I sputtered, cut, and muttered for a while,
but learned before that went on for too long
that few would need protection from my style.
Retreating then to concentrate on song,
and modifying efforts with a smile,
I came to realize less and less was wrong.
Soon editing will slow, and I’ll proceed
to only post what’s new, where fancies lead.
I didn’t fly to quibble or complain –
my goal is soft reception, open eyes
and ears – but I don’t welcome the disdain
that some beloved faces exercise.
My purpose here is not to analyze,
and no one says a lesson that I crave
from less experience or fledging wise.
So please don’t try to teach me to behave.
She’s always known some personalities
who seem to lack a filter from the brain
to speech the mouth emits, who fail to freeze
their phrases as intentions entertain
a purpose or direction. She’d unease
most times they blurted, but she’ll now refrain
from comment, catching self in words unneeded –
an advocate in vain for what’s unheeded.
It doesn’t have to be conspiracy.
Perhaps the matter’s closer to PR.
We all like stories – romance, fantasy –
a little more than bios as they are.
Creation myths, apocalypse and more –
the chauvinistic lore and hero quests,
are what the people want; from online store
or ticket vendors, such is what sells best.
I grew up in the 50s, and imbibed
America the great, the dream, the fair.
In school the Western slogans diatribed
amid dead ends, contaminated air,
and promises as empty as the themes
that advertisers pitch by schemes to memes.
Attentive as I aim the camera lens,
I cannot capture vision perfectly.
And though I stretch for fitting words with pens
or keys, I lack the broad capacity
to cast in ink perceived reality
as it deserves. And when I inward turn
and plumb for careful detailed memory,
I wobble. Presence present’s what I’ve learned.
The view on Saturday at 9 a.m.
is what I only see when I’m away
from home each week and cottage-hosting them,
now grown so big that they prefer to play
on screen instead of holding cards. I say
I’ll read and neither sweetheart acts inclined,
but when I start to share a book’s display
and speak, they tend to pay a little mind.
(They’re young enough as yet to hug and kiss,
but note me not when I’m composing this.)
Accustomed to a long-term discipline,
achieving what was chosen as a goal,
is yes, success, and certainly a win,
but leaves me feeling like it punched a hole
in me, that now requires self-control
to thrive without, without discarding yield.
I want to keep the treasure that’s revealed,
but modulate the habit I have grown.
I need to level and expand my field
to cultivate the seedlings newly sown.
At 6:15 I stretched beside my bed,
and nearly reached to turn on light and heat.
But then I crawled between the sheets instead,
supine another hour. Now I greet
the sun on rising, and the view is sweet.
I’m starting late on all I planned to do,
but I’m relaxed and sure I will complete
the needful. I don’t leave till half past 2.
It’s Tele-Med today that’s crimping me.
My morning’s crowded but it could be worse.
I must reallocate my energy
but I’m at home, and I can pen this verse
while biding for the dialogue-to-be.
I tense in offices awaiting nurse
or doctor – here I’ve got my favorite stuff,
and so far (knock on wood) I’m well enough.
Who’s judging me? I never overhear
analysis with which I might agree
or argue, though I’ve many voices near.
Who’s judging me?
I’m hardly inconspicuous or wee,
and modulation’s seldom in my sphere.
Abhorring murk I trumpet honesty
too often and too loud, I’ve come to fear.
Observing others, some have got to be
regarding me, and yet it isn’t clear
who’s judging me.
 | sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
 | Ronald E. Shields on Vacuum |
| sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
Sputterpub's Blog 