Puttering

Posted on March 5, 2020 by sputterpub

Puttering

Perusing I-Can-Read books with my friend
(who’s nearly 3 years old), he likes of late
the Putter works. And though Sam will pretend
to be a monkey, he won’t imitate
the characters encountered in those books.
The stories feature neighbors elderly
and childless (he likes to nap – she cooks),
an aging tabby cat and good-dog Zeke.

I marvel at the absence of all kids.
Apparently the children will enjoy
adventures of domestic ancients, rid
of tensions, featuring no girl or boy
or monster, no heroics, grief or glory.
They simply love the transport of a story.

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Etude

Posted on March 4, 2020 by sputterpub

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If I were going to pen a poem today,
it wouldn’t be about a man I met.
Of late I’ve made no time for talk or play
and solitude has not grown boring yet.
My subject wouldn’t be the weather now,
which likely isn’t even odd enough
to spur the journalists to tell us how
to overstock with batteries of stuff.
The current politics, acute, obtuse
and frightening, won’t fit in metered rhymes
that don’t fit anywhere, and the abuse
of reason can’t illuminate our times.
I’d write a poem except, by my survey,
I’ve nothing in particular to say.

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Fra(g)il(e)

Posted on February 28, 2020 by sputterpub

Diagnosis1

The left Achilles tendon tends to ache.
The hip joint on that side is known to give.
The portside shoulder yells at me to take
my bra off twisted front, and now I live
with twinge and weakness almost every day,
while night is time for broken sleep and phlegm.
I manufacture mucus when I lay
in bed, that exits face at 6 a.m.

It’s stupid-easy now to bruise my skin.
The smallest injury takes weeks to heal.
Forgetting, I assume I’m young within,
and then I’m dashed to see my frame reveal
how soft my vigor is, and frail I think
my future feels, that any fall may shrink.

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Non Gratitude

Posted on February 26, 2020 by sputterpub

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The dowager declined to buy or lend.
Her grownup grandchildren were in a squeeze,
and though she has abundance she won’t spend
it yet. Presenting her with facts and pleas,
I had to find another way around.
I made her lend to me. I promised more
than banks. Combining that and mine I found
enough to lend the kids to buy before
the closing date. The purchase can be made;
the home can be secured for them and theirs.
They always work. The loan will be repaid,
but daily now the dowager declares
she’s shocked and disappointed. Here’s a quote:
“I haven’t yet received a Thank You note!”

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Droughtful

Posted on February 24, 2020 by sputterpub

drought

Perhaps it was my January birth
that bred me to adore a winter storm,
but I appreciate when rain hits earth,
and comfort means to me a haven warm
and cozy when it’s pouring cold outside.
Each autumn I look forward to the rain.
Though leaks and rising creeks pre-occupied
me now and then, I harbor water-brain.

I used to surge with anger in a drought.
I’d daily read the forecast and I’d rage
against high pressure, as I chilled without
the sound of water. Maybe it’s my age
of late, for though I mourn as we stay dry,
I’m weary of rebelling at blue sky.

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The Other Explanation

Posted on February 21, 2020 by sputterpub

Forensic-Anthro-Icon

Debate Club taught me more than how to speak.
I learned to argue points I don’t approve.
I got by doing what I didn’t seek:
the insight into how ideas can move
opponents, for as soon as I’d defend
them, I received immediate return.
I didn’t have to posture or pretend –
the argument I fashioned made me learn.

Since then I’ve started writing poems and prose,
and every time I try to postulate
the motives of my actors, I compose
a history that justifies the weight
of what ensued, and then my views expand,
exposing what I didn’t understand.

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My Diet Secret

Posted on February 19, 2020 by sputterpub

tools

A tonsillectomy at 5 years old
resulted in a shape change, Mama said.
Till then I seemed to always have a cold,
but afterwards I gained and grew instead
a steady challenge with obesity,
forever adding girth instead of height.
Just don’t gain more, my mother said to me,
while introducing new-age foods made “lite.”

Of course that didn’t work. I suffered on
uncomfortable in clothes and self-disdain.
Eventually I learned how vast the con
was propagated, counterfeit as main-
stream is, but here’s the truth of my success –
I’m mostly thin because my mouth’s a mess.

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Fake History

Posted on February 17, 2020 by sputterpub

language

My mother’s been impatient and abrupt
for all my life, task-driven to extremes.
My father harbored passions; he’d erupt
with wrath or indignation, but his dreams
and deeds were loving – he knew how to teach
instilling confidence, inviting thought.
My mother seldom looked beyond her reach,
and little valued things she hadn’t bought.

I have one tender memory of Mom
beside me silent while I suffered grief –
that evening how I treasured her support!
But recently she took it back – the bomb
she laid was wrongful recollection – brief
and cold she falsely told that old report.

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Just Two

Posted on February 14, 2020 by sputterpub

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I think I always had a closest friend
(surveying back to 1955),
but I don’t take to groups. I comprehend
plurality – communities can thrive –
but I don’t ever flourish in a crowd.
I find the girls too shrill, the boys too rough.
The voices jar – the volume is too loud,
and words are tossed like disregarded stuff.

I lack receptors to appreciate
the good in group dynamics, ecstasy
enhanced with others, harmonies of soul.
Consensus-building seems to generate
in me awareness of stupidity,
and simplified restrictions in control.

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Preschool

Posted on February 12, 2020 by sputterpub

Preschool

Low-carbohydrate baking is our game
on many Wednesdays. We try recipes
with proxy flours, sweets of quirky name
like Stevia and monkfruit. By degrees
we’re learning how to bake a better snack,
collecting psyllium, adjusting dose.
We’re old and young developing a knack
for softly substituting allulose.

My colleague is my baby’s toddler son,
a brilliant boy approaching 3 years old.
I never felt the boon of focused fun
till now, when he and I are teamed and bold.
If asked how we make cookies sweet, my small
companion grins, and chimes “erythritol!”

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