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

The Other Explanation

Posted on February 21, 2020 by sputterpub

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Debate Club taught me more than how to speak.
I learned to argue points I don’t approve.
I got by doing what I didn’t seek:
the insight into how ideas can move
opponents, for as soon as I’d defend
them, I received immediate return.
I didn’t have to posture or pretend –
the argument I fashioned made me learn.

Since then I’ve started writing poems and prose,
and every time I try to postulate
the motives of my actors, I compose
a history that justifies the weight
of what ensued, and then my views expand,
exposing what I didn’t understand.

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My Diet Secret

Posted on February 19, 2020 by sputterpub

tools

A tonsillectomy at 5 years old
resulted in a shape change, Mama said.
Till then I seemed to always have a cold,
but afterwards I gained and grew instead
a steady challenge with obesity,
forever adding girth instead of height.
Just don’t gain more, my mother said to me,
while introducing new-age foods made “lite.”

Of course that didn’t work. I suffered on
uncomfortable in clothes and self-disdain.
Eventually I learned how vast the con
was propagated, counterfeit as main-
stream is, but here’s the truth of my success –
I’m mostly thin because my mouth’s a mess.

Posted in Aging, Food, Health, Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Fake History

Posted on February 17, 2020 by sputterpub

language

My mother’s been impatient and abrupt
for all my life, task-driven to extremes.
My father harbored passions; he’d erupt
with wrath or indignation, but his dreams
and deeds were loving – he knew how to teach
instilling confidence, inviting thought.
My mother seldom looked beyond her reach,
and little valued things she hadn’t bought.

I have one tender memory of Mom
beside me silent while I suffered grief –
that evening how I treasured her support!
But recently she took it back – the bomb
she laid was wrongful recollection – brief
and cold she falsely told that old report.

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Just Two

Posted on February 14, 2020 by sputterpub

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I think I always had a closest friend
(surveying back to 1955),
but I don’t take to groups. I comprehend
plurality – communities can thrive –
but I don’t ever flourish in a crowd.
I find the girls too shrill, the boys too rough.
The voices jar – the volume is too loud,
and words are tossed like disregarded stuff.

I lack receptors to appreciate
the good in group dynamics, ecstasy
enhanced with others, harmonies of soul.
Consensus-building seems to generate
in me awareness of stupidity,
and simplified restrictions in control.

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Preschool

Posted on February 12, 2020 by sputterpub

Preschool

Low-carbohydrate baking is our game
on many Wednesdays. We try recipes
with proxy flours, sweets of quirky name
like Stevia and monkfruit. By degrees
we’re learning how to bake a better snack,
collecting psyllium, adjusting dose.
We’re old and young developing a knack
for softly substituting allulose.

My colleague is my baby’s toddler son,
a brilliant boy approaching 3 years old.
I never felt the boon of focused fun
till now, when he and I are teamed and bold.
If asked how we make cookies sweet, my small
companion grins, and chimes “erythritol!”

Posted in Food, Health, Lessons, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Narrativity

Posted on February 10, 2020 by sputterpub

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We’re visual, devoting near a third
of mental processing to what we see,
but I submit descriptors are absurd
that disregard our kind’s affinity
for narrative. We love our stories so,
we use them for religion, to explain
observed phenomena, to help us grow
a memory we’d have our head retain.

The best instruction’s given in a tale;
we understand, regardless of our state.
Attending nearly none of us will fail
to guess what narrative would motivate
the characters. As story lights our eyes,
so telling is a means to empathize.

Posted in Cognition, Lessons, Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Appropriate

Posted on February 7, 2020 by sputterpub

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As inappropriate as PJ pants
instead of trousers, rancor, public sex,
I just as often well-behave by chance
as by my own decision. Mom expects
passivity and sweetness. Even Dad
advises me to shush and not engage.
I listen but then something gets me mad,
and backsliding I fail to act my age.

Too vehement when young, too playful now,
inquisitive and inconvenient too.
I honestly mistake and don’t know how
to fake response as well as most folks do.
I’ll never be appropriate, I guess –
the word is like authentic – meaningless.

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Oral Surgery

Posted on February 5, 2020 by sputterpub

tools

I really should be glad it’s nothing worse.
I’m generally healthy – that’s the truth.
My aging cross to carry is the curse
of chronic gum disease. Today it’s tooth
enumerated 4 that I will lose
(it’s not my first but I’ll regret the loss).
The mystery is why – I always use
the recommended brushes, picks, and floss.

Aware I could be dealing with a flaw
more serious, like what besets my peers,
I’m trying to accept a rotten jaw,
put on a grateful attitude, shift gears,
and reckon while refusing to complain
it wasn’t sinus problems causing pain.

Posted in Aging, Health, Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment