Dowager

Posted on July 10, 2018 by sputterpub

gray

I never thought my mother’d be alive
this long, the way the woman used to smoke.
She’s slowing down at 90, but she’ll drive
her car to stores nearby, until the stroke
of 3 when the commuters clog the streets.
Returning what she purchased yesterday
gives purpose to her mornings. She repeats
her words in every evening’s call, the way
she always did, if I’m to tell the truth.
She’s not demented but she has condensed –
the traits that drove me crazy in my youth
are just more obvious performed against
a narrowed backdrop, faded arid beige,
and vanity’s the anthem of her age.

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Bad Driver

Posted on July 9, 2018 by sputterpub

goofy_car

You’ve always been unfocused when you drive.
It can’t be blamed on age or your disease.
The wonder is you’ve managed to survive
with jerky hands and eyes. Activities
requiring close attention never suit
your empathetic gifts for social good.
I’d rather never ride with you. My route
is bus or train or walk a neighborhood.

But yesterday I took the shotgun chair
and let you drive me home, and when you cut
that walker off who softly told you how,
I couldn’t reassure you you were fair.
Perhaps I should have sealed my lips and shut
my mouth, but you should give up driving now.

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

The Fifth Wheel

Posted on July 5, 2018 by sputterpub

black sheep

The oldest kid, the only girl, the black
sheep in her family of origin,
she early learned to be alone. In fact
she liked her solitude – she could begin
a poem, reread a book, design some clothes
for paper dolls, make stories out of dreams
that lacking plot and climax failed. She chose
Alone over Obedience, as themes.

Her solitary habits served her well.
She’s healthier than all her peers, because
she followed logic, let her body tell
her needs, stayed out of managed healthcare’s claws.
She’s likely to survive her friends – that’s known.
It’s fortunate she’s happy all alone.

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Step Aside

Posted on July 3, 2018 by sputterpub

human_locomotion

My daughter told me women step aside.
Confronted by opposing walkers, men
don’t detour or deflect, like it’s implied
they’re Masters of the Sidewalk. I said, “When
and where’s this happening? Just who contends
behavior never known of me and you?”
She said the claim’s been made by Facebook friends.
I countered that in my world, it’s not true.

Reporting this to son & wife, last week,
they said I’m incorrect – perhaps I fail
to notice my submission (like I’m meek
and unobservant, too?) This is no male
& female test: if you just walk with verve
and confidence, you’ll never have to swerve.

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

Jacaranda (An Etude)

Posted on July 2, 2018 by sputterpub

Jacaranda

The legend of the Jacaranda tree
was told to me one Saturday in June.
I loved committing it to memory;
by 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon,
I knew the tale as if it were my own.
I swallowed Amazon mythology,
acknowledging old custom, little known,
and reveling in ancient legacy.

Admitting Mitu and his priestess friend
to join the pantheon of magic thought
I harbor in my head, I comprehend
that lunar wit and solar love was taught,
and luck befalls the pate that bears the bloom,
yet students in Australia call it doom.

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Not Done Yet

Posted on June 28, 2018 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

A year ago, I thought I might be done
with sonnet work, except revising those
already written, read by few or none.
I’d take a break and maybe turn to prose.
I had a thousand little songs or more;
I figured I’d revisit all and cast
them into subsets in the cloud, and pour
creative vigor into other tasks.

But though the pressure weakened, still the tap
has not turned off; the current isn’t blocked.
I’m sitting less to write, but concepts rap
at me, conceits occur, and words unlocked
while walking spur iambic phrases yet
(I pause to text myself lest I forget).

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The Cold

Posted on June 26, 2018 by sputterpub

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

Two weeks ago I caught a simple cold
and carried it to Portland in my chest.
I didn’t think it much, but now I’m old
enough to feel a wreck and need more rest
than I arranged. Compounding as a cough,
it settled deep and durable in me.
It racked me and it threw my balance off;
it made me trip and sapped my energy.

I sacrificed a fortnight fighting phlegm,
endured a week of painful lower back,
concluded I won’t feel myself again,
or like my looks, or weather this attack,
until tomorrow, when I’ll wake and gauge
myself a little stronger than my age.

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Zero

Posted on June 25, 2018 by sputterpub

doom

Remembering a comic who assured
us if we all agreed to not have kids,
then we could trash the place, embrace absurd,
and advocate what courtesy forbids,
I wonder have we reached that era now,
without restraining reproduction’s yield?
Are we denying future’s fortune? How
much more atrocity can be revealed?

What will it take to make us think aloud?
To put the mouse away, remove the bud
that closes ear and mind? Are we endowed
with wit, or have we lost our souls in mud
of misinforming Internet, and split
community? We’re stewing in our shit.

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

Exercism

Posted on June 21, 2018 by sputterpub

Back Yard April 14 2018

My father called me sedentary when
I wouldn’t leave my book to come outside.
“I’d say you were a vegetable, but then
that’s slandering the plants.” And though I’d ride
my bicycle, and walk more than allowed,
I gathered that he wanted me to like
team sports and sportsmanship. He wasn’t proud
of what I read or how I rode my bike.

We both were incorrect. I didn’t see
and didn’t know till I was 35.
That spring a medical catastrophe
befell me, tossed a challenge to survive,
and taught me that expending energy
addresses stress and spurs my cells to thrive.

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Menu

Posted on June 19, 2018 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

A while ago I heard that if you let
a toddler choose what foods he wants to eat,
you’ll see a daily lack of balance, yet
if you allow your focus to retreat
and capture several days at once, you’ll view
a well-proportioned course of nutrients.
The child will compose a good menu,
with increased time between ingredients.

And though I’m not a toddler, I contend
I like variety as much as you.
I may have months of favorites, but they end;
I eat the same a lot, and then I’m through.
I mix it up as much as you, I say.
It’s just my yearn lasts longer than a day.

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