To Sleep

Posted on July 15, 2020 by sputterpub

nightsleep

I think I like to sleep, but I’m not there
to judge; it’s only as I start to fall
to slumber, that I’m comfortably aware
my latest thoughts are what I can’t recall.
As I relax, I set my hands to rest;
I still my feet and respiration slows.
When I’m about to be by sleep possessed,
I cannot sense my parts with eyelids closed.

If sleep’s a little death, then let my death
approach like the transition into sleep.
Allow me not to track, near my last breath,
whatever thoughts I vainly thought I’d keep.
And let me lose my old extremities,
with digits stilled in sinking memories.

Posted in Aging, Cognition, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

War on Entropy

Posted on July 14, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

When I say I love order, I don’t mean
I value lines or uniforms or rules.
(I’d be an anarchist, except that scene
has been usurped by weapon-toting fools.)
Obedience has never been my route –
impatience my persistent quality;
I’m not submissive. But my life’s pursuit
appears to be a war on entropy.

Detesting chaos and disdaining murk
have grown to be my attitude and stance.
I advocate for clarity – my work
is organizing information. Chance
is charming in a game, but don’t abide
disorder – that abets the other side.

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

It’s Not Too Late (Rondine)

Posted on July 13, 2020 by sputterpub

flag[1]

It’s not too late to tackle this disease,
that triggers inflammation causing more
compounding symptoms, circumventing sure
analysis, prodigious in degrees
of insult – manifest debilities –
while experts scavenge blindly for a cure.
It’s not too late.

As soon as each (e pluribus) agrees
to (unum) act together and mature,
to don a mask as courtesy, endure
some time alone, we’ll save communities.
It’s not too late.

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

To Mom, My Aunts, and My Girlfriends

Posted on July 12, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I loved heroic tales when I was small,
relating some to princesses, but more
to youngest sons and cabin boys and all
the challenges encountered. That was pure
enchantment for me, so I learned their ways:
the kindness to each lowly creature met;
adherence to the quest despite delays
and obstacles, through every sort of threat.

With fairy tales and Greek mythology
and legends of romantic errantry
I filled my fancy and I fed my head.
I even longed to be a boy instead.
I’d feint before I’d faint. I’d never swoon,
and unlike you, I still don’t give up soon.

Posted in Legends, Lessons, Personality, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Threatless

Posted on July 11, 2020 by sputterpub

Threatless

(A Pre-Covid Piece)

Commuting yesterday, at nearly noon,
I noticed I felt free and oddly fine.
I focused on surroundings then, and soon
observed that every vista seemed benign.
Though weather’s weird, the air was warm and clear.
Though politics are dire, I’d no fret.
Nobody smelled too bad or stood too near
me on the street and train. I felt no threat.

It isn’t that I’m normally afraid
of where I walk, or whom I chance to meet,
but yesterday’s experiences made
me realize how much guarded on my feet
I am, how when outside I’m on alert.
I traveled with no threat or fear of hurt.

Posted in Neighborhood, Transit | Tagged | Leave a comment

Claustrophilia

Posted on July 10, 2020 by sputterpub

deck

The deck deserves another waterproof.
It should have happened several months ago,
before we hunkered down and in, aloof
from viral load, from people, shop and show.
The bathroom has irregularities
the builder meant to fix, or tweak and ease.
Agreeing to address the issues now,
she’ll enter masked on Sunday to see how.

Of course I will be pleased the work is done,
but I don’t want these people coming here.
It isn’t a contagion that I fear,
but after months away from everyone,
reluctance is established. This is clear –
I’ve been too much at home this awful year.

Posted in Coronaverse, Home, Personality, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Last Time I Die

Posted on July 9, 2020 by sputterpub

imagesCA83IVMY

I doubt my death will be a pretty sight;
I’ve lived too long to make a lovely corpse.
Most likely I’ll be in a bed, and might
be looking like the sort of beast that warps
a grandson’s dream to nightmare to recall.
My skin of corrugation will be cold.
My eyes will dry; my coat will be a pall.
I’ll be a spectral haggard to behold.

I wouldn’t want to touch me, or to scent
the fragrance my departure will release.
I’d spare you from the vision if I could.
But I won’t have that power. What I meant
will miss, I think. I hope on my decease
you’ll kiss my brow once more, and call me good.

Posted in Aging, Family, Love, Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Fortune’s Child (HA 113 Almost-Pushkin Sonnet)

Posted on July 8, 2020 by sputterpub

home 100

What were the odds? My parents had to meet
and marry, and have intercourse one night,
enjoy a healthy pregnancy, and greet
me bearing borne and brimming with delight.
Although they erred, they let no one kid-glove me.
Abrupt and cold at times, they both did love me.
And sure I had some needs that went unmet,
but I felt safe enough, and feel it yet.

I lived more years than I imagined young,
and though I like to work, I had more luck
than I deserve – the time was right for me.
I settled where the air is soft, among
the trees and hummingbirds. Today I’m struck
awoken to my own prosperity.

Lucky July 3 2020

Posted in Coronaverse, Personality, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Inventory (HA 112 Magic 9)

Posted on July 7, 2020 by sputterpub

home 100

Supposed to be a simple exercise,
composing every day a formal poem
in house arrest, I guess it’s no surprise
the longer quarantined the more I make.
So far one hundred and eleven tries –
the quantity outgrows a catalogue.
Perhaps I need more tags to organize
agglomeration born from time at home,
to designate the specimens I prize.

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

Stunned (HA 111 Dactyls)

Posted on July 6, 2020 by sputterpub

home 100

Isn’t it stunning, how stupid he is?
Ignorance married to bad attitude,
fully incapable – losing at biz,
only exampling how to be crude.

Isn’t it stunning, how dreadful they are?
Failing to dump him, not even for us,
acting like ethics are simple PR,
tossing experience under the bus.

Isn’t it stunning, how hard it’s become
to winnow perspective and facts from the news?
If this is a war (and the term isn’t dumb),
it’s daily more clear that our nation will lose.

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