Crisis Text

Posted on October 15, 2019 by sputterpub

images

There comes a time in every child’s growth
(much oftener than once), when life becomes
too thick to process, though he may have both
his parents present and a wealth of chums.
It takes a village to address the job
of rearing to adulthood children well.
Some relatives and strangers make a mob
protective and supportive. Truth to tell:

Extended families are fractured now.
Communities have lost coherence too.
Without a threat, we tend to forget how
to interact, receive a fact or view,
respectfully. We’re sorry guides are dead.
We’ll have to substitute an app instead.

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Runway Closure

Posted on October 14, 2019 by sputterpub

runway closure

The news reports were frightening of course:
a runway closed at SFO – a mess
become debacle, all described, the source
experts and passengers, the fear and stress
attention-grabbing. Texts and folks advised
I fly another date, another field –
create a plan that won’t be compromised.
“The news is bleak – yet think what’s been concealed!”

“Oh shush,” I prayed. “Don’t agitate me, friends.
Experience has taught me to distrust
the headlines. Sure the news can give us trends
and probabilities, but details just
mislead.” I left prepared for some delay;
in fact my flights took off on time each way.

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Preheat Not Needed

Posted on October 10, 2019 by sputterpub

Water Heater

In classifying new stuff good or bad,
depending on performance and design,
the dishwasher’s a joke, the stove is sad,
and manufactured doors are out of line.
The ceiling fan is handsome and works well,
the custom bed and closet are beyond
my expectations, and my baths excel
my visions too. But there’s no magic wand
about the water heater’s FLASH command:
two minutes to achieve the bathroom sink!
The label indicates it’s “on demand,”
but this is worse than tank-supplied, I think.

Adjusting now, I plug the bath at first;
it’s perfect by the time I am immersed.

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Exampling Spider

Posted on October 8, 2019 by sputterpub

Orb too

A three-month project, overrun to eight,
is nearly at an end, but truth be told,
the bulk of it was not accomplished late.
I hung at ninety-five percent, controlled
by winter trains and summer-found defects,
by workmen moving on to other sites.
My friends informed me everyone expects
to spend more money putting all to rights,
and time of course. Frustrated as I feel
today, impatient ninety-eight percent,
I watch a weaver eat her web to heal
her energy, to build again. Less spent
than she, inspired with the will I seek,
it’s easy now to wait another week.

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Resting

Posted on October 7, 2019 by sputterpub

how-to-build-first-aid-kit[1]

Today’s a gentle morning in my home.
I’m still off exercise and took a break
from tasks. I’ve got the time to pen this poem
although I’ve no declaratives to make,
no narratives or theories to suggest.
I’m feeling good without objective cause.
My body has insisted that I rest,
and maybe I’m obeying natural laws.

I’ve rarely been compliant, when compared
to other girls and most the boys I’ve known,
but then I never sought to be repaired.
It’s different now, with elder tendon, bone
and ligament, but also elder brain,
allowing time for body to explain.

Posted in Aging, Health, Poetry, Writing | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Self-Treatment

Posted on October 3, 2019 by sputterpub

Self Healing

Self-doctoring, I’ve flexed and made a list
of symptom frequency and pain extent.
I’ve read my diaries and haven’t missed
what history can offer, and I’ve meant
each statement of infliction to be true.
Self-medicating now, prescribing rest,
I’ve interrupted exercise to do
the obvious, without a pill or test.

It’s strange to pass these mornings staying still.
I rise as usual at half past six
and drink my coffee, but avoid the drill
of bike and crunch and lift. I feel the fix
is working so I’m trying not to fuss
or walk. For now I’d better ride the bus.

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Repetitive Motions

Posted on October 1, 2019 by sputterpub

Hospital[1]

Experiencing minor chronic pain
I’d calibrate if asked at three point five,
I won’t consult a doctor or complain,
considering how long I’ve been alive –
perhaps the symptom’s age-appropriate.
For though I have a parent living yet,
and even with my tactic – staying fit
and active – I’d be foolish to forget
how steadily I’ve used my starboard side,
and where I’ve worn my purse’s padded strap.
I cross my legs when sitting and I ride
a fitball for a chair – did wobble sap
my left Achilles tendon? Best take care
to alter use, and even out my wear.

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Going to My Room

Posted on September 30, 2019 by sputterpub

My Room

What I appreciate about alone
is talking to myself where you can’t hear,
where I can gorge on words without a bone
to pick with anyone, for no one’s near.
My parents used to send me to my room
when I, anti-compliant, sassed them back.
They thought it fit deterrent, I assume,
which soon became my favorite briar patch.

They reared me, and I’ve now raised my own brood.
I married twice and fed each husband’s head
with words I blared. Depending on my mood,
I bored or thrilled or drove them deaf instead
of heeding. Now I have a one-room home,
and publish each opinion in a poem.

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Soot

Posted on September 26, 2019 by sputterpub

sooty hands

As soon as all the work was done, I booked
the window washing and the maintenance
my fireplace deserves. The unit looked
as usual – I never had the sense
of something off. The ceiling fan was on.
Was that the cause? I didn’t see the soot,
until I chanced to note each blackened palm,
which made me check the bottom of each foot.

Contaminating floors with every step,
I amplified the mess to ascertain
its limits, and for hours then I checked
and scrubbed or vacuumed, struggling to maintain
composure, surface finish, and a black
sense of the humor in a soot attack.

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The Damp Deck

Posted on September 24, 2019 by sputterpub

deck

I’m well aware the weather could be worse;
we pay a lot to live around this bay.
But atmospheric rivers are a curse
for me – extreme humidity today
will not allow my just-sealed deck to dry.
Evaporation is on hold for now.
I’ll likely mar the surface if I try
to cross to use the office shed, so how
am I to do my morning exercise?
Or use my printer, processor, or screen?
I can’t obtain the vacuum. Enterprise
is stalled; productive visions go unseen.
The deck completes my big remodel list;
and climate now bestows a silly twist.

Posted in Home, Poetry, Weather | Tagged | Leave a comment