Where the Boys Are

Posted on November 5, 2021 by sputterpub

I passed them passing Bibles out to folks
who crossed their path to get to class by 10 –
a line of old white men. They didn’t coax
receipt – they didn’t preach or say Amen.
They didn’t seem upset to be ignored.
I marveled at their presence and their goal,
who’d not expect a soul to jump aboard,
but there they were. Continuing my stroll
(I had a date for pharmacy vaccines),
I next encountered at the counter there,
before and after jabs, another scene –
old white men insecure about health care.
I wondered as I waited what it meant:
Is this and that where my old boyfriends went?

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Impossible

Posted on November 4, 2021 by sputterpub

For years I’ve heard there isn’t any rhyme
for “orange,” but it hasn’t made me groan.
The word I want to use, time after time,
is “month,” and I’m afraid it stands alone
without the right to end a metered line
in any form of English-language poem.
If only we used “mois” or “mes” or “mese,”
composing this would make me feel less crazy.

(Ottava Rima)

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What Went Wrong

Posted on November 3, 2021 by sputterpub

The realtor aimed to cover up some dirt.
The stager eyed that side yard and agreed.
They figured packing sand there wouldn’t hurt
(as if they thought, when thought would just impede
their superficial sugar-coating need).
They hired brawn to cart and tamp the sand.
They made a place that didn’t quite succeed,
except at blocking drainage like a dam.

(Huitain)

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Note

Posted on November 2, 2021 by sputterpub

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)

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October Over

Posted on November 1, 2021 by sputterpub

October over
night leaves evidence of rain
too soft to be heard.

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Day Off Call Off

Posted on October 31, 2021 by sputterpub

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)

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Recording

Posted on October 30, 2021 by sputterpub

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)

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Atwinge

Posted on October 29, 2021 by sputterpub

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.

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Rest Fail

Posted on October 28, 2021 by sputterpub

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)

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I Wait for Rain

Posted on October 27, 2021 by sputterpub

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)

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