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.
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)
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