My Humble Perspective

Posted on November 29, 2020 by sputterpub

Concluding long ago God must be great
enough that It would never act as low
as human emperors, I didn’t hate
religion but I knew too much to throw
anthropomorphic attitude around.
A deity deserving of respect
would not require foreheads on the ground
or posture bending deep to genuflect.

In lesser news, if this democracy
is tender as the talking heads report,
then it was never what we all believe.
I think we’re vigorous. It seems to me
our pillars won’t be tumbled by his sort.
It’s that or too gargantuan to grieve.

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One for Each Decade and Another for Good Luck

Posted on November 28, 2020 by sputterpub

My oldest friend is 70 today.
We met when we were each around 15.
Precocious we agreed about the way
to analyze our lives for what they mean.
I know there were some differences between
us, but we recognized we were adults
at 5, impelled to strive, our courses keen
and disparate, to similar results.

(Huitain)

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Political Awakening

Posted on November 27, 2020 by sputterpub

I guess since I was 6 and heard my dad
say he would not vote for the President,
I started understanding grownups had
their differences about our government.
But everyone agreed democracy
and righteous fairness is our legacy
and fortune, sharing values deep within –
Americans at heart, beneath our skin.

But lately I’ve been slapped about the head
with evidence my old perspective’s wrong.
I’m watching Reds’ attempt to cheat along
with lying and suppressing votes, instead
of standing for the ethical and fair.
Apparently we don’t agree, or care.

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

Biology Class

Posted on November 26, 2020 by sputterpub

Planaria I recollect a bit,
and how the legs of frogs resemble ours,
but vivid is reserved for when we hit
the cranium of fetal pig. It jars
me even now – our sample’s brain unfit,
that puddled out like pudding. My memoirs
should be significant, I always thought,
but memory must live on what it caught.

(Ottava Rima)

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First Rain

Posted on November 25, 2020 by sputterpub

We had a little tease of rain last week.
Now I can hardly wait for it to pour.
I love it when the sky begins to leak,
when I’m outside in boots and hooded coat
or better, in my room with my technique
for coziness, my comforter and fire,
my windows sporting rivulet and streak,
contented while I’m hungering for more
precipitation downward or oblique.

(Magic 9)

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The Backstory

Posted on November 24, 2020 by sputterpub

A business partner did me wrong and sued
(this happened 20 years ago, or so).
I burned to tell the story – not to brood
but more, I thought, to let my lawyer know
exactly what led up to the betrayal.
“Please write the whole thing down,” he said to me.
I did. I sent a narrative email
and left him to develop strategy.

The next time we conferred, I was surprised.
“You got my email?” “Sure,” he voiced, although
“What did you think?” received as his reply
“I didn’t read it,” and he chuckled low.
“You didn’t write those words for me,” he said.
“The exercise was all for you, instead.”

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Hair and Poetry

Posted on November 23, 2020 by sputterpub

When house arrest began, eight months ago,
I set myself a challenge – I would write
a poem to post each day. I didn’t know
(who did?) how long and weaponless the fight
would be, contagious ignorance the foe,
and never planned to never cut my hair.
But I’ve had time to watch each tendril grow,
and bought barrettes and clips and bands to wear.

I figured I would see where growing went
(salons were closed and shoulder injury
beset my stylist anyway). I’ve spent
eight months in growing hair and poetry,
and I’ll admit I’m liking both so far –
they’re positives in living gone bizarre.

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

TG Day Plan

Posted on November 22, 2020 by sputterpub

The last two years we’ve brought Thanksgiving fare
to Portland for that branch of family.
But they’ve requested we not visit there,
protecting compromised immunity.
And then our aged mother asked we spare
her risk of sick from love’s proximity.
We hear and understand. We think it wise
to scale the feasting down to bubble size.

(Ottava Rima)

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

Overdue for a Checkup

Posted on November 21, 2020 by sputterpub

Incessant sniffles don’t appear to be
a sign of Covid – they predate this year:
A symptom of old age, apparently,
as membranes dry and mucus tries to clear
reactive channels. Used to never sneeze,
I’m unaccustomed to cascades of snot.
I don’t think I have any allergies,
but something triggers tissue needs, a lot.

The left side of my neck is daily sore
(or maybe that’s a problem in my throat).
My shoulders lately bother me, and more –
I bruise from little taps. The antidote
is probably a second childhood,
but that’s impossible. I’m old for good.

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

Our Sweethearts

Posted on November 20, 2020 by sputterpub

My family is mostly male, and yet
includes no evidence of gross assault
or rape, or coarse behavior to forget.
What tension we perpetuate’s the fault
of neither sex. The girls exhibit more
bad moods, more snits and flouncing tendencies.
The boys are strong and masculine for sure
(and handsome too), but gentle as we please.

I read of brutes sometimes and know the plots
of movies, books, and news, but all the men
we launch are fair in attitude and mind.
I’m sorry that our culture’s filled with clots
of misbehavior, wondering again
how one could raise a beast from sweet mankind.

Posted in Family, Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment