My garden attitude’s benign neglect;
I never went for soil on my hands
or stooping. I’m so old my neck is wrecked
from telephones and tension – I don’t need
to stress my knees and back as I’d expect
if I were to address each sprouting weed.
Now trapped at home, I notice and inspect
the buds of roses, where the frond expands,
and how the light is perfectly correct.
The root canal and implant surgery,
my dental treatments during quarantine,
one necessary, one appropriate,
are why I ventured from the sanity
of home alone and comfortable hygiene
(the pain and symptoms weren’t counterfeit).
A hair salon I’d fain be going to,
and restaurants I miss would be my scene,
but I’m compelled in dental chairs to sit.
My mouth is weak. My problem’s owing to
bad spit.
(Curtal Sonnet)
My hermitage was built last century –
three score and sixteen years ago (they say,
who keep a file on the property).
Constructed as a guest house then, today
the Codes would not permit my place to be
so on-the-edge it’s just a wall away
from neighbors. Perfect privacy is worth
investing in my favorite spot on earth.
(Ottava Rima)
He has a walk-through bedroom, in between
his parents’ and the kitchen’s narrow end.
(Their flat is old – Victorian or Queen
Anne modified to serve the housing trend).
The woodwork is original – the doors
have panels, knobs and holes for vintage keys.
I follow Sam around when he explores –
he’s 3 years old and tells me what he sees.
It’s normal that he’s nervous in his bed
alone at night – of course he’s vigilant.
Examining his walls and doors instead
of sleeping, one keyhole’s an instrument
for checking on his folks’ activities.
He says he’d like a bigger keyhole, please.
![220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]](https://sputterpub.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/220px-cerebral_lobes1.png?w=165&h=193)
I seldom see the good in boundaries;
I tend to play at work and work at play.
I set a goal, approach it by degrees,
but when it’s reached it doesn’t go away.
Some friends I love and honor lack the heart
to set the time for new, and make a start.
While I initiate unlike those friends,
I seem to have an issue seeing ends.
I didn’t close affairs – I tried to change
them, but my lovers always disagreed.
I quit tobacco but did not impede
my social hits. And now it’s nothing strange
that my retirement did not proceed
in full. There’s still some worth in work I need.
I feel I owe the kids apology:
we meant to change the world in ‘68.
Somehow my cohort lost its energy;
we settled in for goods instead of great.
Apparently the time was wrong for us.
We marched and rioted, kicked up our fuss,
but half a century has lapsed and still,
the jury’s out about our civic will.
My dears, your anger’s earned. Your rage should heat
the beaker of our culture even more
than we did, booming, bragging, cocky, sure
our numbers and our vigor would unseat
the emperors. But we were kids, and you’re
up now, at 38 and 44.
I know the weakest link defines the chain,
in terms of strength (and what’s of more import
than hold if chains are judged?) The links will strain
when pull’s applied, until the poor falls short.
Just so, as we now start to socialize,
developing our distance protocols
and meeting out of doors, we organize
our separate plates and places, and it falls
to whom is the most cautious, careful guest,
to set the masking manners for the rest.
Too humid to dry
the redwood deck I resealed:
our normal July.
I think I like to sleep, but I’m not there
to judge; it’s only as I start to fall
to slumber, that I’m comfortably aware
my latest thoughts are what I can’t recall.
As I relax, I set my hands to rest;
I still my feet and respiration slows.
When I’m about to be by sleep possessed,
I cannot sense my parts with eyelids closed.
If sleep’s a little death, then let my death
approach like the transition into sleep.
Allow me not to track, near my last breath,
whatever thoughts I vainly thought I’d keep.
And let me lose my old extremities,
with digits stilled in sinking memories.
![220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]](https://sputterpub.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/220px-cerebral_lobes1.png?w=186&h=217)
When I say I love order, I don’t mean
I value lines or uniforms or rules.
(I’d be an anarchist, except that scene
has been usurped by weapon-toting fools.)
Obedience has never been my route –
impatience my persistent quality;
I’m not submissive. But my life’s pursuit
appears to be a war on entropy.
Detesting chaos and disdaining murk
have grown to be my attitude and stance.
I advocate for clarity – my work
is organizing information. Chance
is charming in a game, but don’t abide
disorder – that abets the other side.
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