Low Fuel

Posted on January 10, 2020 by sputterpub

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I may be running out of things to say.
I thought as much two years ago but then,
composing twice a week and Saturday,
I kept producing rhythm with my pen.

I aim to entertain and maybe teach,
describing observations as I age,
perhaps providing useful views to each
who values rhyme and meter on the page.

But just as time moves faster every year
(a day’s a month to toddlers, but it seems
as fleet as hummingbirds to disappear
for me), epiphany so seldom beams,
I’m learning ever rarer, ever less,
and may be muting into quietness.

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Recording

Posted on January 8, 2020 by sputterpub

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A dowager is not a matriarch,
no matter what you call yourself these days.
Subordinate to spouse, we heard your bark
but never feared you’d bite us, or amaze
us with authority, or guide us right.
We always knew, from him and you, the reins
were in our father’s hands, and not too tight
or twisted with impatience into chains.

He wasn’t perfect, though you’ve now forgot
the flaws he owned, the foibles he denied.
And though you see a part of me, you’re not
attentive to my power. Since he died
you’ve made a myth of him and force of you,
but I’m about remembering what’s true.

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Sam’s Bad Dream

Posted on January 6, 2020 by sputterpub

Left hand

I wondered once why infants have bad dreams
who haven’t lived enough to learn to fear,
and what comprises puppy nightmare themes,
and how a kitten monster could appear.
And I don’t have an answer, but I know
it’s true – the innocents can sleep afraid
and grieving – their contortions tell me so.
By cries and shakes their terrors are betrayed.

And much as I’d prevent the phantom wound,
I think it’s practice, like a lullaby
or fairy tale, a Caution or Amen.
Today your sleeping cry has me harpooned.
I hold you, and you slay me with your “I
just want to be a happy kid again.”

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Revisits

Posted on January 3, 2020 by sputterpub

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As I review assorted escapades
of youth, of 12, 16, and 21,
I clearly see they feature tones and shades
of sexual predation. What was done
was never charged: too mild then and, too,
I thought myself mature and strong enough.
I never felt a victim – in my view,
the scene was flattering and I was tough.

I see now how uneasy I was then
while trying to avoid the offered feast.
I almost sense the pressure once again,
to smile understandingly, at least.
Familiar whispering and soft assault:
I waxed a little rude, and felt at fault.

Posted in Aging, Family, Love, Poetry | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Before

Posted on January 1, 2020 by sputterpub

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The feelings I remember from my youth
were anger and impatience with my lot
of noodgy mom, protective dad – in truth,
if I’d sufficient freedom, I forgot
(and that’s not likely – I recorded notes
in poems and diaries and journals too.
Or maybe I was better-loved than most,
and thus equipped to recollect what’s true).

My rookie parents meant the best for me
but lacked experience and confidence.
I had to craft my own maturity
through trauma felt at five. Intelligence
enabled me to prosper since that time,
but early loving care was surely mine.

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Keeping It Simple

Posted on December 30, 2019 by sputterpub

language

You want it simple?
There is no conspiracy.
In truth it’s all lies.

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Forecasting

Posted on December 27, 2019 by sputterpub

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I’ve heard it’s hard to forecast over sea:
the ocean brings surprises to the West.
The instruments detect a tendency,
but here my window tells the weather best.
My phone says we’ll have clouds but I see rain
outside, and carry gear to keep me snug.
Predictions for next week do not contain
the certainty I’m craving like a drug.

Just so, I never know what life will bring.
I have a good idea about the week
immediately coming but can’t guess
ahead a year. I don’t know anything
about my health next month or what I’ll seek
when summer comes, or how I’ll live with less.

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Ambiversion

Posted on December 23, 2019 by sputterpub

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I claimed I was an introvert, before
I gave the subject tests and further thought.
“Gregarious but loner” was the score
assumed by me, and to my children taught.
They nodded, stating they were otherwise,
but after we stopped trying to assert
each label, we concluded with surprise,
we occupy the sphere of ambivert.

The fact is, after time with friends or kin,
I crave a little selfishness, and then
in less than one full day I feel within
the pull to be with people once again.
I’ve socialized eleven days. This poem
is celebrating solitude at home.

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The Ages of Advice

Posted on December 20, 2019 by sputterpub

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I early understood the righteous path
away from murk and chaos, tending toward
fierce honesty. I bellowed truth with wrath
and passion – then my wisdom got ignored.

In middle life I learned it wasn’t bad
to be so disregarded, didn’t halt
advising but no longer was so mad:
unheeded meant results were not my fault.

Of late my age sneaks up on me. Surprised
by failures in my stamina and skin,
I’m stunned to see the courses I’ve advised
apparently adopted by my kin.

The early truths still occupy my mind;
I guess my attitude has been refined.

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Love Among Young Cousins

Posted on December 18, 2019 by sputterpub

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The gentleman was young and shy and sweet.
The lady was his junior by four years.
His attitude was courtly, hers replete
with burning quests for answers. It appears
that theirs were kindred minds, but unmatched themes
in fact. Their correspondence suited each,
but he was husbanding romantic dreams
while she was ranging farther than his reach.

They did it once, from disparate intents –
she curious, he serious, and then
he followed her abroad. She never meant
to keep him and she turned to other men.
His ardor cooled. His disapproval grew.
If she could speak today, she’d say “Me too.”

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