Unpacking clothing from before the globe
went into semi-quarantine and closed
the venues I addressed from my wardrobe,
I found some raiment I forgot. Disposed,
I’d thought, disposed to spend my days in robe
and slipper socks. I clad myself and posed
before the mirror and before the feast.
I fly to ply on New Year’s Eve, at least.
(Ottava Rima)
That now and then I bore myself is true.
It doesn’t mean a lack of self-esteem,
but just that I’ve grown stale in point of view –
perspective skewed’s a muddy, raveled seem.
Of late the one who’s tiresome is you;
your unoriginality’s extreme.
So though I love you, you don’t need to stay.
I hope your mood resets while you’re away.
(Ottava Rima)
Her mother didn’t meet her loving need.
She fed the baby and she clothed the child,
but feelings were a theme she didn’t heed –
her daughter’s pain was never reconciled.
She wouldn’t host a longing or a pet.
All practical, she shopped and cleaned a lot.
Recalling what she listed, she’d forget
her offspring’s wishes oftener than not.
For dogs she had a coldness and disdain,
and though she let the father care for fish,
all cats and even kittens were her bane –
she shut down every indoor mammal wish.
And that may be true irony, because
she always yelled by snarl and slapped with claws.
The tiny ants that visit every year
can easily be crushed with fingertip.
December weather makes them show up here,
but I don’t see a trail or find the source.
They don’t make me acquire killing gear
or poison pots – they’re simply not that bad.
Like floaters aping bugs, they mis-appear –
they look like coffee grounds, until they zip
around and make their formic presence clear.
(Magic 9)
I gave up Bah and Humbug years ago,
when I imagined cold without Noel.
No longer do I rant at how we throw
our time to shop the way these times compel.
But yesterday my heart began to grow –
with warmth and care I felt my center swell.
It wasn’t too much alcohol or food –
I blossomed with a loving attitude.
(Ottava Rima)
If I were a virus with aim to succeed,
I wouldn’t kill hosts that are filling my need.
I’d propagate quick
but not make them too sick,
reducing their drive to abolish my breed.
The nouns come first, when learning how to speak,
for babies, Tarzan, immigrants and all.
(Like God we name, but way beyond a week).
Then when we, aging, start to misplace words,
it’s person-place-or-thing that forms the leak –
the soonest got becomes the soonest lost.
And if you would amuse a toddler, seek
from them a list of nouns they can recall.
That inventory-love’s their prime technique.
(Magic 9)
Although his pre-school’s closed for 14 days,
a teacher tested positive, we hear.
So now we follow protocols. He stays
at home and monitored, lest signs appear.
The family gets tested – in a week
we’re okay to assemble and embrace,
if neither test results nor his physique
extend the isolation in his case.
Coronavirus interrupts again
our careful plans to gather and to touch.
We don’t know how we’ll interact or when.
My time alone this week will be too much.
Some people may elude the virus yet,
but odds are we will not defeat the threat.
Life’s not a competition (yes it is),
but I can’t help comparing me to you,
as if there were a semi-weekly quiz
that I am motivated to get through,
contesting for a chair more soft than his,
a stronger mate than hers, a better view.
When I neglect to note or notice time,
at least I focus more than in my prime.
(Ottava Rima)
I don’t believe in magic or in luck.
I don’t have playing cards up any sleeve.
I’ve never been by fortune thunderstruck.
I don’t believe.
I play at solitaire. The games relieve
some homely hours, till I find I’m stuck
with card arrays no genius would conceive.
And then I toy with thinking I’m a duck
who can’t win even Klondike. So I grieve –
this may mean luck in life… But what the fuck?
I don’t believe.
(Roundel)
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