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.
Away and off five days feels like a week
or more, although I’d never opt for home
when Sam requires company, to speak
a bit about big change but mostly play
together, as he teaches his technique
for screening semi-terrible cartoons
(at least it isn’t Elmo). Now we peek
at newborn sis. I pen a paltry poem,
and bend to stroke and kiss a silken cheek.
(Magic 9)
Precious to return
home, no matter the reason
for time spent away.
When we began this fractious quarantine,
I feared sequester might exceed three weeks.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
Our fate was like a busted trampoline –
we tolerated broken springs and squeaks
when we began this fractious quarantine.
Some fell and others stumbled, caught between
conspiring fears and factual techniques.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
Politicizing masks and spitting mean,
we didn’t know our fellows could be freaks,
when we began this fractious quarantine.
Some reasoned but so many were unclean,
ignoring soap because the soapbox speaks.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
It’s near a year, and still we all careen.
We’ve fallen and no longer see the peaks.
When we began this fractious quarantine,
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
(Villanelle)
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