I like the eucalypt above the deck.
I fancy the biota in my yard.
But critters make their messes. Squirrels wreck
the seedlings and they piss from high above.
The crows I love deface the wood with fleck
and splat of poop – tenacious chalky white.
Attempting to ignore it strains my neck,
and trying for the look I like is hard.
I chose a garden. What did I expect?
(Magic 9)
As hard as it is to excel,
full failure’s uncommon as well.
To be twice impeached,
in one term to have reached
this nadir’s a record to tell.
Are we in the eye of a storm right now?
Is this the calm deceit I’ve heard about?
Between last week and next we teem with doubt.
It’s obvious that thousands don’t know how
to do more than assert, assault and shout.
Are we in the eye of a storm right now?
Is this the calm deceit I’ve heard about?
Although the cowards pause their sick kowtow,
stupidity makes ignorance devout.
The lies spread virus-fast and fact-without.
Are we in the eye of a storm right now?
Is this the calm deceit I’ve heard about?
Between last week and next we teem with doubt.
(English Madrigal)
Ten years ago I started posting verse.
I wanted readers, but I also meant
to sort a thousand poems – avoid the curse
of too much paper. Such was my intent,
but like so many projects, once begun
its seeds took root to sprout in unexpected
plots of fertile mind. They soon had spun
in acreage I hadn’t yet directed.
For seven years, sequential posts evolved,
when I decided what was up could be
made better, and three years ago resolved
to edit and repost my poetry.
I like a lot of it. By some I’m moved.
And every one I read can be improved.
Two days a week I’m with my toddler friend.
We bake low-carb, we read, we do some art.
We act out scenes, we travel in pretend,
but nothing grabs him like that iPad game.
He chatters about graphics as we spend
a quarter hour at permitted play,
and afterward continues to expend
his time in talk about each gaming part.
That’s our best fun, until the lockdowns end.
(Magic 9)
My birthday was a week ago. I thought
I’d get some messages of love and care.
No sooner did I rise than something brought
down Comcast and I lost the Internet,
the cable, and the landline. I was caught
unable to respond to wired wish,
but I attempted calmness as I’ve taught
myself. I took a bath. I washed my hair.
I left the issue to be cable-fought.
(Magic 9)
This jigsaw puzzle’s numerous and hard.
I thought I’d quit it if it took me days,
but now I’m hooked in table-covered craze.
My daughter sent it like a New Year’s card.
She bought one for herself and distance-plays.
This jigsaw puzzle’s numerous and hard;
I thought I’d quit it if it took me days.
I need the light that pours in from the yard
to pick out faces and distinguish grays.
I miss my table but the project stays!
This jigsaw puzzle’s numerous and hard.
I thought I’d quit it if it took me days,
but now I’m hooked in table-covered craze.
(English Madrigal)
A poet needs a topic or a theme,
and I don’t want to write on politics
or public health, or flu without a fix.
The last ten months inspire me to scream,
with soaring sick and deadly leader tricks.
A poet needs a topic or a theme,
and I don’t want to write on politics.
A grief motif is tired and extreme.
Relief appears, but tentative. It wicks
my frets but seems to limit subject picks.
A poet needs a topic or a theme,
and I don’t want to write on politics
or public health, or flu without a fix.
(English Madrigal)
My hair consultant visited last week,
but not to cut the Covid mane I’ve grown.
She brought me product, and we stood to speak
six feet apart and masked, outside my home.
She’s middle-aged and smart, self-made and skilled.
Ten months ago is when she cut my hair
so well, it’s nicely longer, curling as I’ve willed.
I’d recommend her craft most anywhere.
But she no longer works in the salon
she founded with a partner – she can’t ply
her trade with business closed and money gone.
As she observed (her grin approaching wry):
“I figured I’d cut hair no matter what.
I never dreamed my living would be shut.”
It’s time to annotate my calendar,
although I may be jotting fruitlessly.
It’s yet too soon to plan where I can be.
We seem to have vaccines but not a cure.
We seem to have misplaced civility.
It’s time to annotate my calendar,
although I may be jotting fruitlessly.
I can’t imagine we’ll improve for sure,
and don’t think we’ll proceed responsibly.
There’s too much ignorance and bigotry.
It’s time to annotate my calendar,
although I may be jotting fruitlessly.
It’s yet too soon to plan where I can be.
(English Madrigal)
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