A little ill, I’m taking Monday off.
I will not work or exercise today.
My cold has now matured into a cough,
and I prescribe long rest, computer play,
an easy book with nothing wise to say,
avoiding interactions I won’t miss,
and soup. I plan to idle, come what may,
as soon as I am done composing this.
(Huitain)
I caught the cold my grandkids tossed around.
There’s no escaping 7 months or 4
years old – we saw, we hugged and kissed and clowned,
in chair and couch and rolling on the floor.
A little ill, I’m willing still for more.
Although since Covid I’ve been only well,
affection’s worth congestion for a spell.
(Rhyme Royal)
The center of my universe is me,
and circumstances here are rather nice.
The next concentric circle’s family,
and though my peers and elders give advice,
there’s plenty of respect and courtesy.
My neighborhood demands no sacrifice.
But farther out – the more the distance grows –
a tide of ignorance and rudeness flows.
(Ottava Rima)
The mother was a fixer all her life,
who taught her little girl to people-watch
for make-overs, and labor as a wife
repairing every incidental botch.
She’d walk into a room and redesign
in mind the furniture and color scheme.
Maintaining that she couldn’t draw a line,
she took on tasks and errands as her theme.
The daughter didn’t mimic or conform,
but she stayed close and now can testify
that noticing what’s wrong creates a swarm
of negativity as years go by,
that grows an oldster hemmed in harsh refrains
who only feels alive when she complains.
I shuffle in the morning when I rise.
My skeleton is creaky, and my face
is like my father’s just before demise.
I take in coffee, puzzles and some words,
and then I’m capable of exercise,
which stirs a bout of youth-like energy
until late afternoon, when vigor dies,
when I will nap if I’ve a sitting place.
At least three folks a day I now comprise.
(Magic 9)
When I advise or recommend to you,
and you discard my words or don’t attend,
no longer will I quibble or pursue:
ignore and I won’t bore you any more.
But nor am I responsible. I’ll lend
and then return what you decline to learn.
That sets me free. And likewise this is true –
if what I pen will bother or offend,
why should I care when readers are so few?
(Magic 9)
“They need to read more Plato,” someone said,
but he’s a teacher bound to miss the mark,
who thinks that only logic fills the head,
and only reason penetrates the dark.
I wish he were correct. I once agreed,
but I cannot ignore experience.
For while some explanations fill a need,
it’s rare to meet well-grown intelligence.
Compendia of systems are we all –
a corpus that comprises many works,
a brain that’s on a spectrum and in thrall
to personal pathology that jerks
evaluation, warping what’s perceived,
and murking truth with principles believed.
I guess nobody wants to see the doc,
but my aversion stems from an extreme
experience when I was five. The shock
stayed with me, reinforced into a theme
of error, disrespect, and mindless scheme.
But I went in today, and all was nice.
The treatment was intelligent. I deem
the doctor wise – I’ll follow her advice.
(Huitain)
I think all children love to learn at first,
but many suffer curiosity
to wane as they gain years, as if they’re cursed
to age into dull insipidity.
The lucky are precocious, full of thirst
for power, lusting for maturity.
Though early pain may be their spur, they yearn
forever glad and gratified to learn.
(Ottava Rima)
Discarded masks are litter now, on street
and sidewalk – mostly paper, pleated, blue.
I thought they found by accident concrete,
but people tell me they were tossed in fits
of chickenshit frustration. That conceit
I can’t embrace. And knotted plastic bags
of poop I notice near my strolling feet?
I don’t think that’s what walkers meant to do.
(My kids say my naivete is sweet).
(Magic 9)
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