Four households share this real estate with me.
My cottage sits behind the box in front
for others and our shared facility.
We constitute an HOA of five,
consuming resources unequally,
for some use more or less, and I’m alone
with dedicated gas utility.
I’ve kept the books (and more) without a grunt,
but not for longer – I need company.
(Magic 9)
I’ve used my pedal parts so many years –
I’ve danced on them and made them bear my weight –
it isn’t any wonder what appears
shoes-off is not a sight that’s looking great.
But that’s from an imperfect point of view
rejected now – what was I thinking of?
I’m shifting focus, feeling something new,
and mean to show my feet a little love.
I’ve always been selective in my shoes.
I gave up heels. I practice ankle rolls.
I vary what I wear and try to use
my feet with care, but now I press my soles
in self-massage – I knead and then oppose –
I interlace my fingers with my toes.
There may be something wrong with me, I know.
I turn the TV on and then ignore
a quarter of the sound from any show
and as for video, there’s even more
I don’t perceive as stimulus. I go
for Austen reenactments (with encore),
and classic animation’s fluid glow,
relaxing in the lap of metaphor.
Congenitally nervous, like my folks,
I’ve never let hysteria hold sway.
I counter me with exercise and jokes,
uniting mind and body every way
I can and with intention every day.
And though I still detect the signs and tics,
of late they aren’t problems I can’t fix.
(Rhyme Royal)
So after 12 years off and 2 years on,
my mania to bathe begins to slow.
It hasn’t disappeared – it isn’t gone.
I love to be immersed, and if I know
myself I always will. That I’d forego
today surprises me. It’s not the drought
or scent-dead age accounting for this “no.”
I now have soaked enough to do without.
(Huitain)
A benefit from my diversity
of worries (multi-faceted concerns):
the many help me duck a tendency
to concentrate on one until I’m ill.
As soon as focus hurts (or presently),
I shift attention to an other scene.
My younger kin provide variety,
and sometimes dire smite to smitten turns,
which feels by contrast like a gift to me.
(Magic 9)
In further evidence of climate change,
the squirrels are resorting to green plums
as dietary mainstay. It seems strange
to watch them hunt the prunus; hungry bums,
they must be famished – fruit once scorned becomes
their diet. See them finish every bit –
who used to litter pulp drops only pit.
(Rhyme Royal)
Our mom gave us pistachios
that couldn’t be outclassed.
I meant to make them pose for prose
but ate them all too fast.
It doesn’t take book knowledge to opine
repeated movement causes wear at least.
Three score and ten convey a sad decline –
I know some flexibility’s deceased,
and every month my skin becomes more creased.
I’m lucky old. I won’t complain or mourn
some inner works now seeming overworn.
(Rhyme Royal)
Once upon a time I misbehaved.
I hurt no one but I betrayed a trust.
My bad went undiscovered – no one raved
or even scowled – there was not a bust
or whimper – every consequence was waived.
But rue began to eat my gut like rust.
Imagining how terrible I’d feel
uncovered, I reformed without reveal.
(Ottava Rima)
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