House Arrest 3 (Civilization)

Posted on March 20, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

It really shouldn’t come as a surprise
that spreading illness is the biggest threat
to us. Creating cities any size
repressed the wise and let our breed forget
direction, stars, and close geography,
the good and bad of plants, the boon of air
refreshed by stream and purified by tree –
it’s probable we flourished then and there.

But we progressed from wilderness to town
to city life, as nature shrank to vague.
What we thought up may really have been down,
and though we know of smallpox and the plague,
we lost our sense of peril – sad but true –
and now we suffer consequential flu.

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Oh No No-No

Posted on March 20, 2020 by sputterpub

avo

We used to call them alligator pears
before we learned how much we like their taste.
Now breakfast lunch and dinner rarely dares
omitting avocado. Mashed to paste
it’s guacamole or a sandwich spread.
Cubed it’s to a salad like a gem.
We choose to eat its healthy fat instead
of oil pressed from soy, or margarine.

I’m into buying several every week,
but I just woke to facts that make me sore.
The avocados I and others seek
encourage theft of water from the poor.
Supply/demand I understand, but sense
abhors this unintended consequence…

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House Arrest 2 (TV)

Posted on March 19, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

There’s welcome rain outside my window now,
as if the clouds were cleansing all of us
who hunker in our homes, obeying how
instructed to forestall the ominous.
A sunny day would be more difficult;
we’re overcast and want to stay inside.
If we’re to earn a popular result
we’ll keep apart, build hospitals, and bide
until by shot and time immunity
is gained, but never live the same again.
I’m healthy but I’m watching more TV
and Internet, athirst for news of when.
I’m surfing for some facts or common sense,
and getting ads with zero relevance.

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House Arrest One

Posted on March 18, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

Day 1 of 21 is not so bad.
I’ve food enough for near 2 dozen meals,
and though the present’s feeling strange and sad
I like my house, and solitude appeals
to me, at least for goodly chunks of time.
I have my books and stationary bike.
I’ll dabble gardening, construct a rhyme
a day, and use what Internet I like.

Expecting we’ll adjust to this constraint,
I think before I’m out of food or weed
I’ll figure out some answers and begin
to dash outside to shop. Perhaps complaint
will occupy me, sudden worry, need,
and possibly I’ll start to order in.

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Flustered at Russell

Posted on March 18, 2020 by sputterpub

Russell Fluster

Three blocks away three years ago she lost
direction. She was driving to my place,
and somehow her location wires crossed.
She called me, flustered. I began a race
to her on foot. I said, “Stay where you are,”
and quickly locked my door and moved my feet.
I hurried till I got to where her car
was idling, flashing lights and blocking street.

Together all too slowly then, we went
to lunch and talked about her failing heart.
And though her ills were not an accident
(bad habits gave pre-disposition start),
I murmured love and sympathy. We sighed.
Before another winter passed, she died.

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Ridden and Written

Posted on March 16, 2020 by sputterpub

tunturi-e80-exercise-bike[1]

I used to ride my bike most every day.
I used to try each morning to compose
a poem, or put 300 words in play,
but into every life existence throws
up circumstances outside our control;
I had to take a break from write and ride.
Remodel, health, and offspring took their toll;
a year ago my pace was modified.

Intending to resume at first, I thought
the interruption wouldn’t last this long.
But new routines and working habits brought
advantages, and though I feel less strong
these days, 5 days of exercise and 3
with ink per week are gratifying me.

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Will to Live?

Posted on March 13, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

“You never know,” my brother said to us
at least a dozen times. “Folks everywhere
assert they’d die without a lot of fuss,
preferring end instead of endless care,
eschewing tubes and dreading loss of mind,
but something kicks in when they’re close and scared:
Survival instinct – then they leave behind
the terminal intentions once declared.”

I think he’s wrong. We’re neither beasts nor young.
Observing those I’ve known who died mature,
I see it was the incomplete who clung
to life, while those with self-esteem were more
apparently prepared to face the shade
consistent with insistences they made.

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Opossum Love

Posted on March 11, 2020 by sputterpub

opossum love

At 6 a.m. one day last week, I heard
a thump outside the window where I sat.
I raised the shade to see what had occurred,
and spied a pair of ‘possums going at
it, either sex or play or argument.
The tail around the torso was a clue,
and interlocked white hissing muzzles went
to show what reproducing ‘possums do.

I watched a little from my wooden chair.
I saw the neighbor’s cat observe as well.
Each reposition sent a tuft of hair
aloft, a puff of grayish-white that fell
upon my porch. So now I’m thinking of
those tufts as evidence of ‘possum love.

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Slippage

Posted on March 9, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I always wanted to remember time.
I’ve trained a natural talent to recall
by taking notes in diaries and rhyme,
and narrating my memories to all.
Specific moments I have tried to freeze
with photographs or lists I made in mind,
reiterating details in degrees
that bored my friends and drove my kids unkind.

And though I’ve known a measure of success,
and recollect more moments than my peers
or parents, even so I must confess
I’ve lost some edges. Sure my honor clears
the mists of time and offers calming grace,
but I can’t summon up my baby’s face.

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Unraised

Posted on March 6, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

Nostalgia’s mostly dangerous and bent,
infecting memory with fantasy,
and modifying fact until what’s meant
as scarlet takes on tones of burgundy.
So childhood’s remembered as a state
that was or should have been replete with glee,
and parents subsidize; they pull the weight
their offspring ought to keep the kids care-free.

I challenge you to recollect those years
of learning how to be, when no one felt
they fit, and wonder days were rare as gold.
Your kids are 35 now, and the dears
should earn their ways, instead of having dealt
to them the funds nostalgia has cajoled.

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