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.
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)
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