The garden needs a pruning now, because
too little rain all winter had me turn
the sprinklers on so early. We’ll have laws
or regulations soon that we decrease
consumption, and we hope it’s just a pause,
but honestly, I think our climate’s toast.
Too few regard environmental flaws.
Too late are most apparently to learn.
I’d better bathe before the flow withdraws.
(Magic 9)
The driver had to show me where to tag
my Clipper Card when I got on the bus.
I hadn’t ridden since the ruinous
pandemic made our every day a drag.
My transit gear of old was in my bag,
but habits fade – I needed to discuss.
The driver had to show me where to tag
my Clipper Card when I got on the bus.
Restrictions to my movement start to sag.
The rules relax and guidance loses fuss.
We almost glimpse a forward path for us,
when vaccinated vigilance can flag.
(The driver had to show me where to tag.)
(Rondel)
We pay a visit every other day.
The residents are not diversified.
Most everyone we see is ashen-gray,
Caucasian-ancient, female, rheumy-eyed.
The corridors are windowless and long.
The care is fair but no one’s getting strong.
The patient looks I take are dull and dreary.
That may be why I woke today so weary.
It’s like I caught the tone of 95!
I drank caffeine and rode my standing bike –
I pedaled till I felt a partial fix.
I did a class when I hit half-alive,
and mended more. I reached a stage I like,
and now don’t feel a day past 56.
I’ve been so happy with my set-up here,
within the writer’s roost I always craved,
afforded by the funds I earned and saved.
The weather’s soft, the garden’s good, I’m near
all services and also paths unpaved.
I’ve been so happy with my set-up here,
within the writer’s roost I always craved.
But lately time is leaching, and I fear
my family’s demands cannot be waived.
For now my solo hours must be shaved.
I’ve been so happy with my set-up here,
within the writer’s roost I always craved,
afforded by the funds I earned and saved.
(English Madrigal)
One reason I’ve continued with this blog
is record-keeping – I have writ so much
I like, my shelves are full and search is slog.
I chose from many categories such
as seemed would help me with retrieval’s touch,
but liking “love of wisdom,” let there be
too many verses tagged “philosophy.”
Deliberately diversifying then,
I thought about my sorts and I reviewed
the 37 subjects for my pen.
I pondered personality and food,
identified motif and attitude,
and marveling at inventory wealth,
I started tagging most my posts as “health.”
(Rhyme Royal)
The din disturbed my sleep at ten to six.
It issued from a raucous flock of crows.
I like their shiny black, their clever tricks,
but noise and splats of shit I don’t receive
so well. There doesn’t seem to be a fix –
I garden-dwell and that has downsides too.
So now I’m up too early, writing this
by lamplight as the dawning sunshine grows,
awake evading news of politics.
(Magic 9)
My grandson wears an eyemask when he sleeps.
His parents have their theories on good rest;
they think that vision-stimulation keeps
their kid awake. I’ve watched this pair invest
in all the gear their research recommends.
Of dreams, my grandson tells me with a yawn,
he can’t report a thing. For he contends
he just can’t see them with his eyemask on.
I always liked to ride the bus and train –
it gave me time in movement but alone,
without the need to drive or to maintain
a vehicle, the schedule foreknown.
My solo transits were my private zone,
where I could read and write and shift my gears.
I ride again, amid diminished fears.
(Rhyme Royal)
For 14 months, I had to wear a mask
whenever I encountered someone strange
on walks or if engaged in any task
outside my own address. The recent change
in health advice expands my willing range
and happiness – I’m walking feeling free.
Relief and comfort are my ecstasy.
(Rhyme Royal)
The Hasids were a splinter group at first,
who added song and dance – so I was taught –
but grew in time so rigid, now they’re cursed
with viral ignorance and magic thought.
I see in Protestants a simile.
The radical reflected in their name
has paled into a grim conformity –
whatever they are now is not the same.
I try not to be bigoted, and yet,
I must confess I’m viewing with dismay
the “Willa Cather people” whom I met
when I was young and didn’t have a say
in schoolbooks. Simple answers aren’t smart,
but I think WASPs are faulty, in my heart.
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