I have no goals today, and that feels good.
My head’s a little sore. I need more rest.
It’s Monday-quiet in my neighborhood,
and lately I’ve been relatively stressed.
I planned five solo days – I thought I could
lay low, but then I found my aims suppressed
by misbehavior in my family –
demanding active strategy from me.
(Ottava Rima)
I once was a person who heard
significance in every word.
I spent so much time
loving cadence and rhyme,
I didn’t see speech as absurd.
Antipathy was powerful in me.
Contempt for how she parented was strong.
That brusque behavior was her specialty,
and motivated me to prove her wrong.
Her insults and insensitivity
were evidence that I did not belong.
I’m lazy, selfish – words that stained my youth.
I long to earn them now (that’s nearly truth).
(Ottava Rima)
Because I’m good with numbers, most assume
I’ve figured out the market and invest
to great returns, but I can’t time a boom
or downturn – that’s no field where I do best.
In fact, I’ve never tried the game before.
I bought a house instead and with amounts
for late-in-life, I pooled and let the more
expert select the mix for my accounts.
But having sold the family abode,
I finally have cash to put to earn.
Unmanaged but diversified, the mode
I choose is my advice. I tried to learn
and found me blind. I’ll average in my buys,
rebalance, and set course for gentle rise.
I thought as usual I’d have today
and half tomorrow quiet here, alone,
and then I’d juggle bouts of toddler play
and visits with my sibs and Mom (no phone
but in-real-life). And then I heard them say
the young will camp; the elders will postpone.
So now I have 5 days, unplanned and free,
to recreate without contorting me.
(Ottava Rima)
A single-story home was ours, but friends
had houses with half-staircases inside.
“Split-level” was the term I heard. Such trends
abounded then with fresh suburban pride.
(My view of homes, at 8, was modified).
When Mom complained she needed skates to care
for me, I thought it good we had no stair.
(Rhyme Royal)
For just one day, it’s feeling normal here.
We’re summer cool, beneath a sky of gray
at dawn and dusk, at midday mild, clear.
For just one day.
I’m smelling skunk but didn’t see the spray.
My garden tenants thrive – they all appear
to eat and drink sufficiently to play.
Pandemic is around, but lately we’re
advised we don’t need masks to be okay.
It’s like of old. I like the atmosphere.
For just one day.
(Roundel)
Don’t love you enough
to argue any longer.
It’s time to quit now.
Was it my birth order? I was the first.
Or does she have contempt for edgy girls?
I know she loved us all, but I was cursed
with sexist expectations, given pearls
I never wanted, mocked for thoughtful aims,
told that as I grew I’d have to shift
from solo walks to her cosmetic games,
and ply her schemes, ignoring natural gift.
“I’d sooner die,” I didn’t say. The cuts
were nothing lethal and I’m not extreme.
I recognized her errors. I’d be nuts
to let them hold me back. I had a dream
I’d not abandon – to be hale at home,
and own the time and space to write this poem.
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