Committed to remembering my time
of consciousness, I’ve told my tales for years.
I’ve noted little episodes in rhyme,
and often journalized. I don’t have fears
of Alzeimer’s – my memory’s sublime
and durable, or so it still appears.
But lately I’ll admit I’ve contemplated
perhaps true recollection’s overrated.
(Ottava Rima)
When fourteen years ago I hurt my back,
the doctor thought I’d sprained my spine at first.
An MRI revealed the sorry fact:
a disk with damage that can’t be reversed.
He taught me to avoid a rupture then.
He wrote prescriptions for the lovely pills
that took the pain of pain away again,
and didn’t get me hooked or lead to ills.
For two times seven years the pain’s been gone,
prevented by my daily stretch and luck.
But lately I awake atwinge. At dawn
I feel that disk complain, and think “Oh fuck.”
A passing hundred minutes then assuage
the pain, and so I think the cause is age.
My arm received the needles yesterday –
the Pfizer 3rd and too the flu vaccine –
and I arranged today for ease; I’d stay
at home. So went my plan till 12:15,
but then I wanted streets to intervene.
I threw on clothes and ambled to the store,
collecting greens and grist for verse, between
the scattered showers, wishing it would pour.
(Huitain)
I wait for rain as if it were a guest
invited to my home to share the best
provisions from my cabinet and mind,
as if it were the company I find
most likely to remind me that I’m blessed.
I’ve always wanted rain more than the rest
of weather, whether happy or distressed,
in any season and of any kind.
I wait for rain.
And now that we’re by climate change oppressed,
with drought and ashes blanketing the West,
with wisdom mute and politicians blind,
I check the news and windows for a sign
that loaded clouds have gathered and progressed.
I wait for rain.
(Rondeau)
Perhaps when my heart
bleeds with grief for children’s pain,
it’s not about them.
I recollect anxiety, as rain
I loved came down too hard and long to drain,
but that was when I lived beside a creek.
This landlocked cottage doesn’t have a leak,
so I prepared to like a record drench,
except a neighbor’s looking for a wrench
connected to an expert who can plug
the torrent flooding furniture and rug.
Exciting weather isn’t costing me,
but now I can’t enjoy it worry-free.
October is my favorite month, I think.
It’s past September’s ambiguity.
It’s clearly Fall and sunsets skew to pink,
while nights are growing in temerity
like adolescent forays on the brink
of edging into self-discovery.
October isn’t serious or mean,
and terminates by hosting Halloween.
(Ottava Rima)
The oil and the vinegar
emulsified so beautifully,
like honey twined with claret wine,
like strands of syrup jewels.
It hurt my heart to watch his face reflect
his disappointment with our game delay.
His mother made the pair of us expect
we’d have tonight for unmolested play.
It wasn’t my idea – I didn’t say
let’s go again so soon. He didn’t seek
it either, but our plans were chased away
by self-absorbent parents, for a week.
(Huitain)
I turned the heaters on the other day –
the bathroom felt too chill at 8 a.m.
And later, when the sky grew black from gray,
I fired up the furnace. Using them
before November isn’t often done.
I’m California-proud and try to do
with heat provided first by April sun
until pre-winter wind and rain blows through.
But normal weather patterns are upset.
We’ve seen anomalies for several years.
And also as I’m aging, I now get
to feeling cold in warmer atmospheres.
Who used to weather 66 degrees
wants 7 more these days, to feel at ease.
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