Been making salad all these homebound days –
tomato, lettuce, cucumber, and seeds,
balsamic-dressed, with grated cheese arrays,
and avocado (most my body needs).
But as this plague obnoxiously proceeds,
there had to come a day without the last.
Postponing unripe fruit for future feeds,
with thinner toss of lunch I broke my fast.
(Huitain)
It’s anecdotal – my experience
of how the world is doing around here.
I don’t have stats – I may not make good sense
but then again, the news airs pain and fear,
and government has lost the nation’s trust –
its agencies are jokes but no one laughs.
My pride in place is dulled, and toxic rust
is etching us with dire epitaphs.
From my perspective, no one caught a cold
the first pandemic year – no common flu
beset us while we put our lives on hold,
but now there’s wounds and illness breaking through.
Intestinal infections, broken backs –
the health of friends and family shows cracks.
With Covid socializing, there’s a rule,
unspoken but complied with in my crowd.
Without offense or aiming to be cruel,
the most conservative prevail. Endowed
with kids or stuck in caution’s vestibule,
the edge of spectrum says what’s not allowed,
and sometimes makes me glad to stay away
from anxious moods of panic and dismay.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m sitting in a puddle of anxiety.
I feel a little swamped with dark unease
about our present plague and future destiny –
I dread regression, and the rising seas,
and getting older, frailer, losing words and blood
and friends who move or die in form or soul.
But I won’t extricate myself from tepid mud;
I’ll acclimate again, and learn control.
It only took her nearly 50 years
(but that’s okay – I didn’t hold my breath)
to realize “Mom” is not what she appears
to be, in culture, stories, fairytales.
(I never set my course to garner cheers,
but I remembered mother-fails and hurt,
and acted as a backstop to careers
my children chose, supportive unto death).
Her thanks are a surprise not in arrears.
(Magic 9)
On laundry day, some duties intercept
my exercise, my writing, puzzle play.
I find old clothes and put them on, unkept,
on laundry day.
I wash tomorrow’s clothing choice today.
The hamper’s full. The time to clean has crept
up on me, iterating like cliche.
I’m old enough to be at this adept,
but not so old I’ll dress this purple way.
I’ll never be that grandmother, except
on laundry day.
(Roundel)
My coffee’s disagreeable today,
and that’s a rare event. I like the brew,
and as a rule what I prepare’s okay
(I find about this drink I love, it’s true
no matter how I make it, it tastes fine).
Why, even recently, with no machine
or filters, I spooned coffee to combine
with seething water, souping my caffeine.
That morning drink was gritty at the end,
but tasted hot and good, and satisfied.
Returning home to use my pot and blend,
I savored what I wanted, till I tried
this morning’s mug, which bitter flavor-failed.
Perhaps the pot (or I) should be descaled.
I’m writing down what you already know –
with virus surging, all should isolate.
It’s safest in your home, but if you go
outside, then wear a mask and guard your space.
It’s time again to stem your social flow,
to try to keep your bubble free of bores.
Until this peak declines to a plateau
we’re stuck again. This piece records the date –
I have no other meter to bestow.
(Magic 9)
I’m being really careful yet again,
for though I never dropped the mask and space,
I did relax the isolation when
I’d had my shots. I dared to then embrace.
I dined inside and laughing, face to face,
and saw the wraith of normalcy emerge.
But I still care for young ones, in their place.
I’ll hunker down until we down this surge.
(Huitain)
Do New Year’s resolutions last that long?
From January 1st to NYE?
They’d have to be constructed firm and strong
to carry you to that vicinity.
I’m certain that’s too far a vow for me –
my imperfection’s bound to bring me sorrow.
I need six weeks to change and, honestly?
My resolutions don’t outrun tomorrow.
(Huitain)
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