Like dominos cascading one by one,
our socializing plans are toppled now.
That party organized to be such fun
is cancelled, and our prudence won’t allow
me on a plane until this surge has run
its course, until it’s safe to mass somehow.
We found a country cabin we could rent.
For half a week, that’s where my bubble went.
(Ottava Rima)
I don’t know if I’ll see you in two days.
I might not visit Mom as planned this week.
A plane may fly without me – prudence stays
at home, perhaps, to skirt the latest peak.
Alone today I duck contagion’s ways –
tomorrow I can kiss your baby’s cheek,
but that’s as far as you and I can see.
We’ll table plans to plan accordingly.
(Ottava Rima)
The weather app’s nice,
but the window is better,
and outside is best.
Once upon a wired telephone,
party lines were common, and the rates
for talking over distances outshone
the charge for chatting with one’s local mates.
Then folks aspired to a private line –
some lucky teens had units where they slept –
but many had to jostle to confine
their talk and have their gossip closely kept.
Ma Bell was then controlling like a queen,
until by anti-trust compelled to split,
and then the towers turned to cells – the scene
was mobilized and minimized to sit
in hand or pocket, use in car or street,
and now the old equipment’s obsolete.
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.
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