A Bus Gap

Posted on December 6, 2018 by sputterpub

IMG_3724[1]

I fell into a bus hole yesterday.
Conveyances that should have stopped near me
six times an hour suffered some delay
(although the suffering appeared to be
confined to would-be passengers instead
of buses, drivers, transit employees).
I had a thirty-minute wait, unless
I called a car or walked. That didn’t please:
my time was tight; all aggravated stress.

But some events, quite out of my control,
are barely bad enough to write about.
I don’t like what disrupts my plans, at first,
and don’t appreciate surprise. A whole
five minutes had to pass before my pout
relaxed; my shoulders eased; my frown reversed.

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The Last Persimmon

Posted on December 4, 2018 by sputterpub

Persimmon

My neighbor planned and planted our shared yard,
then moved away before she could observe
the fruits of cultivation. I regard
the lemon tree containers and the curve
of apple branches, and the graceful lines
persimmon limbs display against the sky.
I count on roses, wait for columbines,
and think my thanks while pleasuring my eye.

As winter treads toward us, the leaves amass
in soggy clumps among the roots and dirt.
There’s only one persimmon on the tree.
I’ve daily checked it through my window glass.
I’ve watched a squirrel chomp, a sparrow flirt;
it seems a token of tenacity.

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Omen(ish)

Posted on December 3, 2018 by sputterpub

CAMP FIRE

I booked the flight at least a month before
November fires blanketed the state.
In miles from my bed, 534
is measured if a crow is flying straight,
but climate differs more than by degrees;
here’s autumn color, air that doesn’t choke
or irritate, most afternoons a breeze,
blue sky, white clouds, and not a thread of smoke.

Prepared in California for the quake,
predicted as a devastating blow,
we all have stored necessities to take
us through it when it comes, except we know
that’s not enough. Of late we’ve had to learn
the land will last, but all we love will burn.

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Care

Posted on November 29, 2018 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I love the kids — I really do — and yet
they’re easier to handle after weed.
I raised mine but I managed to forget
that dealing with monotony makes need
for any substance that will alter mood
without conveying toxic consequence.
And pot is less caloric than the food
I’d use, by day, although at more expense.

When evening comes, I pour a glass of wine
and listen to minutia about games.
That’s no more boring than what friends of mine
converse about, dissecting, dropping names.
I modify the way I hear and see.
I’m still too weird to be straight company.

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Aptitude

Posted on November 15, 2018 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

I always thought I’d write a book or four.
Of course they’d be the type I like to read,
with characters I care about, and sure
development of plots at proper speed.
I figured it a matter of mere time –
some practice and experience would serve
to hoist me from the world of metered rhyme.
I thought I had the talent and the nerve.

But at the keyboard, when I crafted prose,
the pace of narrative was tiresome.
I found I lacked the patience to compose.
The stories and the speech require some
commitment I resent. I’m never stirred,
till I revert to loving every word.

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Aviary

Posted on November 13, 2018 by sputterpub

mysparrow

A sparrow flew into my room last week.
The doors were open and the weather mild.
The creature panicked – flailing wings and beak
against three window panes, freaked out and wild,
till finally it managed to exit –
in darting arc to jacaranda tree.
It left some down and drops of brownish shit,
but left my place without an injury.

Today I heard a thump and turned to find
another sparrow, stunned, beside my chair.
It flopped and flapped a little, but my mind
expected death. I moved it to the air
outside, the garden, laid on nothing hard.
Relieved I saw that bird soon leave my yard.

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Three Middle Days

Posted on November 12, 2018 by sputterpub

Berk2010

My sojourn was symmetrical – 10 days,
with 3 midway devoted to full rest.
I sank my homing talons in a ways,
and drew renewal from my private nest.
I sat, I thought, I showered and I read.
I dallied with some puzzles and some verse.
I dozed on loveseat, slept on chair and bed,
and never voiced complaint, lament or curse.

It couldn’t last. I knew that from the start.
I had to leave, to work to pack to fly
back north to be support for some my heart
exists to serve. I knew I would comply
with love’s behest, for love of family.
I rested to recharge my battery.

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Refueling

Posted on November 8, 2018 by sputterpub

Berk2010

As when a straggler, desert-dry for days,
at length attains the fountain and the stream,
or like a hiker caught in full sun’s rays
without a drink, when given sips, it seems
that I’ve been parched and effort-pecked so long,
I didn’t know exhaustion when it came.
Relief’s remarkable. This comfort’s strong.
The contrast gives my other moods a name.

At home 10 days, I manage 3 alone
(except for little interruptions twice).
I sink the time in resting brain and bone.
I exercise a bit, but I am nice
to me – resuscitating energy
to underwrite the work that has to be.

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Luck

Posted on November 6, 2018 by sputterpub

fortune-3

Lucky in long life
means you’ll spend most of your time
dwelling in old age

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

Undead

Posted on November 5, 2018 by sputterpub

Hospital[1]

The sun was out today by 8 a.m.
The sky beyond the window’s spanking blue.
The weather is inviting me and them
to step outside, inflate our lungs, and do
a bit of normal fall activity.
We’ve spent our time indoors for 20 days
amid the medical telemetry,
in waiting rooms and instrument-filled bays.

Today the stricken patient graduates
to hospitality with less alarm.
Improving hourly, he demonstrates
recovery from catastrophic harm.
And though his course will run for months ahead,
we’re dancing joy today that no one’s dead.

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