House Arrest 29 (Agoraphobia)

Posted on April 15, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

I used to claim “When I’m asleep I want
to stay asleep, and when I am awake
I like to linger in that state.” I’d flaunt
it like acknowledged truth. I’d even make
an ode to praise inertia’s steady touch.
But was that accurate? Did I resist
the change from consciousness to sleep so much,
or was that affectation’s witty twist?

I think of this while noticing how shy
I’m feeling lately. Though I rarely see
a person IRL, I’m back to my
agoraphobic thoughts. At 23
I self-prescribed a job took me outside
my home. Now I’m back in, I start to slide.

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

House Arrest 28 (Terza Rima Sonnet)

Posted on April 14, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

My brother’s hypertensive and he’s out
of pills. His doc retired and he needs
to pick anew, but deadly flu’s about,
retarding him. The stay-at-home impedes
what it permits with stern pandemic press,
and thoroughly prevents desired deeds
like dental work. We joke no one can guess
about a haircut or podiatry,
but consequences must increase unless
we stop postponing all necessity.
Agreeing to forgo our customs now,
fulfilling our responsibility
to crush the curve, all media says how,
ignoring ills these closures will allow.

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House Arrest 27 (Catena Rondo)

Posted on April 13, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

We started as a glimmer in God’s eye.
We hatched a relatively simple form
abiding now, its case confined and warm,
amid potential energy to fly.

We hatched a relatively simple form –
our larval stage was ravenous and rough,
consuming like we couldn’t get enough,
more devastating than a locust swarm.

Our larval stage was ravenous and rough;
we ate by day and gorged beneath the moon,
but now we hunker down in our cocoon,
quiescent as we shed mimetic fluff.

We ate by day and gorged beneath the moon,
for we were stupid-young and arrogant,
too ignorant to feel embarrassment.
But metamorphosis is coming soon.

For we were stupid-young and arrogant:
we started as a glimmer in God’s eye
and pray before too many of us die
to prove the worth of the experiment.

We started as a glimmer in God’s eye.
We hatched a relatively simple form
abiding now, its case confined and warm,
amid potential energy to fly.

(not a real catena rondo…missed the need for 1st/4th line repeat)

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House Arrest 26 (Rimas Dissolutas)

Posted on April 12, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

Our species is a blight
upon the planet’s health.
We ought to be ashamed;
we think we’re apex strong.

We couldn’t be less right,
who mined the earth for wealth,
who hoarded what we named
or killed it for a song.

We hunker day and night,
emerging in a stealth
foray to shop (inflamed
by news we fear a throng).

Of course we should be blamed;
our course has been all wrong.

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

House Arrest 25 (The Bop)

Posted on April 11, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

When I was young my mom preferred to say
“Because I told you so,” to satisfy
my quest for information. She would pay
me scant attention in response to Why.
My teachers didn’t shut me down that way,
but most would give a subject-change a try.

Was language developed in order to lie?

I learned to read and write, and turned to print
to gather facts and populate my mind.
I pored voraciously through fact and hint,
concluded I’d left ignorance behind,
and only later learned how thin the press,
political the science of reply
and publication. Never did I guess
the power of the pressure to deny.

Was language developed in order to lie?

Diogenes became my model then,
in terms of truth. I sought it low and high.
My filter was in place time and again;
no matter what I gathered, I would pry
away conspiracy, seek origin
and yet, my search has failed. How blind I fly…

Was language developed in order to lie?

Posted in Cognition, Coronaverse, Language, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

House Arrest 24 (Clogyrnach)

Posted on April 10, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

I thought the TP shortage must
subside as hoarders learned to trust
supply lines. The twist?
The paper that’s missed
is domestic. It’s plush.

There’s plenty of commercial stuff,
the rolls too big, the texture rough,
but never have we
at home used TP
uniquely, with enough.

Before we drill a bigger hole
at home, to hold the giant roll,
the mills should regear
to cover our rear,
and appear in control.

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

Happy Medium

Posted on April 10, 2020 by sputterpub

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In 1963, I recollect
receiving just four channels on TV.
Three networks and a local would project
the news. We watched it in the family
or living room – we only owned one set.
And when assassination slayed our course,
pre-empted programming meant all we’d get
were funary and serious reports.

Just let a half a century go by,
and change is too stupendous to ignore.
A hundred cable news reporters vie
for my attention, with a thousand more
on Internet. Too many or too few
mislead. I need a medium to view.

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

House Arrest 23 (Masks)

Posted on April 9, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

Protection’s in N95’s, but wait!
We need to save those units for the docs.
A surgeon’s mask will decontaminate
the air; they need those, too. Whatever blocks
the spray of droplets seems good strategy.
Last week we didn’t need a mask, but now
we’re told to don by text and on TV –
Bandanna-folding videos show how.

And sure I’ll cover nose and mouth within,
but I’m a free-range breather when I walk.
My scarf will muffle then beneath my chin –
the sidewalk’s mine – I’ll make no neighbors talk.
(Perhaps the mask is meant to nettle us
to stay inside, where comforts settle us.)

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House Arrest 22 (Acrostic Rispetto)

Posted on April 8, 2020 by sputterpub

House Arrest

Now all I know must shelter in our places,
Or venture out for food and exercising.
Most people are restricting their embraces.
Our introversion may appear surprising
For such a social species, but I wonder:
Of benefits that come with life asunder,
May we include a break from all suspicion
Of missing some event or exhibition?

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Tunnel Vision

Posted on April 8, 2020 by sputterpub

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My best friend’s friend, a woman known to thrive
until this year’s retirement, declares
that everyone she knows past sixty-five
has lost at least a little brain. She swears
it looking husband-ward, at hers and those
of half a dozen friends, who show a sign
of cognitive impairment. I suppose
she fails to recollect she’s sixty-nine.

I can’t attribute humor to her. Wit
is not a trait she’d covet or conceal.
She studied what she thought appropriate,
romanced her history, and spun the reel
with filtered focus, blurred photography:
a talisman to slay acuity.

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