Exampling Spider

Posted on October 8, 2019 by sputterpub

Orb too

A three-month project, overrun to eight,
is nearly at an end, but truth be told,
the bulk of it was not accomplished late.
I hung at ninety-five percent, controlled
by winter trains and summer-found defects,
by workmen moving on to other sites.
My friends informed me everyone expects
to spend more money putting all to rights,
and time of course. Frustrated as I feel
today, impatient ninety-eight percent,
I watch a weaver eat her web to heal
her energy, to build again. Less spent
than she, inspired with the will I seek,
it’s easy now to wait another week.

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Resting

Posted on October 7, 2019 by sputterpub

how-to-build-first-aid-kit[1]

Today’s a gentle morning in my home.
I’m still off exercise and took a break
from tasks. I’ve got the time to pen this poem
although I’ve no declaratives to make,
no narratives or theories to suggest.
I’m feeling good without objective cause.
My body has insisted that I rest,
and maybe I’m obeying natural laws.

I’ve rarely been compliant, when compared
to other girls and most the boys I’ve known,
but then I never sought to be repaired.
It’s different now, with elder tendon, bone
and ligament, but also elder brain,
allowing time for body to explain.

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Self-Treatment

Posted on October 3, 2019 by sputterpub

Self Healing

Self-doctoring, I’ve flexed and made a list
of symptom frequency and pain extent.
I’ve read my diaries and haven’t missed
what history can offer, and I’ve meant
each statement of infliction to be true.
Self-medicating now, prescribing rest,
I’ve interrupted exercise to do
the obvious, without a pill or test.

It’s strange to pass these mornings staying still.
I rise as usual at half past six
and drink my coffee, but avoid the drill
of bike and crunch and lift. I feel the fix
is working so I’m trying not to fuss
or walk. For now I’d better ride the bus.

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Repetitive Motions

Posted on October 1, 2019 by sputterpub

Hospital[1]

Experiencing minor chronic pain
I’d calibrate if asked at three point five,
I won’t consult a doctor or complain,
considering how long I’ve been alive –
perhaps the symptom’s age-appropriate.
For though I have a parent living yet,
and even with my tactic – staying fit
and active – I’d be foolish to forget
how steadily I’ve used my starboard side,
and where I’ve worn my purse’s padded strap.
I cross my legs when sitting and I ride
a fitball for a chair – did wobble sap
my left Achilles tendon? Best take care
to alter use, and even out my wear.

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Going to My Room

Posted on September 30, 2019 by sputterpub

My Room

What I appreciate about alone
is talking to myself where you can’t hear,
where I can gorge on words without a bone
to pick with anyone, for no one’s near.
My parents used to send me to my room
when I, anti-compliant, sassed them back.
They thought it fit deterrent, I assume,
which soon became my favorite briar patch.

They reared me, and I’ve now raised my own brood.
I married twice and fed each husband’s head
with words I blared. Depending on my mood,
I bored or thrilled or drove them deaf instead
of heeding. Now I have a one-room home,
and publish each opinion in a poem.

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Soot

Posted on September 26, 2019 by sputterpub

sooty hands

As soon as all the work was done, I booked
the window washing and the maintenance
my fireplace deserves. The unit looked
as usual – I never had the sense
of something off. The ceiling fan was on.
Was that the cause? I didn’t see the soot,
until I chanced to note each blackened palm,
which made me check the bottom of each foot.

Contaminating floors with every step,
I amplified the mess to ascertain
its limits, and for hours then I checked
and scrubbed or vacuumed, struggling to maintain
composure, surface finish, and a black
sense of the humor in a soot attack.

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The Damp Deck

Posted on September 24, 2019 by sputterpub

deck

I’m well aware the weather could be worse;
we pay a lot to live around this bay.
But atmospheric rivers are a curse
for me – extreme humidity today
will not allow my just-sealed deck to dry.
Evaporation is on hold for now.
I’ll likely mar the surface if I try
to cross to use the office shed, so how
am I to do my morning exercise?
Or use my printer, processor, or screen?
I can’t obtain the vacuum. Enterprise
is stalled; productive visions go unseen.
The deck completes my big remodel list;
and climate now bestows a silly twist.

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Benvenue

Posted on September 23, 2019 by sputterpub

Benvenue

An early riser now, I’m up by 6
all summer, and my day off exercise
is Sunday, when I get my weekly fix
of puzzles in the back of Datebook. Eyes
on friendly letters, coffee freshly made,
I want my pleasure solo out of bed.
I used to buy the Sunday Saturday,
but now it’s not available ahead.

So lately, if I want to work the words
on Sunday then I have to walk a bit.
At 7ish I join the early birds,
and stroll in silence past the gardens lit
by rising sunbeams: ancillary boon –
my neighborhood won’t be this fine at noon.

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No Smoking

Posted on September 19, 2019 by sputterpub

images (1)

I didn’t smoke tobacco to look cool,
exactly. I mean, I was not concerned
with peer regards. I made it out of school
and off to college; then my head got turned
by admiration. There I met a guy
who argued like an angel, angled whim
and poetry, smoked Winstons, made me cry
and laugh and long to build a bond with him.

In time we chose to go our separate ways,
but I remained a fan of nicotine.
And though I gave the habit up (the craze
of anti’s blocking all adored routine),
I’m sometimes known to bum one, I’ll confess,
and wed ill-health to unattractiveness.

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Onion Scales

Posted on September 12, 2019 by sputterpub

onion skin

Perhaps it wasn’t alcohol to blame.
It may be that addiction didn’t star
in her dramatic history. The same
“You’re not as funny as you think you are”
describes her now she doesn’t drink at all.
Our intervention didn’t do enough.
Convinced she was abusing alcohol,
we didn’t see the motivating stuff.

She’s quick to indignation, to declare
disdain for old white men, and to define
her boundaries, as if we all would care.
The party had to stop to read the sign –
she’s angry at her dad deep in her soul.
The vodka served a secondary role.

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