Accommodation

Posted on September 12, 2020 by sputterpub

They roomed together 50 years ago
in Berkeley, at the height of its unrest.
They both liked drugs, but one of them was slow
to move and opted for cocaine as best;
the other raced a lot in legs and brain,
and liked how marijuana modified
her processing, let TV entertain,
increased the challenge friends did not provide.

The two are close and frequent even now,
and sometimes they indulge their youthful trade,
but allocate the tasks a bit. That’s how
the hophead bruised her finger with the blade
she used to chop the coke for her old sis,
whose wrist arthritis limits acts like this.

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High Horse

Posted on September 12, 2020 by sputterpub

I love your love and value your respect
but honestly, your vehemence is dire.
I need your ears and heart – I don’t expect
defensive bold assertions, and your ire
becomes a force that forces me to pause.
It’s like I never own my own complaint.
I want to judge my kids – they give me cause,
but you reduce my words to quiet feint.

The soapbox isn’t tall enough for you,
but legs you up to mount the highest horse.
The wrath young you suppressed is overdue,
but not on my behalf. I was a force
indignant, all my childhood and youth;
with anger I don’t need your help, in truth.

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Reactivity

Posted on September 11, 2020 by sputterpub

I had career ideas when I was small,
but couldn’t zero in on one to tell.
I wrote and read a lot, as I recall,
but knew those loves would never pay me well.
My English major let me read some more
and write enough, but had a shortened reach.
A solider degree would be a chore;
(I knew for sure I didn’t want to teach).

I wandered into self-employment then
(a job as clerk provided doors for me
to open and explore). I loved some men
and married one, and soon a pregnancy
occurred. I seldom sought. Among the stuff
life offered, close attention was enough.

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Time Lapse

Posted on September 10, 2020 by sputterpub

I wrote this poem a week ago, when I
was moving slowly, woefully depressed.
I woke again to ashen air, white sky,
and blue within. Of course I was distressed
by politics, infection, how we’ve messed
with planetary goods. We fail. We’re toast.
Rebounding with no reason, here’s the post.

(Rime Royal)

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No Mayo

Posted on September 9, 2020 by sputterpub

I can’t find decent mayonnaise of late.
I’d make my own, but it goes bad too fast –
my need is sparing, for I nearly hate
the stuff, enough I fantasized a vast
conspiracy of friends who’d say they ate
it, just to freak me out. I know at last
it’s gold to you; to me it’s merely lube,
and I don’t want to take it from a tube.

(Ottava Rima)

Posted in Coronaverse, Food, Poetry | Leave a comment

Junk Mail

Posted on September 8, 2020 by sputterpub

Deleting emails every day, I find
they’re poorly crafted and irrelevant,
for half are retail offers not designed
for staying home with shopping funds unspent;
the balance are political in plea –
they’re begging a donation out of me.
A robot urges, using my first name
as if it had some right to stake a claim.

A monthly pittance will not help a cause
that asks for funds but not for how to plan,
and runs statistics none know how to scan.
Deleting with disgust and clenching jaw
I’ve given how I’m driven. I began
and will continue, writing what I can.

(Pushkin Sonnet)

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Routine Change

Posted on September 7, 2020 by sputterpub

I bought my bike in 1985,
and soon I took to riding every dawn
(I’d left the hospital. I aimed to thrive).
It had a reading rack. I fed each yawn
with coffee from a shelf beside my arm.
The exercise was nothing hard to do,
and soon I felt my sweat was like a charm,
and added calisthenic workouts too.

But over time my aptitude has changed
along with appetite and tendencies –
the order of routine I’ve rearranged.
No longer drinking while I push my knees,
I’ve started doing squats and crunches first,
before I pedal or address my thirst.

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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)

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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.

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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.

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