Logic Problem

“They need to read more Plato,” someone said,
but he’s a teacher bound to miss the mark,
who thinks that only logic fills the head,
and only reason penetrates the dark.
I wish he were correct. I once agreed,
but I cannot ignore experience.
For while some explanations fill a need,
it’s rare to meet well-grown intelligence.

Compendia of systems are we all –
a corpus that comprises many works,
a brain that’s on a spectrum and in thrall
to personal pathology that jerks
evaluation, warping what’s perceived,
and murking truth with principles believed.

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The Good M.D.

I guess nobody wants to see the doc,
but my aversion stems from an extreme
experience when I was five. The shock
stayed with me, reinforced into a theme
of error, disrespect, and mindless scheme.
But I went in today, and all was nice.
The treatment was intelligent. I deem
the doctor wise – I’ll follow her advice.

(Huitain)

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Impetus

I think all children love to learn at first,
but many suffer curiosity
to wane as they gain years, as if they’re cursed
to age into dull insipidity.
The lucky are precocious, full of thirst
for power, lusting for maturity.
Though early pain may be their spur, they yearn
forever glad and gratified to learn.

(Ottava Rima)

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Passive-Aggressive Litter

Discarded masks are litter now, on street
and sidewalk – mostly paper, pleated, blue.
I thought they found by accident concrete,
but people tell me they were tossed in fits
of chickenshit frustration. That conceit
I can’t embrace. And knotted plastic bags
of poop I notice near my strolling feet?
I don’t think that’s what walkers meant to do.
(My kids say my naivete is sweet).

(Magic 9)

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Where the Boys Are

I passed them passing Bibles out to folks
who crossed their path to get to class by 10 –
a line of old white men. They didn’t coax
receipt – they didn’t preach or say Amen.
They didn’t seem upset to be ignored.
I marveled at their presence and their goal,
who’d not expect a soul to jump aboard,
but there they were. Continuing my stroll
(I had a date for pharmacy vaccines),
I next encountered at the counter there,
before and after jabs, another scene –
old white men insecure about health care.
I wondered as I waited what it meant:
Is this and that where my old boyfriends went?

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Impossible

For years I’ve heard there isn’t any rhyme
for “orange,” but it hasn’t made me groan.
The word I want to use, time after time,
is “month,” and I’m afraid it stands alone
without the right to end a metered line
in any form of English-language poem.
If only we used “mois” or “mes” or “mese,”
composing this would make me feel less crazy.

(Ottava Rima)

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What Went Wrong

The realtor aimed to cover up some dirt.
The stager eyed that side yard and agreed.
They figured packing sand there wouldn’t hurt
(as if they thought, when thought would just impede
their superficial sugar-coating need).
They hired brawn to cart and tamp the sand.
They made a place that didn’t quite succeed,
except at blocking drainage like a dam.

(Huitain)

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Note

I took a break in Twenty Seventeen.
The record shows two dozen days without
a post, and though my stanzas often mean
a jot of journal – what my day’s about –
I see no clue on printed page or screen
to why the interruption. I’ve no doubt
the cause was small, but neither drew nor wrote –
Unlike today, I didn’t leave a note.

(Ottava Rima)

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October Over

October over
night leaves evidence of rain
too soft to be heard.

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Day Off Call Off

I planned a Sunday off. I laid in food.
I didn’t try to make a friendly date.
I figured to indulge a lazy mood,
enjoy some Autumn weather, cogitate
about no news and let concerns abate.
I lasted for an hour, but I miss
the like of bike and stretch. And now my state
of mind won’t still until I’ve written this.

(Huitain)

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