I tend to misconstrue when I am hurt –
at least that was the pattern in my youth.
Confusing it with anger, I’d assert
a righteous argument, although the truth
I hid within, behind my strident blurt,
was needy kid. It doesn’t take a sleuth
or shrink to diagnose my ancient pain:
“Your feelings? Can it!” was my mom’s refrain.
(Ottava Rima)
It must be me, but I did not enjoy
the morning visitors I had today.
The first I simply thought I would employ
to clean my 20 windows, but he talked
incessantly – complaints that would annoy
a saint. And then I hosted, for two hours,
a former resident who isn’t coy
but doesn’t recollect and couldn’t say
a fact, as flaccid as old corduroy.
(Magic 9)
I didn’t see it coming. I’m surprised,
although I should be used to that by now.
She isn’t doing what we all advised –
appearing to agree at our pow-wow,
she won’t control her impulses, and can’t
regard her own emotional response.
Her inner wisdom always has been scant,
and no one should expect a renaissance.
She won’t restrain her impulse to discard,
or modulate her urge to toss away
alternatives to snap decisions marred
by ignorance and lack of moral play.
Assuring us she will not rush to choose,
she threw out yesterday all outside shoes.
I set aside a day for pleasing me.
Of late my life has been amassing stress.
Responding to alarms from family
and culture wars has dimmed my happiness.
The heat and drought increase calamity,
and every treat I try delivers less.
I’ve cleared my slate of work and task attacks,
but I’m too agitated to relax.
(Ottava Rima)
Awake 200 minutes, I am done
with all the tasks I self-assigned today.
There weren’t many – now I’m glad there’s none,
except completion of this little verse.
I’m planning not to visit anyone,
or venture from the yard that’s my domain.
I’m wearying of never any fun –
too much of others’ issues in my way.
I want some quiet time, with breeze and sun.
(Magic 9)
Escorting Mom back home – she isn’t dead –
we settled her with medicines and rails
around each toilet and beside her bed,
installed a shower chair because she’s frail
(she’s 95, and lately tips the scale
at least 12 pounds below her normal weight).
She seemed to manage there (we stayed till 8).
But when the extra pills arrived next night,
she swallowed one, got dizzy, lost her gait
and fell. That medication wasn’t right …
(Dizain)
I for one am still alive,
and you for two are feeling well.
But she for three’s not long to thrive
(we ought to notice something fell).
Her death approaches like a spell,
inexorable and sure
(aging doesn’t have a cure).
I note where all our futures lie,
and seek ideas that may endure
beyond the moment when I die.
My mother never liked my hair till now
(and recent comments may be insincere).
She always criticized and told me how
I ought to wear it. In my 7th year,
she had it hacked away – with blurt and sneer
she claimed it was a bother to maintain.
I thought hair length should be within my sphere,
but she pulled rank and made it her domain.
(Huitain)
The answer to your question is … but wait.
I know you won’t be listening to me.
I almost loved a god and now my fate
is, though I hold the gift of prophecy,
when I reneged he tweaked my destiny –
I see the truth but no one will believe.
So I’ll shut up, await your inquiry,
and be ignored, although I don’t deceive.
(Huitain)
I’m in a shitty mood today, inclined
to flail with wrinkled hand and foul word.
I seem to lack all patience. I remind
myself of what I most disdain in Mom.
I don’t know what I like or need; I find
I’m restless, though I want to stay at home.
I’m trying to be sensitive and kind,
but news and notions strike me as absurd
and, stricken, I leave all my wits behind.
(Magic 9)
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