A Great Age

Posted on December 4, 2019 by sputterpub

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The vet described my dog’s old age as “great”
when she surpassed her breed’s expected span.
He used the adjective to designate
immensity instead of good or grand.
Likewise your age is great at 94,
although you seem to hate it more each week.
Insomnia and bruising make you sore.
Return to formerly is what you seek.

You shop for docs and visit WebMD.
You search for tips or tonics to rely
on, though there isn’t any remedy.
You rush to meds, but that’s no UTI
you’re treating – you forgot again to drink.
Your age is great. You’re older than you think.

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Whether

Posted on December 3, 2019 by sputterpub

world

The sun is setting earlier tonight
than it did yesterday. We ascertain
we daily have a lesser length of light,
but none among us knows when it will rain,
or if the winds will hibernate this year.
Will quenching water fall from winter skies?
As much or more than politics, we fear
how crazing climate makes the ocean rise
and gulps the glacial ice and fries the trees.
I’m mourning every creature gone extinct
(except some insects), while I loathe degrees
of added warmth. It’s like Jehovah winked
creating evolution’s tournament,
selecting clever over diligent.

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Mostly (A Silent Reading)

Posted on November 26, 2019 by sputterpub

cornucopia_bw

I feel too fortunate to list aloud
the goods I have around me now I’m old:
my little Berkeley cottage with its crowd
of friendly skunks and possums, and the bold
intelligence of crows;
my offspring fledged to full careers,
affectionate to me,
in love with those to whom their faith is pledged,
and doing well enough with progeny;
a parent yet alive and not too hard to daily call;
two brothers I still like;
four days most weeks to contemplate my yard;
at least three sunrises to ride my bike.

I’m mostly healthy, mostly sleep enough,
and thinking that I’ve mostly earned my stuff.

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Dactyls on Home

Posted on November 25, 2019 by sputterpub

How it Feels to Have My Place Back

It’s stunning to sit here and know that the work is complete.
Disrupted for months I’m accustomed to sharing my space.
At last I’m alone with no tradespeople stamping their feet
to minimize dust from construction all over the place.

I get to decide how I now spend my hours inside.
The mornings and evenings are mine to be fruitful or waste.
I deem the cost worth it. I view with approval and pride
selections for comfort and function displaying my taste.

I know that I’ll summon assistance as things wear or break,
but I’ll be in charge of most days, and relaxing the guard
that I’ve been maintaining this year. I’d a castle to make,
and now I’m enjoying the blessings of cottage and yard.

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How it Feels to Have My Place Back

Posted on November 22, 2019 by sputterpub

How it Feels to Have My Place Back

When I was 35, catastrophe
beset me and my body nearly quit.
They hooked me up to drips, did surgery
two times, and scanned for an appropriate
response to symptoms dangerous no doubt.
I carried on, reacting brave and wise,
and only when the final tube was out,
did I release the torrents from my eyes.

In similar cascade, but more mundane,
I weathered most the year without my nest.
I worked with every ask, did not complain,
agreed to all the scheduling requests,
and only now it’s over do I see
how much and long I suffered silently.

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Facials

Posted on November 20, 2019 by sputterpub

emollients_kopf

I don’t remember when I had my first
exfoliating facial, but I learned
the ravages of stress could be reversed
(or maybe just delayed), the lines sunburned
could be addressed if I reclined four hours
a year and lent complexion to the hands
of someone trained among emollient powers,
extracting cleanse, and collagen commands.

Of course I was too busy in my prime
to follow that advice. I seldom sought
the costly couch, but now I have the time
and damages that fifty years have wrought.
Each month a custom facial’s what I seek;
it feels so good I want one every week.

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Done

Posted on November 18, 2019 by sputterpub

Well Done

The job’s not perfect but it feels complete.
I see some minor damage and some flaws,
but I’ve declared it’s fine enough, and sweet
my solitary residence, because
I’m living now what I dreamt months ago.
I had to use imagination then;
I walked in mind through this, but now I know
results I’m loving daily. Even when
I’m tired, half-unfocused, still my eyes
find shapes and tones and textures bound to please.
The work that’s done and paid for gratifies,
and tradesmen’s dawn and dusk incursions cease.
I’m savoring results. My grin’s sincere,
for now I get to dwell well-furnished here.

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Pete’ll Eat It (3-Pete)

Posted on November 15, 2019 by sputterpub

imagesCA0WWW4O

My cousin was a sturdy fragile boy,
sun-sensitive and dad-less in LA,
who often visited. Then he’d enjoy
our walks-and-talks, and time my father made
for him – we welcomed him with love and board –
we corresponded when apart by mail.
The elders worried what we tended toward,
but tries to shut us up were found to fail.

We grew apart, in fact – we had full lives.
He never gave up exercise or thought.
Persistent he experienced three wives
before he settled down. He sired daught-
ers and a son; he leaves three progeny.
I think he was the man he meant to be.

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Re Pete

Posted on November 13, 2019 by sputterpub

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The first defender of my poetry
is dead. When I was young, my brothers shot
at birds and rabbits in the scrub and scree
behind the school. Their cruelty made me hot
with indignation comforting to vent.
My cousin, older, bookish, lifeguard-fit,
was apt, supportive and intelligent;
we grew so close our parents made us quit.

Conservative, good-looking, still unlined,
my cousin was a past and future friend
who worked for government but owned his mind,
and though we grew apart, we didn’t end
relationship. We thought we’d have more time,
but now I’ll only be with him in rhyme.

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Cuz (Pete)

Posted on November 11, 2019 by sputterpub

imagesCASYN47N

The grief engulfed me when I tried to speak.
Of course I mourned your unexpected death,
but as I talked my tears began to leak,
informing me along with ragged breath.
You weren’t young but weren’t ancient yet.
You’d had a heart attack, but mended well.
Our past is now on me to not forget,
our teen adventures mine alone to tell.

I heard the news with shock, and all last night
I thought of you – we both expected more
discussions we would share, with you uptight
and me still weird, related to the core.
I tried to call your widow, wife-that-was,
and understood how much I’ll miss you, Cuz.

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