“I know what you’re about to say to me.”
My father’d interrupt with words like those
when we grew heated. Furious I’d be,
but almost stopped, amazed at how he chose
to interact, predicting wrong, and close
the gate to any chance to understand
his daughter, bound to anger in her throes
of passion, sure to lose her self-command.
(Huitain)
When things keep happening that boggle me,
between myself and one I dearly love,
when doors are slammed and chairs are shoved, and we
appear to live on different worlds, above
all else I want to talk the problem out,
but if my interlocutor resists,
and if my question’s answered with a shout,
a claim that I’m an act while anger twists
a face to hate, a jaw to rigid grind,
refusing to engage in any talk,
suffusing with confusion, I’m inclined
to laugh inside and take a little walk
away from tantrum and apart from murk,
unless/until you’re ready for some work.
I’m disinclined to watch performance live.
For years I’ve understood the cause to be
strong empathy: I want the act to thrive –
I wince at failure’s possibility.
(Then too, I never drew from any crowd
the energy I want. I suffer loud
invasions in a massive theater line,
a little anxious and about to whine.)
Perhaps I ought to look another way:
assume that the performers can admit
to imperfection when appropriate
at least as well as I do, when I play
my expertise in error. It’s in me
to trust they have their own resiliency.
I’m glad we have power tonight.
The fires are down; winds are light.
Exhausted by news,
seeking what will amuse,
I’ll be screening a romance or fright.
Persimmons start to ripen in the tree
outside my window. I was not the gard-
ener – my neighbor’s into botany –
she asked if she could farm the little yard
between us and I hastened to agree.
She made the labor look like nothing hard,
and finished it before she moved away.
She left it like a gift I love today.
(Ottava Rima)
It’s difficult to catch a cold right now
for those of us who shelter in our place.
I cannot get the flu; I don’t know how
to breathe the germs with mask upon my face.
The buses and the planes I used to ride
are not in play – I promised both my kids
I’d stay away from them and stay inside
(I feel the love that triggered those forbids).
The younger generation seems to fear
Coronavirus more than my cohort.
They’re 40ish and freaked – they need to live
a longer future. Sanitizing gear
abounds – their habitat’s a sterile fort.
I’m not surprised they tested negative.
Mom cautioned that I shouldn’t speak, unless
the subject and my tone would be okay.
I always hated rude, but I’ll confess
I didn’t gird my thoughts or words the way
she wished. She also said that I should stay
inside my room if I could not behave.
I pondered that unfairness with dismay,
until I chose the solitude I crave.
(Huitain)
We’re Northern California fortunate.
We have the weather and topography,
and most are masked when that’s appropriate,
and many aren’t at extremity.
But lately some are ailing. I can see
the symptoms of infection in a guy
who works with us (we think he got too high
and ate himself unwell). My son confessed
to sniffles, languor, breathing gone awry
like allergy. We now await his test.
(Dizain)
I knew a man, when I was 44,
who seemed a maybe-boyfriend when we met.
I liked his thoughts and observations more
than physical affection. Soon regret
replaced my interest, and I grew to rue
an intimate relationship with him.
He nagged without initiative – the view
became a comic skit, a fancy whim.
We used to exercise – I recollect
his pointed toes that should be heel on floor:
a tiny memory, now he’s no more.
His dance was flawed – his posture an affect –
but now that vision’s fond. I didn’t know
the man would die from cancer of the toe.
I didn’t write this on November 3rd,
but I sure had Election Day in mind
(4 dozen months so tragic and absurd
have trained my expectation, and refined
my wishes to a color and a word
for oceanic move, for humankind).
The coming turbulence will not be balmy –
we crave and need a wave of blue tsunami.
(Ottava Rima)
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