For decades I have not remembered dreams.
I wondered was I wanting too much pot,
but doubted daily use defined extremes.
Instead I just assumed the case was age.
I rarely slumbered soundly – any schemes
I tried to deepen sleep (not much – no pills)
did nothing to increase fantastic streams.
Of late I’m recollecting more than not.
New breath may be the cause, or so it seems.
(Magic 9)
Caffeine and time work morning wonders here.
At first my shuffling walk feels like a climb.
My medicine is slow but sees me clear:
caffeine and time.
Two hours and three mugs are my enzyme –
they straighten me and get my pulse in gear,
engaged to move like I’m still in my prime.
Some mornings I’m too old to persevere.
Fatigued by childcare or worry, I’m
a body shot, until my cures appear:
caffeine and time.
(Roundel)
I’m still not tired of my Covid meal.
I’ve lost the love for soup, frittata, beans,
but homemade salad carries strong appeal –
I want my daily dish of seeds and greens
with grated cheese, tomatoes, and the seal
of half an avocado. What this means
is when I see a friend for lunch (it’s great!),
I prep a salad for my dinner plate.
(Ottava Rima)
This month we’ve gotten
ride discounts on all BART trains.
Fair fare feels deserved.
What prompted him to buy us wine and food,
and leave before we voiced our gratitude?
Did we remind him of a mother dear
to him, but missed or gone this awful year?
Was he in a nostalgic sort of mood?
Did he receive a check and then conclude
he’d share the Stimulus that he accrued?
Or was he paying forward? It’s not clear
what prompted him.
We didn’t notice him. We weren’t rude –
our talk absorbed us, free of platitude,
acknowledging small boons that made us cheer.
Was he attending? Did he overhear
and pay to stimulate that attitude?
What prompted him?
(Rondeau)
Six days from now I’ll journey to the north
(when this is posted, I’ll be one day there,
arising from an air bed, first of fourth
sunrises, forecast mild, okay air).
I’ll be away from home – the trade is fair:
my privacy for love is how this goes.
The ticket’s on my phone, I’ll trim my hair –
the biggest prep’s this verse I pre-compose.
(Huitain)
I wavered at the academic gates –
Should I attend the university?
Or get to work at once, creatively?
What benefit to further school awaits?
My father had an answer good for me.
He pointed to a million books, and said
if I encountered decent faculty,
they’d aim me toward the gems that should be read.
I ate that wisdom and enrolled at Cal –
a choice I’ve had no motive to regret –
and now apply my father’s rationale
when I observe the loathsome Internet.
The information highway is a mess
without a filter – proving more is less.
I woke at 4 this morning, after 6
unbroken hours fast asleep in bed,
to see the dark of rain on wood and bricks.
I hadn’t heard its patter overhead.
My slumber was too solid – I was dead
to interruption, deep in dreaming rest.
I smiled and returned to sleep instead
(the night before was for a 4ish guest).
(Huitain)
They keep on asking him “Did you have fun?”
He answers “yes” because that seems to please,
like when they shoot and bid him to say “cheese.”
It’s not my place to quarrel – he’s their son –
but empty questions beg polite decrees.
They keep on asking him “Did you have fun?”
He answers “yes” because that seems to please.
It isn’t what the boy and I have done –
we like to be together – company’s
our pleasure – we don’t need festivities.
But they keep asking him “Did you have fun?”
He answers “yes” because that seems to please,
like when they shoot and bid him to say “cheese.”
(Madrigal)
Upon the table, by the door,
Shibori-dyed with indigo,
I walked without it to the store:
the mask I dislike wearing so.
I own five more of cloth and two
that makers claim will filter flow
of virus particles (untrue):
these masks I dislike wearing so.
And after near six hundred days
of blocking air from mouth and nose,
I still forget – attention strays –
the masks I dislike wearing so.
(Kyrielle)
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