My haircuts used to be six weeks apart.
For 50 years I kept the style short,
but now a year has passed us since the start
of house arrest, I’ve grown some longer curls.
I’ve even added to my shopping cart
(online of course) barrettes and bands and clips
(but not a comb or brush – that isn’t smart
unless I want the frizz I try to thwart).
I’ve lockdown-learned a touch of tressy art.
(Magic 9)
A day off (self-rewarded) with light rain
outside, invites me to experiment
with cooking, as a way to entertain
myself, but also to produce the scent
of pizza I’ve been craving. My intent
to venture out was stymied by the cold.
I have good cheese and onion. If I rolled
a dough of almond flour, two eggs too,
a little salt and butter, soon I’d hold
a wedge to taste. I’ll see what I can do.
(Dizain)
I love a young man in the City,
who oughta be fined – he’s so pretty.
His cuteness will floor
any witness, at 4!
With his birthday today here’s a ditty.
My father taught us love of analog,
in logic, setting levels, any clock.
It’s like a science simile – a cog
escapement powering, tick-tock,
an output with no staggered on/off shock,
perceivable to senses from afar.
He taught us how to angle and unlock
a compass point, to show us where we are.
(Huitain)
I lied to friends when I was 8 years old.
I claimed that I could spin without a drop
my hula hoop a million times. I told
them once and thought their eyes would pop,
but “no” they said, and then I didn’t stop
repeating my assertion, hearing “no”
thrice more before they said they had to go.
I figured they accepted my last “yes” –
they didn’t argue when they went away,
but something seemed a little off. I guess
that’s why I felt dissatisfied dismay.
They hadn’t looked convinced, but didn’t say
another “no.” I grew a little sad,
and took both claim and puzzle to my dad.
“A million times?” he questioned with a calm
affect, affection in his hazel eyes.
“How long,” he queried with an upturned palm,
“do you think it would take to count that high?”
The conversation filled me with surprise
and comprehension. So my conscience grew –
I learned a lie unmet is still untrue.
(Rhyme Royal)
I plagiarized a poem when I was 6,
I think – perhaps a little older then.
I wrote the first 4 lines and tried to fix
my poem by adding a quartet to them.
The words I stole were not as good as mine,
but stretched the piece to what I thought should be.
I showed it and my dad pronounced it fine,
which started a cascade of grief for me.
My loving folks asked questions and I balked.
I really couldn’t speak for 5 to 8.
They praised my work. They flattered and they talked
about my future, saying what was great
from child me would bloom as I mature.
It left me feeling awkward and impure.
I saw my first wisteria Monday
at 9 a.m., in 46 degrees.
I shot a picture walking, on my way
to stock my pantry with some groceries.
The purple blossoms formed a scant array
but promised spring in Berkeley more than bees.
My own wisteria’s a west facade,
and needs more time to flower in my yard.
(Ottava Rima)
So this is post three hundred sixty-six
(I feared the lockdown might last several weeks).
I didn’t know uncivil politics
would so beleaguer us the flu would thrive.
I’m used to home, and though the mask constricts
my wind, I’m walking outside anyway.
While vaccination may not mean a fix,
I’m starting to revert to old techniques.
But I’ll keep posting daily, for these kicks.
(Magic 9)
I got my second shot, but she did not –
they took one look and her and said “Not now.”
Her eyes were swollen shut, her skin was hot;
her doctor doesn’t know the why or how.
A client died of Covid – he seemed well
until he wasn’t. Doctors couldn’t block
the dread cascade of organ failure hell
(he wasn’t old or ill – we’re still in shock).
My children’s dad has problems with his heart
that brought an ambulance, some tests, a scan,
and soon the surgeon’s knife. He’s still a part
of family – we care about the man.
But topping all the news of pain and death,
we celebrate a baby drawing breath.
The dentist asked me how I’d travel home.
“I walk.” “Up Market Street?” He looked aghast.
But I’ve been walking all my life. I roam
the streets to work or shop. My pace is fast
and purposeful – I look and use my ears,
and though I’ve seen and heard some off-their-meds
or heads, in truth, in over 50 years,
I met no threat to make me stop my treads.
The muggings are reported in the news
as happening in areas of wealth.
The streets are safer where more people choose
to walk, so pace for several sorts of health.
Catalysis by fear exacts a cost –
If we stay in, our culture will be lost.
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