How I Vote

We used to mark our ballots while away
from home and media, beside the sea,
when we were young and married. We would weigh
the issues and then vote with certainty.

So much has changed. We’re not together now;
we’re old but I have not forgotten how
to make a choice, by research and the thought
of saving all the kids from what we’ve wrought.

At first I scan the pages and put pen
to ovals I am sure about, and next
the candidate and proposition text
is read and some are marked and, third, again
I read and make for each my final pick,
in hopes we’ll cure the body politic.

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Topics

In writing poetry most every day,
and posting new work seven times a week,
I sometimes have to search for what to say.
Of late the only subject on my mind
is this election season, holding sway
in all October thought, and bidding fair
to actually curtail the dark dismay
that almost overwhelmed. So I will speak
of nothing else. Inspired, I’ll obey.

(Magic 9)

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I Didn’t Donate

I didn’t donate when the asks began.
I didn’t vow to not contribute cash,
but as it went, I never saw the plan
for spending mine, for making any splash.
The DNC kept nagging me with flash
communications, using my first name,
re-telling what I knew and making game
about how much they’d raised (without my check).
“But what if others thought like you?” My claim:
Well, then the world would be a different wreck.

(Dizain)

(Actually, I did, after composing)

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I Voted

I voted recently, and I’ll admit
I never felt so into it before.
Imbibing urgency, I didn’t quit
the mailbox search until its open door
revealed my precious ballot. I was sure
I’d get it (California absentee
a decade now). And even though secure
about my state, I inked emphatically.

(Huitain)

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Accuracy

I always wanted to remember well
my sliver of existence. I was blessed
with memory. Facility to spell
was mine – I jotted notes in verse and prose.
Concluding it was too much work to tell
a lie and give it adequate support,
I didn’t twist my history, embell-
ish or deny. I think that choice was best –
with time, a vivid myth turns truth pastel.

(Magic 9)

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My Ballot

Most Saturdays I wake away from here
and spend the morning with my beautiful
companion – 3 years old and ever dear –
but he’s away this weekend with his folks.
I’ve time to exercise and persevere
at poetry, except I have a task
demanding I, in this election year,
use ink of blue or black in dutiful
selected ovals, voting clean and clear.

(Magic 9)

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Needless

She didn’t know her husband was depressed.
She figured they were equals when it came
to planning and resilience. He confessed
some insecurities, but didn’t claim
attention that he probably deserved.
Exhibiting some anger that unnerved
her when they fought, he warned before divorce
the kids would like him more than her, of course.

And then he disappeared to a retreat
of alcohol and solitude and dread.
He wasted days in dreariness instead
of fathering; his absence was complete.
He flailed away and cowered like a jerk,
and must’ve known she’d step up to the work.

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Good Advice

Accustomed to her morning exercise
(she took up running during quarantine),
she thought she’d push the distance. So she tries
to make five miles be her new routine
instead of four point five. Her guides advise
a smart approach – she read it on her screen:
“Don’t fret,” they said, “about the extra length.
Just run the last part first, while you have strength.”

(Ottava Rima)

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Dead Symbols

My artist daughter and my son-in-law,
obsessed with symbols, occupied by themes,
tried posting swastikas as charms, but saw
the Internet accuse them of extremes.
We told them it would happen, for we knew
that though the lucky origin was true,
the shape was foully murdered by the strike
of Hitler and his hideous third Reich.

We’re witnessing a similarity
with current politics – the ruling right
(King Trump and court) insist that day is night,
and devastate what was the GOP.
Republicans are gone – the future story
should name anew or harken back to Tory.

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A Good Mail Day

My regulars got ballots in the mail
while I awaited mine. It came at last.
I carried it inside (the season’s grail),
and with it an emotion that surpassed
relief: a postcard sent delivered joy –
Arriving with official voting things
were sentences and stickers from a boy
I love – a 3 year-old who always brings
a sense of wonder, humor, logic, glee
to every day – reminding me to look
at living like a glad discovery,
aware I’m paying less than what I took.

Today is hard; the year is difficult.
A toddler teaches hope to this adult.

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