Guilty Pleasure

Posted on November 7, 2019 by sputterpub

austen books

I ought to read some history, acquire
perspective that may help me comprehend
this modern world’s complexity, or higher
stuff like pure philosophy. I tend
instead to gravitate to fiction’s world,
and even there I rarely take a chance
on literary work. You’ll find me curled
and Kindle-rapt in comical romance.

I often read what I would never write.
As far as I recall, love’s been the scene
attractive, plots that kept me up at night,
novellas in Mom’s “Redbook” magazine.
My favorite author’s Austen; now I see
she always wrote romantic comedy.

Posted in Personality, Poetry, Writing | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Familiar

Posted on November 5, 2019 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I hang out with a toddler twice a week.
I focus on him focusing on sights,
expressing feelings, learning how to speak,
reducing naps for longer sleep at nights.
I’m also spending hours, now and then,
with stroke recovery. At 42,
a near-and-dear was struck. He’ll walk again –
he has a lengthy gauntlet to get through,
but he’s determined, driven, not depressed,
except emotions overpower sense
at unexpected moments. I’m impressed
with how his features crumple, grief immense
and sudden, disappointment taking place,
exactly like a toddler’s tantrum face.

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

Senescence

Posted on October 31, 2019 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

Like reaching for a smoke after you quit,
like crossing knee-on-knee inviting pain
but helplessly habitual, it’s fit
that I should miss you, even though disdain
and criticism are the strokes you gave
me growing up and aging with you near.
Nostalgia, distance, sentiment might save
your reputation, yet I hold a clear
remembrance, fortified by verse and notes
in journals, diaries, and stories done
with fiber pens or pixels: tales and quotes.
I might have been respected as a son –
needs met, expressions heeded, loved for sure.
I miss you though you’re pushing 94.

Posted in Aging, Family, Poetry, Writing | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

My Garden

Posted on October 29, 2019 by sputterpub

Garden 2

I never was a gardener. That niche
was filled by others in my family.
My thumb was tan; my body didn’t itch
to plant or prune or weed topography.
I didn’t savor earth beneath my nails,
no matter how my father made the case
for honest work and dirt. My pet travails
required words. My early favorite place
was in my room, to read or write a poem,
or out alone among beloved trees.
But now that I’ve arranged this cottage home,
and learned to slow my pacing by degrees,
I’m noting how divine the yard appears,
and daily tending it by hand and shears.

Posted in Flora, Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Ugly Ride

Posted on October 28, 2019 by sputterpub

bus 79

It’s true the bus is short and takes a route
less popular than others near my place,
and I was riding outside the commute
hours, but noting every boarding face,
it struck me how unhandsome and unfit
my fellow passengers appeared: infirm
and ashen, bent, ungainly, soon to quit
mobility, perhaps to meet the worm.

They’re members of my cohort, but the men
have let their butts relocate to expand
the belly that a belt supports. And then,
the adiposity no woman planned
has conquered shape and beauty more than years.
I quivered with revulsion for my peers.

Posted in Aging, Misanthropy, Poetry, Transit, Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Psomiphobia

Posted on October 24, 2019 by sputterpub

gluten-fears-is-wheat-truly-terrible-480x250

Avoiding bread, I never meant to claim
the staff of life is poison or impure.
I’m eating keto rolls, but all the same
I think the bread’s the lesser taste – I’m sure
to like the tuna salad, boiled eggs, and lox,
but morsels made of flour bore my tongue.
They have a gummy chewiness that blocks
enjoyment of the dish. When I was young
I almost lived for sourdough, baguettes,
and seeded bagels, even more than sweets.
Reserving calories for carbs, I’d let
no day be called complete without my treats.
I gave up sugar fifty months ago,
and now I don’t crave any type of dough.

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

Slowbility

Posted on October 22, 2019 by sputterpub

bus 79

I think I get more patient as I age.
I’ve gained perspective through the mounting years.
But sometimes I’m consumed with inner rage
at visible unfitness in my peers.
I see the signs of metabolic waste,
ungainly fat that pools and interferes
with bending, standing, walking. They’ve defaced
their thinning futures, grinding bones like gears.

They’re in my way! They’re slowing down the bus.
They’re clogging passages with movement tools.
I’m terrible; I shouldn’t make a fuss,
but count me lucky I’m not like these fools.
As far as I can tell they chose their lot.
(I’m mostly kind, except sometimes I’m not.)

Posted in Aging, Misanthropy, Poetry, Transit | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Remissions

Posted on October 21, 2019 by sputterpub

Remissions

I think my left side’s starting to improve:
the neck and hip have ceased their creaky ways;
the ankle isn’t painful when I move;
I’m lately liking biking most the days.
My upper arm and shoulder yet complain;
it hurts to twist behind – there’s ache at times.
I think it will resolve; I still maintain
I need to alter use. I jot these rhymes
as patient notes, to aid my memory
with details when the injuries recur,
to understand a long recovery
when short-term recollection tends to blur.
I don’t need medicine – just time at home.
I nurse myself with comforter and poem.

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

Leisure

Posted on October 18, 2019 by sputterpub

FreeCell_7

All of a sudden I seem to have hours to spare.
But that’s a delusion – I always had leisure, in fact.
I just used to smoke more and play more TriPeaks solitaire
(and FreeCell and Klondike, if history should be exact).

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

The Age of Heroes

Posted on October 17, 2019 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

He burns to be a hero asphalt-sure.
She longs to make her own existence count.
They crave experience. They host impure
impulsiveness while consequences mount,
and vacillate from arrogance to blame,
too hip to learn, too negative to stride.
They’ll argue they’re adopted, change their name,
and flick their limbs with haberdashing pride.

That’s not unusual, at near-fourteen.
They teem with hormones and they rage with growth.
Self-conscious and exposed, they dash between
dystopic thoughts and energy. We both
had teenage years we thought we might regret.
We’re quiet now, and tending to forget.

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