End Game

Posted on September 6, 2020 by sputterpub

My mother says of late she’s glad she’s old.
At 94 she’s odd, but that’s not new.
She’s lost her spouse and siblings, but she told
me that’s not what her blues are owing to.
Disgusted with the politics and press,
she claims she can’t take any more distress.
“Our country’s doomed” she blurts with busy tongue.
“I’ll leave the dire future to the young.”

Of course I’m not as elderly, but still,
I’ve harbored like opinion recently.
I’m glad to see protesting energy,
but worried that we lack the time and will
to heal the planet for our progeny –
(perhaps I’ll party less responsibly).

(Pushkin Sonnet)

Posted in Aging, Civics, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Hedging

Posted on September 5, 2020 by sputterpub

A jeweler has to purchase the supplies
that serve to make the works that must be sold,
and if he’s prudent, conscientious, wise,
he pays attention to the price of gold.
What’s more, if he’s experienced or smart,
he’ll buy some Futures of the yellow stuff.
He’ll save on inventory, or take part
in market gains – he’ll always fare enough.

And if it’s revolution that’s your goal,
if you’d invert the world and share the rights,
I counsel you to ponder and invest
in broad-based funds. There’s much you can’t control,
but hedging means you’ll either dwell in heights
of social fairness, or live income-blessed.

Posted in Money Stuff, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Hand Protocols

Posted on September 4, 2020 by sputterpub

We’ve all been learning how to wash our hands:
the 20-second song; the case for soap
instead of sanitizers. Lately hope
and science urge what common sense commands.

Like mask design, we’re noticing details:
the drying-out effect of alcohol;
the mousse- and bar-made lather, and the small
emergent eczema from rinsing fails.

Such make me wonder why we treat the backs
and palms alike? Their uses are distinct.
My fingers grasp. They’re seldom interlinked.
My palms are well – the dorsal side has cracks.

My hands are clean, especially inside.
The posters may be over-simplified.

Posted in Coronaverse, Health, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Indictment

Posted on September 3, 2020 by sputterpub

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been alive and watching all this time;
I’ve voted in elections 50 years.
I guess I missed our country in its prime;
although I’ve seen an increase in careers
for women and enhanced mobility,
I haven’t felt us triumph like before
my post-war boomer cohort came to be.
Expecting presidents to gather more
intelligence than readers such as I
(and hoping they’d host more within their brains),
and craving leadership I can rely
upon, I’ve watched some terrible campaigns
and dreadful terms in office I now miss,
for never was it stupider than this.

Posted in Civics, Poetry | Leave a comment

Rave

Posted on September 2, 2020 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

I showed a poem I love to my old friend.
She begged a copy (the sincerest praise).
She liked the piece enough to recommend
a reading to a thinker she respects,
who saw so accurately what I penned
that I felt humbled, passionately shy,
a little hesitant. I won’t pretend
I wasn’t pleased – I read those words for days –
I guess I’m stunned some people comprehend.

(Magic 9)

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Grains of Salt

Posted on September 1, 2020 by sputterpub

labychartfloor[1]

I’ve heard it claimed more often than I need
that something said a lot must hold some truth.
The argument is used by folks who feed
on propaganda, typecasts, and uncouth
attempts to sort us into pigeonholes
that don’t apply to solitary souls,
or even to some cohorts vast and gross;
their broadsides aren’t made for someone close.

Statistics only work to show the way
when they’re applied to groups near infinite;
to sort a friend they’re inappropriate.
Cliches contain a grain of truth, most say,
but nothing’s built of grains. I wish they’d quit
asserting such unthinking stupid shit.

(Pushkin Sonnet)

Posted in Language, Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments

Florulence

Posted on August 31, 2020 by sputterpub

Thorn

When the roses don’t
compel my close attention
they thorn-snag my flesh

Posted in Flora, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Quarantine Effect

Posted on August 30, 2020 by sputterpub

Spain Virus Outbreak

They quarantined Mom as expected
(her cleaning girl tested infected).
Away from the store
Mom is listening more,
and noticing feelings neglected.

Posted in Coronaverse, Family, Health, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The Discard Pile

Posted on August 29, 2020 by sputterpub

Discard sideways

We’re human, so we like a fairy tale,
a legend, story, all mythology.
We tend to sing and dance and most don’t fail
at loving games. So we find simile
and metaphor in such activity:
a natural process linked to human style.
But till I taught some games to he-who’s-three,
I didn’t see the depth in discard pile.

(Huitain)

Posted in Lessons, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Nuance

Posted on August 28, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

Interpreting the poetry assigned
my sophomore year, I used the OED,
and always found selected words defined
in ways perhaps not said deliberately.
At times I had to read the verse and speak
aloud, without a reference book to seek
the idiom or context of intent,
and saw a theme the poet never meant.

I know this as a writer too. Sometimes
a reader understands from what I penned
a concept I did nothing to extend,
or finds a metaphor within the rhymes
surprising to myself, or sees a trend
I furnished that I’m slow to comprehend.

(Pushkin Sonnet)

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment