I took a break in Twenty Seventeen.
The record shows two dozen days without
a post, and though my stanzas often mean
a jot of journal – what my day’s about –
I see no clue on printed page or screen
to why the interruption. I’ve no doubt
the cause was small, but neither drew nor wrote –
Unlike today, I didn’t leave a note.
(Ottava Rima)
October over
night leaves evidence of rain
too soft to be heard.
I planned a Sunday off. I laid in food.
I didn’t try to make a friendly date.
I figured to indulge a lazy mood,
enjoy some Autumn weather, cogitate
about no news and let concerns abate.
I lasted for an hour, but I miss
the like of bike and stretch. And now my state
of mind won’t still until I’ve written this.
(Huitain)
Committed to remembering my time
of consciousness, I’ve told my tales for years.
I’ve noted little episodes in rhyme,
and often journalized. I don’t have fears
of Alzeimer’s – my memory’s sublime
and durable, or so it still appears.
But lately I’ll admit I’ve contemplated
perhaps true recollection’s overrated.
(Ottava Rima)
When fourteen years ago I hurt my back,
the doctor thought I’d sprained my spine at first.
An MRI revealed the sorry fact:
a disk with damage that can’t be reversed.
He taught me to avoid a rupture then.
He wrote prescriptions for the lovely pills
that took the pain of pain away again,
and didn’t get me hooked or lead to ills.
For two times seven years the pain’s been gone,
prevented by my daily stretch and luck.
But lately I awake atwinge. At dawn
I feel that disk complain, and think “Oh fuck.”
A passing hundred minutes then assuage
the pain, and so I think the cause is age.
My arm received the needles yesterday –
the Pfizer 3rd and too the flu vaccine –
and I arranged today for ease; I’d stay
at home. So went my plan till 12:15,
but then I wanted streets to intervene.
I threw on clothes and ambled to the store,
collecting greens and grist for verse, between
the scattered showers, wishing it would pour.
(Huitain)
I wait for rain as if it were a guest
invited to my home to share the best
provisions from my cabinet and mind,
as if it were the company I find
most likely to remind me that I’m blessed.
I’ve always wanted rain more than the rest
of weather, whether happy or distressed,
in any season and of any kind.
I wait for rain.
And now that we’re by climate change oppressed,
with drought and ashes blanketing the West,
with wisdom mute and politicians blind,
I check the news and windows for a sign
that loaded clouds have gathered and progressed.
I wait for rain.
(Rondeau)
Perhaps when my heart
bleeds with grief for children’s pain,
it’s not about them.
I recollect anxiety, as rain
I loved came down too hard and long to drain,
but that was when I lived beside a creek.
This landlocked cottage doesn’t have a leak,
so I prepared to like a record drench,
except a neighbor’s looking for a wrench
connected to an expert who can plug
the torrent flooding furniture and rug.
Exciting weather isn’t costing me,
but now I can’t enjoy it worry-free.
October is my favorite month, I think.
It’s past September’s ambiguity.
It’s clearly Fall and sunsets skew to pink,
while nights are growing in temerity
like adolescent forays on the brink
of edging into self-discovery.
October isn’t serious or mean,
and terminates by hosting Halloween.
(Ottava Rima)
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