
Don’t love you enough
to argue any longer.
It’s time to quit now.

Was it my birth order? I was the first.
Or does she have contempt for edgy girls?
I know she loved us all, but I was cursed
with sexist expectations, given pearls
I never wanted, mocked for thoughtful aims,
told that as I grew I’d have to shift
from solo walks to her cosmetic games,
and ply her schemes, ignoring natural gift.
“I’d sooner die,” I didn’t say. The cuts
were nothing lethal and I’m not extreme.
I recognized her errors. I’d be nuts
to let them hold me back. I had a dream
I’d not abandon – to be hale at home,
and own the time and space to write this poem.

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.