Excuses

Posted on January 17, 2020 by sputterpub

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For anyone who ever ducked a date
by claiming some unwellness or demand
you can’t avoid, for those who fabricate
a social lie, you’re bound to understand
when someone else is doing it to you.
He says a flight will agitate his ears,
a drive will hurt his heels, but here’s what’s true –
he’s chronically depressed and teems with fears.

The only clue when he was young was wrath.
Adventurous and social then, we watched
him raging as he aged. He blazed a path
to idle lone retreat, and so he botched
the opportunities to love and grow.
My former friend let all intentions go.

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To Keep Your Strength Up

Posted on January 15, 2020 by sputterpub

ginger ale

My mother gave me ginger ale to drink
when I was sick at home with bellyache.
She also served saltines; my mom would think
and say I needed sustenance to make
the illness go. “You have to keep your strength
up,” she’d proclaim. “Your body needs to eat.”
When I refused, she’d go to any length
to get me to ingest some salt or sweet.

She never understood the energy
digestion burns. She didn’t comprehend
the body’s bigger need. Recovery
is quickest when my system’s armies spend
their powers in repelling foreign foes,
instead of processing digestive flows.

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Animal Brain

Posted on January 13, 2020 by sputterpub

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An older friend complained of monkey brain,
at breakfast, after shattered sleep one night.
I understood; she didn’t need explain
the time awake, the way her thoughts would light
from cares to frets to worries like a chimp
in manic swings, unsettled, never still.
Advising her to let her head go limp
as legs asleep, instead she took a pill.

In time I caught the problem, but I heard
my words – I didn’t pay the monkey mind.
Rejecting care about awake conferred
a gentle rock that wafted. Now I find
sufficient sleep a trait I rest upon;
my thoughts in bed glide smoothly as a swan.

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Low Fuel

Posted on January 10, 2020 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

I may be running out of things to say.
I thought as much two years ago but then,
composing twice a week and Saturday,
I kept producing rhythm with my pen.

I aim to entertain and maybe teach,
describing observations as I age,
perhaps providing useful views to each
who values rhyme and meter on the page.

But just as time moves faster every year
(a day’s a month to toddlers, but it seems
as fleet as hummingbirds to disappear
for me), epiphany so seldom beams,
I’m learning ever rarer, ever less,
and may be muting into quietness.

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Recording

Posted on January 8, 2020 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

A dowager is not a matriarch,
no matter what you call yourself these days.
Subordinate to spouse, we heard your bark
but never feared you’d bite us, or amaze
us with authority, or guide us right.
We always knew, from him and you, the reins
were in our father’s hands, and not too tight
or twisted with impatience into chains.

He wasn’t perfect, though you’ve now forgot
the flaws he owned, the foibles he denied.
And though you see a part of me, you’re not
attentive to my power. Since he died
you’ve made a myth of him and force of you,
but I’m about remembering what’s true.

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Sam’s Bad Dream

Posted on January 6, 2020 by sputterpub

Left hand

I wondered once why infants have bad dreams
who haven’t lived enough to learn to fear,
and what comprises puppy nightmare themes,
and how a kitten monster could appear.
And I don’t have an answer, but I know
it’s true – the innocents can sleep afraid
and grieving – their contortions tell me so.
By cries and shakes their terrors are betrayed.

And much as I’d prevent the phantom wound,
I think it’s practice, like a lullaby
or fairy tale, a Caution or Amen.
Today your sleeping cry has me harpooned.
I hold you, and you slay me with your “I
just want to be a happy kid again.”

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Revisits

Posted on January 3, 2020 by sputterpub

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As I review assorted escapades
of youth, of 12, 16, and 21,
I clearly see they feature tones and shades
of sexual predation. What was done
was never charged: too mild then and, too,
I thought myself mature and strong enough.
I never felt a victim – in my view,
the scene was flattering and I was tough.

I see now how uneasy I was then
while trying to avoid the offered feast.
I almost sense the pressure once again,
to smile understandingly, at least.
Familiar whispering and soft assault:
I waxed a little rude, and felt at fault.

Posted in Aging, Family, Love, Poetry | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Before

Posted on January 1, 2020 by sputterpub

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The feelings I remember from my youth
were anger and impatience with my lot
of noodgy mom, protective dad – in truth,
if I’d sufficient freedom, I forgot
(and that’s not likely – I recorded notes
in poems and diaries and journals too.
Or maybe I was better-loved than most,
and thus equipped to recollect what’s true).

My rookie parents meant the best for me
but lacked experience and confidence.
I had to craft my own maturity
through trauma felt at five. Intelligence
enabled me to prosper since that time,
but early loving care was surely mine.

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Keeping It Simple

Posted on December 30, 2019 by sputterpub

language

You want it simple?
There is no conspiracy.
In truth it’s all lies.

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Forecasting

Posted on December 27, 2019 by sputterpub

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I’ve heard it’s hard to forecast over sea:
the ocean brings surprises to the West.
The instruments detect a tendency,
but here my window tells the weather best.
My phone says we’ll have clouds but I see rain
outside, and carry gear to keep me snug.
Predictions for next week do not contain
the certainty I’m craving like a drug.

Just so, I never know what life will bring.
I have a good idea about the week
immediately coming but can’t guess
ahead a year. I don’t know anything
about my health next month or what I’ll seek
when summer comes, or how I’ll live with less.

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