So even if the questions aren’t skewed,
and even when results are honestly
reported, the conclusions must be viewed
as only pertinent to massive groups.
Statistics just apply to magnitude –
when stuck on individuals, they fade.
But managed health care seems to go for crude –
applying big statistics onto me
is not the way good remedy’s pursued.
(Magic 9)
I know a computer programmer,
who turned himself into a scammer.
But truly the fact’s
he’s no good at syntax,
and now the dude’s bound for the slammer.
My best friend leaves me,
busy at what she loved most.
She exits laughing.
My parents were the youngest of their sibs.
My dad had older sisters (numbered four).
For Mom there’s near nine years between the cribs
her sister and herself were put in. Sure
I have some cousins, but they’re all those years
ahead of what my mom and dad produced.
And too we moved away. We had no near
extended family around our roost.
So I have sixteen cousins to recall,
and I possess some memories of meals
and visits, yet the fact is they’re a small
and quiet engine powering no wheels.
But now that Mom, their only auntie, shrinks,
I’m calling them and we’re refreshing links.
The moment I awoke I raised the blind
as usual, to garden-start the day.
My vision snagged on novelty – the kind
I can’t ignore and don’t adore. What’s new
is just a mat outside a door, designed
to clash with every natural garden hue.
The neighbors picked hot pinkish tones combined,
that promise to show dirt, to fade, to fray,
and make me wonder that they have in mind.
(Magic 9)
Our mom caught Covid and we’re all in shock
(she had the shots and mostly she behaved).
She’s in the ICU, and that’s a block
to seeing her. The diagnosis gave
us reason for the falls and the fatigue
that led her kids to worry she faced death.
Her viral load is low – her tests intrigue
the doctors, but for sure she’s short of breath.
Four days in bed and chair extort a toll.
Disorienting scenes have her confused
(she’s always tried to manage and control).
Frustration and complaints are quick-excused,
but how her will retreats gives me concern –
she may grow too compliant to return.
The space between lines
frames nothing but eye relief
not good for reading.
A benefit from daily poetry
(less valuable than practice, but still nice)
is how the pieces serve as diary
(to feel and then record’s like living twice).
At times when I reread, the words entice
my memory – provocative technique.
Well here’s a little record of last week.
Six days ago the sky was middle-blue.
The atmosphere was clear without a cloud.
I chose to cherish all within my view;
I mourn for missing rainfall, but I vowed
to just appreciate. My grief’s unbowed
for what we’ve done to water, land, and air,
but Wednesday I loosed loving everywhere.
Ten days ago Mom fell two times or three
(the woman’s in her tenth decade alive).
They stitched her up and checked her out, to see
the damage falling does to 95,
and found Coronavirus. We derive
some hope from dire test results. Before,
her symptoms made approaching death look sure.
The night before composing this, as well,
I got a second offer on the place
I bought and built and tried but couldn’t sell
some years ago, when there was not a trace
of interest (stressful memories embrace
me, but I steel myself to sell a deed).
It’s looking like transactions will proceed.
(Rhyme Royal)
I’m starting to like Mondays once again.
When I was young, five days a week I’d go
commuting to my office, working. Then
I took to taking Mondays to bestow
selected time on me, instead of kids
and client work. At first I had a blast.
But soon my day was filled with errand’s bids;
the ecstasy of Monday didn’t last.
I now go to the office once a week.
I care for grandchildren another two.
That leaves four days to use the way I seek –
I sometimes don’t know what I want to do.
Each Monday I return to exercise;
that weekly powers me to organize.
A week ago we had a little storm.
The forecast was more promising than true.
Some drizzle teased, but we’re too dry and warm
for winter like the seasons we’ve lived through;
we have to say goodbye to what we knew.
Tomorrow’s strange – I’m trying to be calm,
although it’s looking like we’re losing Mom.
(Rhyme Royal)
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