It took until December for the trees
to lose their leaves. We’ve had a little rain
that brought down ash – particulate debris
from all the awful fires of the fall.
The daytime peaks at 59 degrees
and, finally, we’ve turned the sprinklers off.
We don’t expect big rain or any freeze,
but winter’s here. I’m stuck in my domain.
The days are short and now the yard agrees.
(Magic 9)
I think I learned to read when I was five,
and ever since I’ve pored and written much.
Romantic as a teenager, alive
to origin and nuance, I am such
a language addict that I comprehend
the character of words more ways than most.
I’ve learned the drive that powers – threatened end
ignites pro-action in a mortal host.
Inspiring art, some work was then produced,
but doubtless there was activism too
that didn’t get an accurate report.
For sure some rage and violence was loosed.
We witness white males acting out. It’s true
that hate precedes their art as last resort.
When Harald conquered fiefdoms to unite
the northern monarchies, most wouldn’t bow.
They took to ships and settled Iceland right
away, and wrote the sagas we read now.
When Austen crafted novels, change afoot
enclosed the land and filled the air with soot.
Her art ensnared a dying way to be,
preserving what she knew (and pleasing me).
Just so, the culture heretofore controlled
by alpha males with paltry melanin,
is in its winter now. Its decadence
precedes its death – its centuries have tolled.
Adherents are in panic – they can’t win
the future, and they rage for recompense.
A year ago I thought I caught a cold,
except it never moved the way mine do.
Bronchitis didn’t come. My body told
me virus penetrated, moving through
my upper torso to pollute my gut.
I’m old and never felt that way till then.
It took some weeks to pass – I don’t know what
it was, but I’ve not been unwell again.
And then the lockdown came – the house arrest
that shut me in and took away the meals
in restaurants, the bus rides and the train.
I started wearing masks. Like all, I stressed
about pandemic, answering appeals.
Throughout, I haven’t had a cold or pain.
The beat goes on no matter what we do.
Tomorrow keeps on following today.
Supposing we recover and get through
catastrophes that press on us, we may
be certain new emergencies will rise,
predictable, erupting in surprise,
demanding smart response or dreadful fee,
and modifying paths for you and me.
It’s been an awful year. Our politics
have bottomed. Public health is at its worst.
We’re threatened like a species climate-cursed.
We harbor hope, I guess, about a fix –
For we expect a baby, fewer dead,
and I’ve a neighbor planning to be wed.
Apparently there’s peril in a cough,
if chronic and emitted by an old
ex-smoker who asserts she knocked it off
but still bums hits (her habit is paroled
which should be locked for life). It isn’t bold
to finally and permanently stem
inhaling smoke. My breath must be controlled
before I choke to death on my own phlegm.
(Huitain)
When I was young I thought I had good teeth.
I felt my hands were handsome, in my prime.
I didn’t dream of damage far beneath
my gums, or plumpness suctioned out by time.
I thought my lumbar wouldn’t give me pain –
my bottom-heavy ballast would protect.
And though my nose was big, it seemed so plain
that sinus ill was nothing to expect.
If aging takes some courage, then it’s true
it also will provoke humility.
No matter how deliberate the view
ahead, we don’t suspect how we will be.
No sites of my malfunction were foretold,
when I from youth envisioned being old.
I hadn’t seen a doctor in two years.
I know I’m wearing old and should be screened,
but mine retired. I was in arrears
two months before the virus intervened.
I found a new practitioner and went
last week to meet and check my body out.
We both wore masks and I stayed clothed. We spent
our scheduled time and I’ll go back, no doubt.
But I have processed what was said since then.
She didn’t fail. Her words did not appall.
But though I plan to see the doc again,
she relegated me to protocol,
prescribing tests from which we will not learn,
and not attending (yet) to my concern.
The CEO of cowards is a rat.
He never was a winner – he’s a wimp.
We’re looking at a drake that has a limp.
Resembling the mean guy in a frat
who hazes with the morals of a pimp,
the CEO of cowards is a rat
(he never was a winner – he’s a wimp).
His muscles are illusion; he’s all fat.
His volume of hot air exceeds a blimp.
He’s bad like a mosquito or an imp.
The CEO of cowards is a rat.
He never was a winner – he’s a wimp.
We’re looking at a drake that has a limp.
(English Madrigal)
I never owned designer clothes or shoes,
but still I used to ponder what to wear.
To look all right and feel okay, I’d choose
my outfit carefully. I didn’t care
about the latest styles, but I took
some time and effort when I made my picks.
I paid attention to the feel and look –
what I in morning donned I couldn’t fix.
But 2020 is a fashion bust.
I have nowhere to go, no one to see.
My bubble is so tiny, I adjust
my choice of garb; it’s only seen by me
alone, at least 5 days in every week.
Deliberately I’m wearing nothing chic.
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