I woke improved in back but at loose ends.
My early morning path was no more clear
than smoky sky above and murky trends
of culture skirting chaos, hemming fear.
I wanted to depart by 10, from here,
to travel west for toddler play and love.
My exercise to stretch and get in gear
took 30 minutes to produce the shove.
(Huitain)
They’re lining up for white bread at the store.
Of course it’s tasty, but it’s toxic too.
Your body has a natural stop – no more
protein or salt or fat, it signals you
when you exceed your limit, or before.
But no self-regulation says you’re through
with carbohydrate silage. So beware
of paying for that taste with chronic care.
(Ottava Rima)
There’s nothing like a back attack
to make me re-assess my state.
The bend and pain may not be great,
but sure-as-shit I’m out of whack.
At first I fret. My mood goes black.
I rail a moment at my fate.
There’s nothing like a back attack
to make me re-assess my state.
For soon my attitude’s on track,
reviewing how I’ve moved of late,
and disassembling stress I hate
to recreate the calm I lack.
There’s nothing like a back attack
to make me re-assess my state.
(Rondel Prime)
“I stand behind my stance,” the leader said.
“I’m firmly for my own decision now.”
His language made me wonky in the head –
I couldn’t help imagining just how
a person stands behind himself, instead
of justifying what his quotes allow.
We think in words and pictures. Both have heft.
With photo ops and slogans, we’re bereft.
(Ottava Rima)
I meant to post a Magic 9 last week.
I set it up and put it on the chart,
but rising on its day I had to tweak
a pair of lines – I couldn’t make it part
of what’s become an I-can’t-stop-it streak,
for it was flawed to mediocre art.
It violated meter, twisted tongue,
and begged for change before it could be sung.
(Ottava Rima)
Four households share this real estate with me.
My cottage sits behind the box in front
for others and our shared facility.
We constitute an HOA of five,
consuming resources unequally,
for some use more or less, and I’m alone
with dedicated gas utility.
I’ve kept the books (and more) without a grunt,
but not for longer – I need company.
(Magic 9)
I’ve used my pedal parts so many years –
I’ve danced on them and made them bear my weight –
it isn’t any wonder what appears
shoes-off is not a sight that’s looking great.
But that’s from an imperfect point of view
rejected now – what was I thinking of?
I’m shifting focus, feeling something new,
and mean to show my feet a little love.
I’ve always been selective in my shoes.
I gave up heels. I practice ankle rolls.
I vary what I wear and try to use
my feet with care, but now I press my soles
in self-massage – I knead and then oppose –
I interlace my fingers with my toes.
There may be something wrong with me, I know.
I turn the TV on and then ignore
a quarter of the sound from any show
and as for video, there’s even more
I don’t perceive as stimulus. I go
for Austen reenactments (with encore),
and classic animation’s fluid glow,
relaxing in the lap of metaphor.
Congenitally nervous, like my folks,
I’ve never let hysteria hold sway.
I counter me with exercise and jokes,
uniting mind and body every way
I can and with intention every day.
And though I still detect the signs and tics,
of late they aren’t problems I can’t fix.
(Rhyme Royal)
So after 12 years off and 2 years on,
my mania to bathe begins to slow.
It hasn’t disappeared – it isn’t gone.
I love to be immersed, and if I know
myself I always will. That I’d forego
today surprises me. It’s not the drought
or scent-dead age accounting for this “no.”
I now have soaked enough to do without.
(Huitain)
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