600 days before I caught a cold,
which took me down a peg for near a week,
but I’m recovered now it’s time to hold
myself accountable, and exercise.
I’m coming back improved, determined, bold
enough to see a future healthily.
Apparently the signs can be controlled
or modified, to vigorous from bleak,
by turning mind to turning lead to gold.
(Magic 9)
Now coffee’s back in hand and appetite.
For days it put me off – though hot and black,
my morning nectar wasn’t tasting right.
Now coffee’s back.
I’m old and hypertension could attack
my health. I thought I’d cut caffeine to fight
the creeping weakness and the healing slack.
But really, it was just post-nasal blight.
A cold beset me, old, and made me hack,
but I recovered. I regained delight,
now coffee’s back.
(Roundel)
My internet went down the other night.
My lightbulbs flickered and they gave a blink.
The grid that gives us grist for heat and light
is failing more and limping more and old.
The infrastructure’s folding from a height
we used to brag about and never doubt.
I sometimes wonder when the streak I write
will interrupt. Now lately what I think
is failure of the grid will block my byte.
(Magic 9)
I aim to be polite and even nice.
I mostly try avoiding talking crass.
I’m into using language that’s precise,
so I think you’re behaving like an ass.
That’s not applied to women (unlike witch),
but much more accurate for you than bitch.
A little ill, I’m taking Monday off.
I will not work or exercise today.
My cold has now matured into a cough,
and I prescribe long rest, computer play,
an easy book with nothing wise to say,
avoiding interactions I won’t miss,
and soup. I plan to idle, come what may,
as soon as I am done composing this.
(Huitain)
I caught the cold my grandkids tossed around.
There’s no escaping 7 months or 4
years old – we saw, we hugged and kissed and clowned,
in chair and couch and rolling on the floor.
A little ill, I’m willing still for more.
Although since Covid I’ve been only well,
affection’s worth congestion for a spell.
(Rhyme Royal)
The center of my universe is me,
and circumstances here are rather nice.
The next concentric circle’s family,
and though my peers and elders give advice,
there’s plenty of respect and courtesy.
My neighborhood demands no sacrifice.
But farther out – the more the distance grows –
a tide of ignorance and rudeness flows.
(Ottava Rima)
The mother was a fixer all her life,
who taught her little girl to people-watch
for make-overs, and labor as a wife
repairing every incidental botch.
She’d walk into a room and redesign
in mind the furniture and color scheme.
Maintaining that she couldn’t draw a line,
she took on tasks and errands as her theme.
The daughter didn’t mimic or conform,
but she stayed close and now can testify
that noticing what’s wrong creates a swarm
of negativity as years go by,
that grows an oldster hemmed in harsh refrains
who only feels alive when she complains.
I shuffle in the morning when I rise.
My skeleton is creaky, and my face
is like my father’s just before demise.
I take in coffee, puzzles and some words,
and then I’m capable of exercise,
which stirs a bout of youth-like energy
until late afternoon, when vigor dies,
when I will nap if I’ve a sitting place.
At least three folks a day I now comprise.
(Magic 9)
When I advise or recommend to you,
and you discard my words or don’t attend,
no longer will I quibble or pursue:
ignore and I won’t bore you any more.
But nor am I responsible. I’ll lend
and then return what you decline to learn.
That sets me free. And likewise this is true –
if what I pen will bother or offend,
why should I care when readers are so few?
(Magic 9)
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