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)
For nearly 15 years I’ve walked this way,
through blocks of modest housing interspersed
with areas that host a shop array,
but never have encountered such a burst
of frantic traffic busy like today:
eruptions in a frenzy to be first.
The citizens won’t longer stay inside,
for this week marks the acme of yuletide.
(Ottava Rima)
My grandson had a “Yes Day” not too long
ago, when he did what he wanted to.
No matter his request, there was a strong
and lovely likelihood it would come true.
There wasn’t too much candy, and the slew
of cartoons didn’t hurt his growing brain.
Adapting the idea, today my view
is focused on enjoying home and rain.
(Huitain)
I’ve seen the posters on the power poles,
with pleas for missing pets to be returned,
with photographs and words that move our souls,
suggesting mourning people who have yearned
for absent love. But seldom have I learned
what happened next. Was Rex or Frodo found?
What means this soggy paper on the ground?
Or sometimes I note stapled ads that tell
of cleaning house or moving goods or hoards,
with tear-off fringe of phone or URL,
affixed to tarry poles and message boards,
that show an enterprise this town affords.
But do the offers bring in work, or no?
I only get the trailer to the show.
And often there’s an urban mendicant
who frequents or establishes their place
as if it were the only spot they spent
their time, and as I pass their wonted space
I recognize their posture and their face.
But after weeks or more, they disappear,
and where or how they are is never clear.
(Rhyme Royal)
I never intended to walk Market St
at 7 pm in December.
They closed down two stations I needed, to meet
the train to cross the bay.
I paced on to Franklin on confident feet,
but then I began to remember
the instinct evasive to beat a retreat
from clots of black and gray.
I clattered down the stairs beneath Van Ness,
my sidewalk no an underground oh yes.
I think it would inform us to exchange
announcements about diet, fitness goals,
and other resolutions with a range
of news reporting relapse in controls.
Do you agree? Or would it be too strange,
to share the fail or fracture in the roles,
and mention not the subtle slide to grace,
when we succeed at soft and steady pace?
(Ottava Rima)
I call them assholes when I’m in my place
and talking to myself, without controls,
of those who snipe and won’t confront my face.
I call them assholes.
They suffer vacancies within their souls,
and feel correction as profound disgrace
(like blame and shame in lieu of growing goals).
I seek to limit error. I replace
what failed and try informing other roles.
Accused of yell and rush for talk and pace,
I call them assholes.
(Roundel)
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