If we believe reports about the shot,
I must be 95% immune
right now, but no one knows how long we’ve got
before protection lapses, or how soon
a variant will conquer. May and June
are clear for me – July without a doubt.
I’d better use this respite, and get out.
(Rhyme Royal)
I’m tidy, and my house is sailboat-small.
I spot-clean when I notice pollen, dust,
or webby threads. I seldom clean it all
at once, but yesterday I tackled much,
although I used no mop or alcohol.
Removing skylight screens, I worked a brush.
I swept and vacuumed and addressed each wall.
I washed the tub and bathroom floor. I thrust
myself to cleaning. Details now enthrall.
(Magic 9)
The Saturday of silence led to talk
today, when no one heard my voice but me.
Deciding to buy groceries, the walk
to Star and back framed a soliloquy.
I processed irks about some family –
annoyance at a relative I love.
When I got home, I’d purchased clarity –
I’m gratified that walk provided shove.
(Huitain)
I haven’t got a thing I want to say.
I can’t imagine any company
that might inspire me to talk today,
although I diagnose no lethargy
or sadness, for my health and sanity
appear as well as normal. I don’t moan
and can’t complain of any agony.
I’m lucky to be quiet here, alone.
(Huitain)
The rooms above the place across the yard
have been to grad school coeds rented out.
They’re cute, but seem to find their work so hard,
they have no time to haul a bin. They doubt
their tenant skills; they both have lived without
the lessons of responsibilities.
Last night they woke the neighbors, freaking out
with shrieks of “hornets!” at three honey bees.
(Huitain)
I can’t control the weather or the sea.
I’m powerless to stop the viral spread.
My loved ones act like they’re ignoring me,
so self-esteem is found in my own head.
I’m old enough I don’t bemoan. Instead,
accepting drought and doom, I damp my wrath,
and try enjoying (while allowed) a bath.
(Rhyme Royal)
So much of what I thought I understood
is contradicted by the recent past.
My turf was a suburban neighborhood –
of course I thought that ambience would last.
But values taught as permanent and good
were post-war pushes, marketed so fast
and flashy, flooding on a PR tide
that flourished 50 years to now subside.
I had ideas about our special ways.
Although I knew that persons could be cruel,
I bought the common wisdom: goodness pays;
and everyone will benefit from school.
And while I witnessed myriad displays
of ignorance, unfairness and uncool
behavior, yet I cherished the conceit
that we had common ground beneath our feet.
I learned we were in trouble at 13
(my father gave me Carson to peruse),
but till about 10 years ago, the scene
was not as hopeless. Now I know we’ll lose
the climate war, no matter what we green.
Now I can’t ignore the way we choose.
More data doesn’t matter. Even still,
the climate-change deniers sling their swill.
We seem suspended on the cusp of change.
I don’t know how economy can heal.
I’m rooting for diversity’s full range
(new cultural ideas hold strong appeal –
non-binary is sensible and strange –
variety is evolution’s deal).
So much of what I thought was incorrect
or partial. I don’t know what to expect.
(Ottava Rima)
It’s usually the fall that triggers me
to start a project or to modify,
but I am springing now – I want to be
engaged, outside, among. I long to try
my feet again, at urban liberty.
For now, I aim to clean this place, where I
have sheltered 13 months in quarantine,
and then I’ll test the range of my vaccine.
(Ottava Rima)
I skipped two days of morning exercise,
for Saturday I played at toddler stuff,
and Sunday’s when I like to rest my thighs
and calves. My aging body gets enough
on weekdays now – this year’s routine supplies
me, works my stamina, is nothing tough.
But when this morning I began to move,
I felt my plans and attitude improve.
(Ottava Rima)
The lights are on across the yard again,
illuminating nothing for no eyes,
as careless stagers try to merchandise.
Accessorizing and arranging when
to open house, installing clean disguise,
the lights are on across the yard again,
illuminating nothing for no eyes.
The seats where none will sit, an antique pen
and blotter, more impersonal supplies,
as superficial as mundane replies…
The lights are on across the yard again,
illuminating nothing for no eyes,
as careless stagers try to merchandise.
(Madrigal)
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