I sought by Internet. I tried to track
him down in Google, Facebook, and obit.
I recollect the coronary plaque
he once confessed, and hypertension pills.
Conjecturing about a heart attack
or COVID, I began assuming death.
But then he called. I had no time to yak.
I’m writing uninformed like counterfeit,
before tomorrow, when I’ll call him back.
(Magic 9)
About a quarter century ago,
I met a man amusing and so smart
I wanted to be with him, even though
he packed a gun and phobias. My heart
indulged him through some mania and rants,
but we were not in sync. We dulled to friends.
He sought the solitude the desert grants.
We seldom spoke again; we’d other ends.
I recollect his keen intensity,
the time he said he wanted me beside
him when he died. That struck me recently –
I listened to a message, and I tried
to call him at the number I last had –
I found his phone was gone. Is he? I’m sad…
The ballot done, I sealed the envelope.
I signed the designated line with care.
And feeling less like some old misanthrope,
I sought a way to move it, safe, to where
it will be tallied. I had time to spare
and could have mailed it, but we drove to court
and handed it to tongs. It seemed as fair
as masks we wear, exciting like a sport.
(Huitain)
We used to mark our ballots while away
from home and media, beside the sea,
when we were young and married. We would weigh
the issues and then vote with certainty.
So much has changed. We’re not together now;
we’re old but I have not forgotten how
to make a choice, by research and the thought
of saving all the kids from what we’ve wrought.
At first I scan the pages and put pen
to ovals I am sure about, and next
the candidate and proposition text
is read and some are marked and, third, again
I read and make for each my final pick,
in hopes we’ll cure the body politic.
In writing poetry most every day,
and posting new work seven times a week,
I sometimes have to search for what to say.
Of late the only subject on my mind
is this election season, holding sway
in all October thought, and bidding fair
to actually curtail the dark dismay
that almost overwhelmed. So I will speak
of nothing else. Inspired, I’ll obey.
(Magic 9)
I didn’t donate when the asks began.
I didn’t vow to not contribute cash,
but as it went, I never saw the plan
for spending mine, for making any splash.
The DNC kept nagging me with flash
communications, using my first name,
re-telling what I knew and making game
about how much they’d raised (without my check).
“But what if others thought like you?” My claim:
Well, then the world would be a different wreck.
(Dizain)
(Actually, I did, after composing)
I voted recently, and I’ll admit
I never felt so into it before.
Imbibing urgency, I didn’t quit
the mailbox search until its open door
revealed my precious ballot. I was sure
I’d get it (California absentee
a decade now). And even though secure
about my state, I inked emphatically.
(Huitain)
I always wanted to remember well
my sliver of existence. I was blessed
with memory. Facility to spell
was mine – I jotted notes in verse and prose.
Concluding it was too much work to tell
a lie and give it adequate support,
I didn’t twist my history, embell-
ish or deny. I think that choice was best –
with time, a vivid myth turns truth pastel.
(Magic 9)
Most Saturdays I wake away from here
and spend the morning with my beautiful
companion – 3 years old and ever dear –
but he’s away this weekend with his folks.
I’ve time to exercise and persevere
at poetry, except I have a task
demanding I, in this election year,
use ink of blue or black in dutiful
selected ovals, voting clean and clear.
(Magic 9)
She didn’t know her husband was depressed.
She figured they were equals when it came
to planning and resilience. He confessed
some insecurities, but didn’t claim
attention that he probably deserved.
Exhibiting some anger that unnerved
her when they fought, he warned before divorce
the kids would like him more than her, of course.
And then he disappeared to a retreat
of alcohol and solitude and dread.
He wasted days in dreariness instead
of fathering; his absence was complete.
He flailed away and cowered like a jerk,
and must’ve known she’d step up to the work.
 | sputterpub on Vacuum |
 | Ronald E. Shields on Vacuum |
| sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
Sputterpub's Blog 