Ridden and Written

Posted on March 16, 2020 by sputterpub

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I used to ride my bike most every day.
I used to try each morning to compose
a poem, or put 300 words in play,
but into every life existence throws
up circumstances outside our control;
I had to take a break from write and ride.
Remodel, health, and offspring took their toll;
a year ago my pace was modified.

Intending to resume at first, I thought
the interruption wouldn’t last this long.
But new routines and working habits brought
advantages, and though I feel less strong
these days, 5 days of exercise and 3
with ink per week are gratifying me.

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Will to Live?

Posted on March 13, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

“You never know,” my brother said to us
at least a dozen times. “Folks everywhere
assert they’d die without a lot of fuss,
preferring end instead of endless care,
eschewing tubes and dreading loss of mind,
but something kicks in when they’re close and scared:
Survival instinct – then they leave behind
the terminal intentions once declared.”

I think he’s wrong. We’re neither beasts nor young.
Observing those I’ve known who died mature,
I see it was the incomplete who clung
to life, while those with self-esteem were more
apparently prepared to face the shade
consistent with insistences they made.

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Opossum Love

Posted on March 11, 2020 by sputterpub

opossum love

At 6 a.m. one day last week, I heard
a thump outside the window where I sat.
I raised the shade to see what had occurred,
and spied a pair of ‘possums going at
it, either sex or play or argument.
The tail around the torso was a clue,
and interlocked white hissing muzzles went
to show what reproducing ‘possums do.

I watched a little from my wooden chair.
I saw the neighbor’s cat observe as well.
Each reposition sent a tuft of hair
aloft, a puff of grayish-white that fell
upon my porch. So now I’m thinking of
those tufts as evidence of ‘possum love.

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Slippage

Posted on March 9, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I always wanted to remember time.
I’ve trained a natural talent to recall
by taking notes in diaries and rhyme,
and narrating my memories to all.
Specific moments I have tried to freeze
with photographs or lists I made in mind,
reiterating details in degrees
that bored my friends and drove my kids unkind.

And though I’ve known a measure of success,
and recollect more moments than my peers
or parents, even so I must confess
I’ve lost some edges. Sure my honor clears
the mists of time and offers calming grace,
but I can’t summon up my baby’s face.

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Unraised

Posted on March 6, 2020 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

Nostalgia’s mostly dangerous and bent,
infecting memory with fantasy,
and modifying fact until what’s meant
as scarlet takes on tones of burgundy.
So childhood’s remembered as a state
that was or should have been replete with glee,
and parents subsidize; they pull the weight
their offspring ought to keep the kids care-free.

I challenge you to recollect those years
of learning how to be, when no one felt
they fit, and wonder days were rare as gold.
Your kids are 35 now, and the dears
should earn their ways, instead of having dealt
to them the funds nostalgia has cajoled.

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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

blankpage

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.

Posted in Aging, Personality, Poetry, Weather | Tagged , | Leave a comment