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.

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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)

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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

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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)

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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)

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Hearing What Was Said

Posted on August 27, 2020 by sputterpub

language

He said he feared she’d figure out
just what a duck he is.
His language cracked her can with doubt
and flattened all the fizz.

Her second self-described as tense
and though she disagreed,
the stress with him waxed so immense,
their future waned at speed.

It took her nearly 50 years
of argument and grief,
to give a partner both her ears:
attention and belief.

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Smoke and Heat

Posted on August 26, 2020 by sputterpub

yellow smoke

It used to be, when temps increased this much,
we’d go to chilly theaters, patronize
cool restaurants, or visit venues such
as water parks, or any enterprise
that by its situation or machines
provided shade and cooler moving air.
But this year’s plague restricts us from those scenes,
and lately fires kindle everywhere.

Supposed to leave our windows closed, we sweat
alone inside the rooms that bore us now.
We turn on fans but try to keep the smoke
outside. We fix iced drinks and stroke the wet
condensing on the glass. We made the how,
but still this summer seems a cosmic joke.

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Call to (Dis) Arms

Posted on August 25, 2020 by sputterpub

hacking

At 13 years, my baby and his friend
were booted off a local user group
for hacking. Neither meaning to offend,
the breach was bad but when we got the scoop,
we parents were discreetly proud to hear
our boys were quite the youngest ever caught
so deep into the system. It was clear
the kids were talented, was what we thought.

They grew up to be software engineers,
who might direct their skills to stopping Vlad
from launching any ploy that interferes
with us, or poisoning his foes. He’s mad
of course – a creature cruel and tyrant grim,
but we’re rambunctious! We should fuck with him.

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