.
I scored and cooked it one-third of an hour,
then separated wedges’ edges so.
Now I have half a dozen wheatless rolls
to eat today and freeze for future use,
and slightly more experience as well.
The project has refreshed my eating goals,
renewed my daily fast and maimed excuse.
This climbing back is hard but starts to jell.
It’s nearly been 2 years since we were free
to interact in person or in place.
The virus and the rudeness wreck the race.
We thought in terms of weeks for you and me –
restricted from a visit face to face.
It’s nearly been 2 years since we were free
to interact in person or in place.
We didn’t recognize stupidity,
although we spent 4 years in its embrace.
We underestimated Red disgrace.
It’s nearly been 2 years since we were free
to interact in person or in place.
The virus and the rudeness wreck the race.
(English Madrigal)
If moving two steps forward/one step back
describes a lack of progress in complaint,
discouraging as you renew attack,
suggesting where your efforts were too faint,
perhaps you should engage in self-restraint
and give your chosen strategy a chance.
Your progress isn’t obvious or quaint,
and now your movement looks like modern dance.
(Huitain)
Remember when a 4 year-old could ail
and nobody would run an antigen
evaluation? Parents didn’t flail.
Remember when?
No talk included PCR back then.
We caught a cold and griped, but wouldn’t rail.
We didn’t fret at viral origin.
We never cared what you or you exhale.
We interacted over and again.
We even trusted governmental mail.
Remember when?
(Roundel)
In over 30 days away from those
I’m used to hanging with, two days a week,
although I exercised after I rose
most days, exhaling with good breath technique,
I had occasion for surprise to speak
to me – percussively, about my spine.
In hoists and hugs to kiss a perfect cheek,
my lower back recalled what age is mine.
(Huitain)
I write these lines on two two twenty-two.
Admiring the number of the date,
and knowing 20 days ahead I’ll view
an even longer set, I’ll set a goal
(or 2!) for head and heart. Each day I’ll do
a little thinking in a foreign tongue,
improve the metrics downward by a few,
and check again when I commemorate
the festival of 2’s that will ensue.
(Magic 9)
Ricotta lemon muffins were my try
when I was home alone last week and bored.
I wandered to the market but, oh my,
I couldn’t find the extract. Walking toward
my kitchen I thought juice could substitute –
the Internet confirmed that with advice.
Without the wheat or sugar but with fruit,
the texture and the taste were rather nice.
But I was left with more ricotta cheese.
And egg and allulose and salt as well.
I searched the web for useful recipes,
and found one I could halve. In springform shell
I baked ricotta cake of simple stuff,
that served to satisfy myself enough.
The bubble didn’t burst, but it increased
in volume, now that Omicron has dipped –
it made a little room for me at least.
They took a test and masks and, so equipped,
they drove to my address and then released
the hugs our recent isolation stripped
from us. We got together, face to face.
I have my buddies back in my embrace.
(Ottava Rima)
 | 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 