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)
A scented candle you presented me
a year ago, or maybe 2 years back,
has sat beside my loveseat handily,
where I ignited it when skies were black
and air was cold. The new one you just gave
inspired me to light the old and let
it burn away. I had no need to save
it now. I didn’t dream and won’t forget
its inch of wax contained such fragrant powers,
it graced my room for over 16 hours.
It isn’t personal – we can’t go there.
With Omicron in surge, I have to stay
away from you. I can’t risk sharing air,
lest I convey infection that will prey
on kids I see too young to get the shot.
It isn’t that I view you as a threat,
but I don’t know who you abut, who not,
or what your webs of intercourse abet.
If we were to establish you’ve been in
and isolated, limited to few,
and so we met, avoiding touching skin,
and then I caught and spread this vile flu,
you’d worry that you vectored it to me.
So let’s postpone that possibility.
How’d she appear, if gleaning were her goal?
If chatter were to build an atmosphere
where anyone could ponder on a roll?
How’d she appear?
Her purpose is unusual but clear:
she plants the seeds and then she cedes control,
and hopes to later harvest bloom and spear.
Assume she doesn’t lecture or cajole.
Imagine her conceits are scattered near.
If she were reaping nurture for her soul,
how’d she appear?
(Roundel)
Returning home from New Year’s Eve away,
the temperature inside was 52.
I turned the heater on without delay,
but still it took some hours to accrue
the warmth to heat my body through and through.
I cozied by that fire rather late,
and didn’t shut if off till 68.
(Rhyme Royal)
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