She said it isn’t hypertension yet,
but maybe I should purchase my own cuff.
And I postponed but I did not forget –
I figured it was on my mind enough
I didn’t need to measure, and abet
my bit of nagging worry. That was fluff –
with owning I’m realizing nothing strange –
the meter’s trending to a healthy range.
(Ottava Rima)
Communication problems slowed me down.
I tried complying, but I failed to get
the TSA instructions— did he frown
behind his mask? But even so, he let
me pass (Express), and then I didn’t set
computer gear apart. But here’s the plane.
I’m old and not completely stymied yet,
and now I see my aircraft in the rain.
I concentrated on my kin last week.
I occupied less space and wrote few lines.
I funded meals and didn’t try to speak.
I paid attention to some odd designs.
I took less space than when I bide at home.
I barely read and didn’t watch TV.
I only wrote this mediocre poem.
And now it’s time to travel back to me.
It’s just as well that visiting is rare.
I understand its end and so will serve.
I don’t mind temporary work I know
will cease. This selfish soul can share some air,
can clean another’s mess and even swerve
from fond routine. I always get to go.
The noise of wind awoke me late last night,
exhaling harsh and analog above.
I heard at times the clunk of branches, right
outside my door, as autumn gave a shove
to limbs and leaves migrating to the ground,
without a forecast warning. That’s okay –
the scouring day is here, and I’m around
to compost leaves and branches late today.
Observing squirrels through a pane of glass,
I see them growing fatter every day.
Voraciously they forage, adding mass
and making tree limbs bounce from what they weigh.
They’re full of flora calories and sass.
They vandalize the plants and throw away
the bulk of what they pluck from any tree.
They never leave persimmon fruit for me.
(Ottava Rima)
“A poem should be about your feelings,” said
an audience that fails to understand.
Experience has other words instead:
“A poem is just a making, and can be
in almost any tone and subject. Dread
the trite and ever seek to be sincere,
but you can lay down any clue of thread.
It isn’t sacrosanct, and won’t demand
a phrase beyond the truth that’s in your head.”
(Magic 9)
When writing metered rhyming poetry,
a syllable should not be thrown away.
A wasted phrase amounts to felony
(as lines are few, each word should have its say).
If I may risk reverse humility,
then here’s how I might edit Ms Millay:
I burn the candle at both ends.
It makes a lovely light.
But though the glow so far extends,
it cannot last the night.
The original:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light!
One of the reasons I seldom read verse
is cause I can’t help seeing lazy mistakes.
And modern pop lyrics amount to much worse –
they’re staler than yesterday morning’s pancakes.
Our mothers are identical in ways
that no one sane would ever brag about.
They’re narcissistic fixers who don’t praise;
they’re shoppers who would gladly drag us out
to malls or outlets anxious to exchange
the bulk of stuff they brought home recently.
They think they’re functional and we are strange.
They seldom treat a waiter decently.
They don’t know one another, and they’re years
apart in age, from backgrounds quite diverse.
But each is miserly with laughs and tears,
and both are toxic to us like a curse.
I suffer less than you, because I lack
an older sibling polishing the track.
My magic feather was the exercise.
I thought I had to move to find a theme
to write about and wax a little wise,
but even in this sedentary stream,
I tend to cogitate, complain, and dream.
I can’t retard the process if I tried,
and though my topics may not soar or seem
significant, I’m not yet ossified.
(Huitain)
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