What day is it today? I used to know –
I opened up my calendar and looked.
I listed tasks and charted errands, so
I wouldn’t waste a step or miss a booked
appointment. Now is otherwise, and no –
it’s not retirement. My brain’s not cooked
with age’s plaque – I know your face and name.
But every isolated day’s the same.
(Ottava Rima)
Attempting to record precocious speech
at nearly 5, I note for “ignorant”
he coined “unknowingful,” which has more reach,
I think, and better catches what is meant.
And lately, as our Portal time is spent,
we look ahead to when this surge has moved.
We’re separated till the germs relent,
or waiting for his shot to be “improved.”
(Huitain)
Reading the stories
was better than life,
when I was young
and longing to live.
Reading the stories
is better than life,
now I am old
and remembering.
I call it Typhoid Tuesday nowadays
(for sure I’m aiming to alliterate),
as dread Coronavirus wends all ways
and keeps me mostly home again of late.
One day in seven I associate
with others – work and dining comes about.
Returning home I have to isolate,
but Typhoid Tuesday’s when I venture out.
(Huitain)
I avocado-hunted yesterday.
Abundance is no January theme,
but I attempt to make my salads gay
these homebound weeks, and avocados seem
a treat, in guac or served most any way.
I captured four. I know their color scheme –
organic local’s large and incomplete,
but three from Mexico I soon will eat.
(Ottava Rima)
I drank too much when I was 28
and circumstances moved me, after work,
to meet a friend, to talk and celebrate
or air complaints about my boss – a jerk –
and other stressors bound to nag or irk.
She taught me – “Be aware of where you are.
Don’t ever lay your head down on the bar.”
(Rhyme Royal)
The lemon tree’s a dwarf and in a pot,
and though the garden’s shady, most the plants
are thriving whether weather’s good or not,
but that poor lemon never had a chance.
No matter where, it drooped like it forgot
the path to prosper and the sunlight dance,
until I boosted water, food, and care –
today I see a perfect lemon there.
(Ottava Rima)
She hates her mom, resents her, and ignores
her now she’s old and dull and not aware.
I told her toxic feeling rusts and scores
the soul, suggesting that perhaps she’d care
imagining severity and sores
in mother-history. She won’t go there.
Her peace does not abide in shrink, on shelf,
because she has to first forgive herself.
(Ottava Rima)
At 40, when life seemed to run amuck
for everybody’s then and future play,
I found I kept reiterating “Fuck!”
But I kept living, till there came the day
when I moved to the mantra of “Ok-a-ay.”
Of late our world is worse – beyond absurd –
and now the query “Really?” is my word.
(Rhyme Royal)
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but still,
reiterating doesn’t waste a page.
I woke this morning nearly feeling ill,
or better put, I felt my awful age.
I thought I’d skip the exercise, engage
in elderly pursuit instead but then,
I heeded counsel from my inner sage –
I moved, and now feel middle-aged again.
(Huitain)
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