Not Neuro

Posted on August 19, 2019 by sputterpub

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Perambulating, sometimes I ignore
the views I’m walking through. I organize
my errands, screen a daydream, focus more
inside than on the scenes before my eyes.
Returning to what’s present, I’ve been known
to wonder where I’ve wandered. I forgot
to note my own direction till I’m shown
by landmarks where I’ve been and where I’ve not.

Of late I quiz myself and answer too.
Am I to town or City? Bus or train?
I’m getting elderly; is this a clue
I’m losing it? Have I diminished brain?

The answer is a satisfying no.

Retired now, I vary where I go.

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

Love is a Symptom

Posted on August 15, 2019 by sputterpub

hearts[1]

With love the subject of the poems and songs,
and love the object people crave the most,
philosophers assume that love belongs
atop the list of human wants. A host
of minds agree on that, excluding mine.
We know our creature comforts must come first
but after those, I count a third of nine
before your love, before a life is cursed.

I value health so much I exercise.
I have to bring to choice integrity.
I need to like myself without disguise,
which makes me stand to battle entropy.
And when I seek those prizes, I transmit:
I broadcast and receive love’s benefit.

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The Omniscients

Posted on August 13, 2019 by sputterpub

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My father was the guru of my youth,
responding to my questions patiently.
It felt as if he always told the truth –
he gave me answers with calm mastery,
or helped me understand we haven’t yet.
We ranged from old philosophy to song,
discussed theology, and didn’t let
our culture tell us where we both belong.

I felt completely safe with him, so much
so that I pushed against him as I grew.
He sheltered me till I could fly, and such
is what should happen now – you’re overdue.
No more do we need me appearing right;
get over the constraint – it’s out of sight.

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Yellow Roses

Posted on August 12, 2019 by sputterpub

Yellow Roses

Some things I seldom do I did last week.
It started Tuesday morning, I believe.
I hurt my back with five-pound weights – I speak
of that not much or loudly, trying not to grieve
about surprises aging throws at me.
I knew I’d wrinkle, but nobody warned
of bruising, tearing, inability
to tackle jobs the younger I once scorned.

I moved my garden shears to handy reach.
I harvested two blooms before they bent,
and set them in a vase. I let pain teach
me I can take more time at tasks. Years went
and lately whip away – the weaving frays –
but odds are good I’m bound for better days.

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Fear of Irony

Posted on August 8, 2019 by sputterpub

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I used to know a guy who spoke so well
he could have been a new Demosthenes,
until his brain misfired – like a spell,
he lost his speech in agonized degrees.

My children’s dad was always into sound –
acoustical control and music too.
Now isn’t it ironic that he found
he’s lost and losing hearing? Sadly true.

And as for me, the skill I value most
is honest memory. I want to keep
with clarity the episodes I’ve had.
I capture them in sonnets. I’ve a host
of metered recollections. Sure I’d weep
forgetting: Is this proof that I’ll go mad?

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

Perturbation

Posted on August 6, 2019 by sputterpub

perturbation

My mom insists her mother was a saint.
I never met the woman, but I’ve heard
the anecdotes forever. Mom would paint
her mother immigrant-heroic, stirred
to worship by (we thought) her early end.
“Her energy was boundless as her love,
she really was unique,” Mom would contend.
But when I quizzed old cousins, they spoke of
their other grandma, while their faces lit
with back-regarding fondness, and they hummed.
I wonder: was my mother’s mother fit,
who never praised, who hushed complaints, who dumbed
her daughters down? Mom’s fervor’s so profuse,
it intimates emotional abuse.

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Necked

Posted on August 5, 2019 by sputterpub

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At least a score of years ago, I heard
I’ve osteo-arthritis near my neck.
I tend to clench; I took them at their word,
attended therapy, and felt the wreck
of nape and jawline start to ease a bit.
I learned some stretching exercises then
I still employ when it’s appropriate –
as soon as I feel creak and pain again.

Catastrophe crept up on me last fall,
when someone close and vital nearly fell
who worked so hard for breath he hit the wall
and stroked to almost-death. The doctors tell
us healing isn’t too much to expect.
But I’ve recurring pain now, in my neck.

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Absence of Outhouse

Posted on August 1, 2019 by sputterpub

Absence of Outhouse

As soon as we had permits, there was placed
a lockless porta-potty at our curb.
Somebody tipped it once. Someone defaced
its side with paint. Its bulk did not disturb
my eyes, it didn’t stink, no neighbor yelped.
I’m sure the residents all understood
that sight and sound disruption can’t be helped,
whenever we improve the neighborhood.

A job forecast to run three months took six.
A cabinet debacle was the cause
(abetted by a range hood). Now the fix
is mostly done. The ladders and the saws
are gone, inspections passed, I’m glad to say.
And we returned the outhouse yesterday.

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Laddies of the Lake

Posted on July 30, 2019 by sputterpub

Laddies of the Lake

At least two years ago, the city paved
our street again, at nobody’s request.
The company that won the bid behaved
as if they knew their work, and no one guessed
until they left how poorly they performed –
they failed to crown the street and nothing drained.
No matter whether weather steamed or stormed
we had a puddle lake, and we complained.

The city sought to blame the neighbor’s pump.
We called and wrote and got their vague replies.
They said they’d need a bid; they couldn’t bump
another job. Though anyone with eyes
could see the crown and curb were wrong in height,
they’re only trying now to make it right.

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Fans

Posted on July 29, 2019 by sputterpub

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I love two people into watching sports.
I can’t assert I understand the draw.
Enthusiasm they insist supports
their teams – it matters – but I never saw
the evidence, and when I’m in the zone
(not often or heroic, but I’ve played),
it feels like I’m exerting hard alone,
not noticing the sounds a witness made.

And when they compliment a gracious loss,
and state that’s why all children ought to learn
by playing team athletics how to cross
from glad success to class defeat, I burn
with disagreement – competition’s fair,
but no kid needs a team to take her there.

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