Review the choices made when you were 8,
for everyone gets hurt in childhood,
but most survive to age and recreate,
with strategies and tactics that were good
enough to serve them then, but rarely worth
continuing to use when they’re mature.
I watch too many suffering a dearth
of wisdom, still repressed and insecure.
A story is a popular device
as old as song, as ancient as cave art.
It can be utilized to give advice,
or illustrate a precept, or to start
a way of thought-in-action, but the tale
cannot be messy like reality.
Too accurate a plot or foe will fail.
A narrative must simplify, to be.
A saga can explain or entertain,
but first it must eliminate the murk
that complicates existence. Please refrain
from falling for the myths in fiction work.
You’re armed but mustn’t heed the author tricks.
You should have outgrown gullible at 6.
He wants me misremembering his past,
as if his wife were honest even then,
his mother kind, his party life a blast.
Another whom I’ve talked with all her life
describes herself as if she has amassed
a history of work she never did.
And then there’s my obsession, by contrast:
to not forget. Remind me once again –
I can’t make others’ recollections last.
(Magic 9)
She got too high last night. She reached the stage
of almost seeing double. To assuage
the symptoms, she tried counting up to ten
while blinking and refocusing again,
acknowledging she wasn’t feeling sage.
She didn’t have to drive. The only wage
she paid – embarrassment and inward rage –
was quite sufficient punishment for when
she got too high.
She failed adjusting dosage for her age.
A little pot and wine unlocked her cage
that never would have rocked her young, but then
it also wouldn’t stir this morning’s pen.
An aging character misplaced her gauge –
she got too high.
(Rondeau)
I will not take responsibility
for travesties I lobbied to prevent.
And I can’t let this weather bother me –
I have no power over what we’re sent.
I saw the future and our sure torment.
The facts were stronger than your fond belief.
But though it’s clearly futile to lament,
this sunny almost-winter gives me grief.
A calm has overtaken me of late.
I get some time at home without a task.
Catastrophe is nowhere near my gate
today, and I don’t have a boon to ask.
No one I love is newly stricken now,
and though I’m sure some shit will happen soon
(anon is relative), I don’t know how
I want to spend my time this afternoon.
Adversity will certainly recur,
and as it does I’ll strive and use my strength,
but also I’ll remind myself to purr
when nothing’s wrong. I’ll notice peace at length,
indulging in some decent gratitude,
and grooming my impatient attitude.
How can it end: this tide of global flu?
We argued and refused to comprehend
the risks of gathering the way we do.
How can it end?
A quarantine of 40 days would send
the virus to its death – we know that’s true –
but we are too contentious to defend.
Our species moved to cities and we threw
away for trade our wisdom. We depend
on custom. Our abilities withdrew.
How can it end?
(Roundel)
As soon as we swore in the very worst
of presidents, I started gulping news.
I watched the talking heads and faces first
and soon expanded reading, seeking clues
and understanding. Knowing we’re self-cursed
did little to assuage, and truth abused
compounded tragedy. Of late I’ve ceased
attending news that nourishes the beast.
(Ottava Rima)
On Monday I resumed home exercise.
My traveling imposed a 5-day pause,
right after illness forced a week’s demise
in fitness maintenance by morning laws.
I roused myself to start again, because
it pays me compound dividends to push
and stretch and minimize the flaws
that aging piles on my gut and tush.
(Huitain)
I hated Romper Room when I was young.
Miss Nancy was as corny as a nurse –
so patronizing, with her baby tongue.
And later, Dick & Jane were even worse.
I saw through all the hand-on-kneecap bends.
I never fell for ads on the TV.
I don’t know why but I was wise to trends,
and PSA’s have rarely worked on me.
The kids I hang around with seem immune
as well, to lessons cloaked in cartoon guise.
They may cooperate a bit, but soon
I see resistant faces. No surprise,
except the situation is ignored
by grownups who forget how they were bored.
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