Don’t Stop Now

Posted on July 3, 2019 by sputterpub

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When you were 12 years old, your father quit
his job, his engineering work, his life
in many ways. He took to home, to sit
and view a hundred channels with his wife.
He never more felt vigorous or well
enough to venture up or even out.
As if he were imprisoned in a spell
of morbid wealth, he gathered stuff and doubt
around his rounding shoulders, failing back,
and figured that he wouldn’t linger long.
“I think I’m dying soon. I can’t attack
a strategy. I’m neither young nor strong.”

You’re weary. You remind me of your pop.
I beg you to resist the urge to stop.

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In Memoriam

Posted on July 2, 2019 by sputterpub

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You died. And now traits
you had that drove me crazy
are what I miss most.

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Kept

Posted on July 1, 2019 by sputterpub

Kept

I live in one large room. I don’t own much.
Remodeling required me to go,
before and after moving items. Such
it was, I had at least two prompts to throw
away what I no longer use, reserve
my space for beauty and necessities.
And I stepped up to task – I didn’t swerve
but turned away from most accessories.

The project spanned four months from start to end.
A lot was jettisoned, a bit was bought,
enough was kept. And now I get to spend
my days enjoying the improvement wrought,
abandoning the habits I don’t miss,
but keeping exercise and lines like this.

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Divergence

Posted on June 27, 2019 by sputterpub

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I’m used to mendicants on streets and trains,
exposed to dirty butts and putrid scents,
implored in every way to spare some change –
in public transit I’ve experience.
But I was just accosted by a guy,
light black, soft-spoken, leaning in too close
for comfort, young and easy on the eye,
who almost begged politely – nothing gross
or loud about him, but I felt alert
and wanted him to leave. He blithely guessed
about my life. I met his eyes, gave curt
replies, my train approached, and then he stressed
“When they go low, go high.” I said “That’s good.”
He grinned and we diverged well-understood.

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Well I Declare

Posted on June 25, 2019 by sputterpub

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My triceps ache from picking up those weights.
I’ll have 6 hits of nicotine today.
I’ll say goodbye to milled carbohydrates,
and turn again to pen and keyboard play.
I’ll give my legs and patience exercise.
I’ll try to ease my neck and stretch my back.
Withholding judgment, I’ll direct my eyes
to self-improvement, make my jaw go slack,
endeavor not to let bad temper win,
be kind to every kind I know and meet,
and let my next development begin.

Before I can declare this book complete
I aim to fill the center of the shelf
with admirable chapters of myself.

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To 43

Posted on June 24, 2019 by sputterpub

labychartfloor[1]

My 30-something son is sick again.
From flu or spoiled food he’s feeling sore.
His wife is ailing too, but most the men
we care about appear to suffer more.
She asked me was he like this as a child?
Describing chronic ear infections, breaks
of wrist and noggin, wheezing, I’m beguiled:
I don’t remember any stomachaches.

Reviewing notes from when I was their age,
I see how often ill I felt, and yet,
adjusting and recovering, the stage
that followed was the strongest for my set.
Unsung, the toughest decade may well be
the span that leads adults to 43.

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If I Were Dead

Posted on June 20, 2019 by sputterpub

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If I were dead, it wouldn’t be that odd.
I’ve almost lived three score and ten right now.
I’m old enough to meet whatever God
arranged to follow life, of what and how
and never why. I wouldn’t be that stunned
to die, although I wish for decades more.
And if I passed, my dears would have to fund
and cheer themselves, successfully I’m sure.

As old as 42 and 36
my offspring are, both capable and smart.
They don’t need me to analyze or fix
their circumstances. I won’t even start
to worry. I’d not fret if I were dead.
I’ll leave them to their lots, and write instead.

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Social Silence

Posted on June 18, 2019 by sputterpub

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I ought to take a compliment with poise,
accept a testimonial with ease.
But I’m as apt to croak a phlegmy noise
as speak politely. Seldom do I please
myself in shopping for another’s gift,
and I from what I hear don’t voice enough
appreciation in my thanks to lift
the hearts of those presenting me with stuff.

I may be on the spectrum, but it’s not
cognition that invokes a little strange.
Some manners I was taught and quick forgot,
as if I had permission to exchange
attention, and direct my energy
to plot perimeters of memory.

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Backache

Posted on June 17, 2019 by sputterpub

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

I tweaked my lower back. I felt the ache
when I got out of bed at half past six.
I’d taken while away from home a break
of nearly sixteen weeks. I guess the disk
required more protection at this stage,
and though I crunched abdominals with care,
I should have been more mindful of my age
which once again surprised me. Did I tear
important tissue? Really, I think not.
It feels more like a warning than a maim.
Enjoying Sunday vigor I forgot
I need to favor tender. Soreness came
this morning. Muscles moaned and tendons told
me yet again – to shock and awe – I’m old.

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Mid-Day Commute

Posted on June 13, 2019 by sputterpub

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I walked to Rockridge BART the long way round,
and bought two bags of apricots en route.
I shopped for salad and I also found
some time for body lotion. Armed with fruit
and cream and greens, I caught a west-bound train
of new design — three doors to every car.
Relaxing on a plastic seat, my brain
acknowledged how replete these mornings are.

The bus and train today are quick and clean,
the salads fresh, the apricots well-dried,
transactions fast, nobody acting mean.
To walk is wonderful; it’s fun to ride.
Although we’re bred to notice what’s amiss,
I’m ticking benefits, amassing bliss.

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