The silver lining in a prison term
is time for exercising brawn and brain.
This sentenced House Arrest serves to confirm
that: daily riding, daily trying out
a puzzle of poetic form. I squirm
at repetition, cringe at lines too short,
but work it like a robin at a worm,
and find the rules of rhythm entertain
and help me duck the passage of this germ.
I’m ready for our morning FaceTime session
(I just completed all my exercises).
The coffee’s poured – it’s now in Dad’s discretion
to hook us up, for caution still advises
we stay apart today. My flu confession:
I miss so much your hugs, your word surprises,
and tender exhibitions of frustration
(he’s 3 years old and practicing vexation).
There’s nothing fortunate about his stroke,
except it happened twenty months ago,
before Coronavirus came to choke
the hospitals and propagate the woe.
It would have been more challenging last year,
when I was out of house all winter through.
My cottage needed work; I sheltered near
without my daily comforts, making do.
The children in my life were younger then.
They would have been more needy and confused.
It’s difficult to hear them question when,
but not as hard to keep them all amused.
Imagine how compound the tragedy,
if we’d the dreaded earthquake on our plate,
or if we battled flames concurrently.
We get to concentrate on one bad fate.
And though I’m aging steadily through this
obnoxious break, discovering new cracks
and bumps, massaging spots of tenderness,
I don’t need medicine for these attacks.
We’re in a mess. We suffer sad reverse.
But timing could
and future may
be worse.
The morning cold here
is spring atmosphere,
and yet,
as tulips appear
and daffodils spear,
we let
our plans disappear,
on pause most the year,
upset.
There’s no place safe on earth. There never was.
Our culture stalled beneath complacency,
the base too broad for continuity.
Some thought we were protected by our laws,
but they’re committee-built stupidity.
There’s no place safe on earth. There never was.
Our culture stalled beneath complacency.
Of course we’re plagued with viruses, because
we chose to cluster into density,
creating grand municipality.
There’s no place safe on earth. There never was.
Our culture stalled beneath complacency,
the base too broad for continuity.
Two hundred years ago, an English book
employed vocabulary obsolete
these days, or rare at least – we seldom look
askance, or box some ears, or take conceit
to mean idea – I’m sure you understand.
I came on this one recently – it stole
my grin delighting me: it’s “self-command.”
How utterly distinct from “self-control.”
We use the latter to suggest restraint –
our selves inhibit us from thing or act.
But self command connotes no brake or feint,
conveying a finesse, a form exact,
a step refined. I think we should relapse
to self-command, before our ways collapse.
I used to change my voicemail every day,
recording first the date and day of week,
informing callers I was not away
but mostly locating, by this technique,
myself in place and time, and planning, too,
the items on my list I meant to do
(committing to the tasks already honed
that couldn’t be realistically postponed).
That habit disappeared when I retired,
with calendar mistakes the consequence.
It wasn’t memory or lack of sense
that made me think a Thursday had transpired
on Saturday. And now, with House Arrest,
my space is here, but time is often guessed.
We told the boys they couldn’t play
more games until their room was clean.
We didn’t care who worked, what way,
or when (the oldest is 13).
The Ruler wants our house arrest
to end, but first we have to test.
The boys took days but did the work.
They’re that much wiser than The Jerk.
I didn’t take the quake of ‘89
as serious, although I was outside,
until I heard they killed the baseball game.
Adjusting takes me time. I knew the name
Coronavirus when identified,
but waited several weeks to toe the line
duct-taped at teller windows in my bank,
to soap for 20 seconds, and to thank
the clerks in the beleaguered stores and shops,
collectors of our trash, the nursing boon.
The rules say I’m supposed to tend my yard,
and true – the labor wouldn’t be that hard –
but I’ve resolved to pay a pal to prune
in isolation till contagion stops.
I used to claim “When I’m asleep I want
to stay asleep, and when I am awake
I like to linger in that state.” I’d flaunt
it like acknowledged truth. I’d even make
an ode to praise inertia’s steady touch.
But was that accurate? Did I resist
the change from consciousness to sleep so much,
or was that affectation’s witty twist?
I think of this while noticing how shy
I’m feeling lately. Though I rarely see
a person IRL, I’m back to my
agoraphobic thoughts. At 23
I self-prescribed a job took me outside
my home. Now I’m back in, I start to slide.
 | sputterpub on Old Haunt |
 | zumpoems on Old Haunt |
| sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
