Say It Isn’t So

Posted on August 12, 2020 by sputterpub

bellcurve

“There’s no accounting for a person’s taste,”
is one translation of the Latin line.
“What’s liked cannot be argued” was replaced,
but neither phrase is accurate or fine.
The very best is judged by all supreme.
The worst we all agree is really poor.
It’s only when you move from each extreme
that you meet works whose merit is unsure.

The plotted line denoting quality
reveals a spectrum with a bulbous hill
containing sorts of mediocrity
and more, for us to argue good or ill.
By truly fine we all are found impressed;
the honest mind admits what work is best.

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The Trolley Question

Posted on August 11, 2020 by sputterpub

oldbus

You have a choice about the rail you ride.
Ahead you see a crowd, so do you switch
to force the trolley on the shunt beside,
where one will surely die? Now tell me: which?

It doesn’t matter what or who will steer –
the answer is unpopular but clear.
You cannot choose the shunt and drive to kill.
No end can justify that act of will.

And if you complicate the question thus –
the one alone’s no person you have met;
the crowd contains your own adored cadet –
I have to say you can’t be serious.
Of course I’d spare my baby from the threat,
but that’s emotion owing reason debt.

(Pushkin Sonnet)

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My Little Estate

Posted on August 10, 2020 by sputterpub

TableBench

I moved back in here 15 months ago
and wanted to declare the job complete,
but then I watched the punch list start to grow
as imperfections surfaced in the neat
appearances that pleased in gross but not
on close examination. The design
was brilliant, but some tradespeople forgot
to notice where the edges don’t align.

My builder stuck with me and suped repair,
and nearly all the issues are resolved.
Before things break from normal wear-and-tear
I call it finished now. I’ve been involved
with choosing outside furniture of late –
the last amenities for this estate.

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COVIDream

Posted on August 9, 2020 by sputterpub

Masks

An ordinary nightmare for the young,
the one that more experience than not,
is dreaming we’re at school one day among
our peers, and realizing that we forgot
to put on underwear. Anxiety
invades us: how to handle vacancy
beneath our clothes, perhaps to hide the lack.
That little recollection takes me back.

Two nights ago I had a COVID dream.
I made it halfway through a store before
I sensed some glances I could not ignore,
and that’s when I inhaled without a screen.
I wasn’t masked! Embarrassed to the core,
I shame-walked like a leper to the door.

(Pushkin Sonnet)

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By Request

Posted on August 8, 2020 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

She’s known me rather well for 50 years.
She understands I seldom take advice
or listen to suggestions. Mostly nice
and rational, my willful temper rears
when anybody states how I should spend
my time or modulate my tone of voice.
I grew up young – I early learned to tend
to me and advocate for my own choice.

But we had stimulating talk today.
I walked to visit and she drove me home.
And when she dropped me off, I heard her say
“Now get in there and write a pretty poem.”
And though these aren’t pretty words I’ve penned,
recording grateful love’s what I intend.

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Thrummingbirds

Posted on August 7, 2020 by sputterpub

hummer

I never saw so many hummingbirds
in 13 years of living by this yard.
If I’d attempt to put their sound in words,
I’d mention “thrum:” soft tongue upon the hard-
called palate right behind the upper teeth.
I hear them when they flit in front of me;
I pause at hovering beside, beneath,
above the smallest blossoms, frequently.

I used to see a hummingbird a week.
I don’t possess a feeder. There are cats
that linger here. No reason for this peak
in midget visitors. Is it perhaps
this COVID-season? Better garden, less
of noise and dirty air and outside stress?

Posted in Coronaverse, Critters, Home, Poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments

Furniture

Posted on August 6, 2020 by sputterpub

Furniture

Considering the way I use outside,
I know I want a bench and table there.
I picked a set IKEA advertised,
but couldn’t get it shipped. I shopped elsewhere.

I found a better set and paid with card
(and started to expect it with some glee).
The vendor then wrote “Whoops – please disregard –
it’s out of stock two months or maybe three.”

I will not wait till winter, I then thought;
I cancelled and resumed my search online.
I found a metal-bottomed one, and bought
it for proportion and its clean design.

I liked the first okay, the second more,
but this one is the best, I’m pretty sure.

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Scaled Down

Posted on August 5, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

“The beatings will continue till morale
improves” came into office humor lore
when I was young and prone to rationale,
and this is what I took from it: The cure
for sadness, fret, and most anxiety
may be no more than interrupting bad.
When there’s a pause in any agony,
that break alone can serve to make me glad.

Likewise, while nearing seven score of days
attempting to stay home, forgoing fun
and restaurants, a visitor will raise
me up; a local stroll with anyone
I like will elevate my attitude.
It takes that little now to mend my mood.

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

The Napping Chair

Posted on August 4, 2020 by sputterpub

Napping Chair

At last I own the perfect napping chair.
It took a lifetime to acquire this
upholstered seat abutting shaded air
affording back support and ankle bliss.
The view from it is manna for my eyes,
although its comfort bids my lids to close.
The fan above discourages all flies,
so I relax unscreened from crown to toes.

My nest is small but nearly perfect now.
I dreamt of it when I was young, and though
my path diverted twice (I had to bow
to bigger space to raise the kids you know),
this habitat supports my attitude –
my chair inspires tired gratitude.

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

Hoax

Posted on August 3, 2020 by sputterpub

conspiracy theories illustrative

I hear Coronavirus is a hoax
perpetuated by the enemies
of 45, whose followers are folks
who cherish secret dark conspiracies.
As if progressives had the means to coax
cooperation from communities
abroad! What stupid love of subterfuge,
to think the left could run a plot so huge…

(Ottava Rima)

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