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

October Warmth

Posted on October 16, 2019 by sputterpub

leaf (2)

October wind strews
pollen and leaves reminders
of earthquake menace

Posted in Poetry, Weather | Tagged | Leave a comment

Crisis Text

Posted on October 15, 2019 by sputterpub

images

There comes a time in every child’s growth
(much oftener than once), when life becomes
too thick to process, though he may have both
his parents present and a wealth of chums.
It takes a village to address the job
of rearing to adulthood children well.
Some relatives and strangers make a mob
protective and supportive. Truth to tell:

Extended families are fractured now.
Communities have lost coherence too.
Without a threat, we tend to forget how
to interact, receive a fact or view,
respectfully. We’re sorry guides are dead.
We’ll have to substitute an app instead.

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

Runway Closure

Posted on October 14, 2019 by sputterpub

runway closure

The news reports were frightening of course:
a runway closed at SFO – a mess
become debacle, all described, the source
experts and passengers, the fear and stress
attention-grabbing. Texts and folks advised
I fly another date, another field –
create a plan that won’t be compromised.
“The news is bleak – yet think what’s been concealed!”

“Oh shush,” I prayed. “Don’t agitate me, friends.
Experience has taught me to distrust
the headlines. Sure the news can give us trends
and probabilities, but details just
mislead.” I left prepared for some delay;
in fact my flights took off on time each way.

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

Preheat Not Needed

Posted on October 10, 2019 by sputterpub

Water Heater

In classifying new stuff good or bad,
depending on performance and design,
the dishwasher’s a joke, the stove is sad,
and manufactured doors are out of line.
The ceiling fan is handsome and works well,
the custom bed and closet are beyond
my expectations, and my baths excel
my visions too. But there’s no magic wand
about the water heater’s FLASH command:
two minutes to achieve the bathroom sink!
The label indicates it’s “on demand,”
but this is worse than tank-supplied, I think.

Adjusting now, I plug the bath at first;
it’s perfect by the time I am immersed.

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment