My personal computer can restart
itself, without command or aim from me.
My iPad and my cellphone are so smart,
their updates relegate to history
an app or two I bought deliberately.
I purchased the equipment, but indeed,
a phantom partner runs output and feed.
(Rhyme Royal)
The price I pay for shade is bloom delay.
The cost of filtered sun is leggy limb.
The plants are healthy, by and large, today,
but parasols of eucalyptus dim
the light intensity, as redwood arms
and jacaranda branches modulate
the brilliant zap that gooses as it warms.
And so my plants extend beyond their weight.
I tried to do them right. I cut them back
aggressively for winter, and I fed
them nutrients and water in the spring.
Defending them (no toxins) from attack,
I wanted denser roses but instead,
I got this balance-challenged blossoming.
Her skin is as thin as a wet paper bag.
It tears from the tiniest bump.
She’s paler than ghostly, too tired to nag,
and weekly we find a new lump.
She’s losing fat where she’d be better off plump
(although she likes fleeing weight’s curse).
She’s often confused and she talks like a grump,
but thinks the alternative’s worse.
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.
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