Well I Declare

productimage

My triceps ache from picking up those weights.
I’ll have 6 hits of nicotine today.
I’ll say goodbye to milled carbohydrates,
and turn again to pen and keyboard play.
I’ll give my legs and patience exercise.
I’ll try to ease my neck and stretch my back.
Withholding judgment, I’ll direct my eyes
to self-improvement, make my jaw go slack,
endeavor not to let bad temper win,
be kind to every kind I know and meet,
and let my next development begin.

Before I can declare this book complete
I aim to fill the center of the shelf
with admirable chapters of myself.

Posted in Behavior Modification, Health, Poetry | Tagged , | Leave a comment

To 43

labychartfloor[1]

My 30-something son is sick again.
From flu or spoiled food he’s feeling sore.
His wife is ailing too, but most the men
we care about appear to suffer more.
She asked me was he like this as a child?
Describing chronic ear infections, breaks
of wrist and noggin, wheezing, I’m beguiled:
I don’t remember any stomachaches.

Reviewing notes from when I was their age,
I see how often ill I felt, and yet,
adjusting and recovering, the stage
that followed was the strongest for my set.
Unsung, the toughest decade may well be
the span that leads adults to 43.

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

If I Were Dead

imagesCA83IVMY

If I were dead, it wouldn’t be that odd.
I’ve almost lived three score and ten right now.
I’m old enough to meet whatever God
arranged to follow life, of what and how
and never why. I wouldn’t be that stunned
to die, although I wish for decades more.
And if I passed, my dears would have to fund
and cheer themselves, successfully I’m sure.

As old as 42 and 36
my offspring are, both capable and smart.
They don’t need me to analyze or fix
their circumstances. I won’t even start
to worry. I’d not fret if I were dead.
I’ll leave them to their lots, and write instead.

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

Social Silence

mstrip

I ought to take a compliment with poise,
accept a testimonial with ease.
But I’m as apt to croak a phlegmy noise
as speak politely. Seldom do I please
myself in shopping for another’s gift,
and I from what I hear don’t voice enough
appreciation in my thanks to lift
the hearts of those presenting me with stuff.

I may be on the spectrum, but it’s not
cognition that invokes a little strange.
Some manners I was taught and quick forgot,
as if I had permission to exchange
attention, and direct my energy
to plot perimeters of memory.

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

Backache

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

I tweaked my lower back. I felt the ache
when I got out of bed at half past six.
I’d taken while away from home a break
of nearly sixteen weeks. I guess the disk
required more protection at this stage,
and though I crunched abdominals with care,
I should have been more mindful of my age
which once again surprised me. Did I tear
important tissue? Really, I think not.
It feels more like a warning than a maim.
Enjoying Sunday vigor I forgot
I need to favor tender. Soreness came
this morning. Muscles moaned and tendons told
me yet again – to shock and awe – I’m old.

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

Mid-Day Commute

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I walked to Rockridge BART the long way round,
and bought two bags of apricots en route.
I shopped for salad and I also found
some time for body lotion. Armed with fruit
and cream and greens, I caught a west-bound train
of new design — three doors to every car.
Relaxing on a plastic seat, my brain
acknowledged how replete these mornings are.

The bus and train today are quick and clean,
the salads fresh, the apricots well-dried,
transactions fast, nobody acting mean.
To walk is wonderful; it’s fun to ride.
Although we’re bred to notice what’s amiss,
I’m ticking benefits, amassing bliss.

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

The Sink

Sink

The kitchen counter I selected was
of Corian, with integrated sink.
I chose it over stone or tile, cause
I liked the jointless look. It made me think
it wouldn’t grow a gap or spring a leak.
Its seamless surface had a clean appeal.
I wanted white. The space is tight. I seek
a softer attitude than stainless steel.

Installers came, and after they were done,
presented me the piece they’d cut away
to add the sink, and said most everyone
will use it as a cutting board. Today
I rinsing dropped it. Now I’m here to tell
I couldn’t lift it out: it fit too well!

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Villefranche Sur Mer

Villefranche

Before me spreads the topic coast of France:
a stop unplanned, selected as the wind
entangled Monaco. The tour’s mischance
betakes us here, a panorama spinned
because the anchors let us turn a bit,
the view resorts on shore and stepping cliffs,
the overcast now threatening to spit,
the bay unoccupied except by skiffs
that morning toted passengers to shore
and afternoon has settled for a rest.
Behind the hills lurk mountains, cities, more,
while I on chaise am feeling doubly blest:
beloved buddy absent for a time,
and me relaxed to play with metered rhyme.

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

Primacy

Question%20mark%20button[1]

So you feel bullied when I say a word,
and I feel bullied when you shop with me.
Except our definition is absurd
if we mean mean coercive tyranny.

Instead let’s recognize your feelings hurt
by “petulant,” “draconian,” and “cold.”
But that’s when you should look at you, alert
to learn what mastery may be controlled.

And I should see it’s only pressure laid
on me, to buy or else explain why not.
I’ll find a way aside or I’ll put paid
to what I want to purchase. We forgot
to think what “bully” means – too quick to be
a victim, we gave ego primacy.

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Dishwasher

Dishwasher

I have to test the dishwasher – so much
has been delivered damaged or installed
with leak, without a level, or with such
a gap I can’t ignore. I’m not appalled,
upset; it’s not a shock or a surprise
that builders are too busy or unsure.
But noticing what bothers ears and eyes,
and making fine adjustments, is a pure
objective satisfaction, like a tune
composed of perfect pitch and melody.

I’m sorry you’re distracted. I assume
you’re just too occupied with stress to be
appreciating fit with sense and brain.
I’ll heed machine routine and check the drain.

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment