Enervation

Posted on May 9, 2019 by sputterpub

Berk2010

I’m suddenly too tired to be smart
in spite of all the coffee I’ve imbibed.
I feel too weak and vigorless to start
a project half as big as mine’s described.
Like when I drank too much, at 34,
and raced at home to get my contacts out
while still awake, I’ll home-improve before
I lose my drive and trade my plans for doubt.

I seek a bigger bed for better rest,
a soaking tub to warm and nurture me,
a kitchen that invites my cooking best,
appliances more fun to use and see:
a nest of safety, comfort and profound
organic sense, as long as I’m around.

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Discombobulation

Posted on May 7, 2019 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

The discombobulation hasn’t stopped.
I’m 3 weeks out of house and not too fussed,
but try as I’m attempting to adopt
new customs, I keep failing to adjust.
I’m looking for the toilet paper wrong.
I’m antsy missing in-home exercise.
I haven’t been without a printer long,
but lack has made me list. I had my eyes
wide-open when I left my tiny house;
I made the space to alter and improve.
I’m not unwell and hesitant to grouse:
I planned this course and knew I’d have to move.
Until the actual completion date,
excuse me if I fail to keep things straight.

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Flock

Posted on May 6, 2019 by sputterpub

House_Crow_I2_IMG_1093

Approaching Rockridge Station from the south
at 8 a.m. on Monday, in the cold,
a vision raised the corners of my mouth,
amused me to a pause, and soon cajoled
a chuckle — where the platform spans the street,
I spied a mass of passengers who stood,
commuters heading west to start a week
at work, apparently for livelihood.

Each form I saw was draped in City black
and seemed to hold a stationary pose
so vertical and hulking that in fact
that crowd appeared a flock of giant crows.

I didn’t think to take a picture then.
I’m using words to see those birds again.

Posted in Neighborhood, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Well and Homeless

Posted on May 2, 2019 by sputterpub

Berk2010

I’m homeless now — I’m sheltered by a friend
and family, although my fortune’s fine.
My cottage needs repair. I’m set to spend
a fair amount pursuing new design:
improving or replacing most its parts,
updating goods for more utility
(and pleasure). I have permits. Now it starts.
I’m self-displaced from continuity.

It feels a bit like camping with a roof:
a long-term stay somewhere without my stuff.
I miss my coffee pot and shower pouf,
but I’m prepared for this — I have enough
to function. Now I’m trying every thing,
and I’ll be back before the end of spring.

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Sensitivity

Posted on April 30, 2019 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I learned we have 5 senses, and some say
the 6th is what is known as common sense.
Another is location — it’s the way
our bodies reach, and some intelligence
of our address. And most of us detect
a stranger’s gaze upon us, or the eye
of someone reading from behind our necks,
or even what you’ll say before you try.

So I’ll admit there must be more than 5,
although I can’t affix a number yet.
But sure as I’m observant and alive,
I doubt we’re sensitive. I can’t forget
no matter what disdain I feel for you,
it’s obvious you never have a clue.

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Asphalt Too

Posted on April 29, 2019 by sputterpub

prince and horse

I wanna meet a millionaire on BART
(for certain that’s a prize I won’t obtain).
Attractive, tall and well beyond the start
of Medicare, he’ll choose to ride the train
because he hates to drive on crazy roads,
who walks in beauty, dwells where he esteems
topography and weather, loves the goads
to learning: that’s the partner of my dreams.

But I don’t look for him. He isn’t there.
I know because I’m sure if I were he,
I’d either want existence solitaire,
or someone home who’s softer company
than I can offer even now I’m old.
My fate is spun. My future’s single-souled.

Posted in Love, Poetry, Single Life | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Interruption

Posted on February 4, 2019 by sputterpub

imagesCAZMTW3J

Life interruption:
cottage remodel moves me
away from this blog

(regular posts will resume in about 3 months)

Posted in Home, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Breath

Posted on January 31, 2019 by sputterpub

performance-breathing-1

Obsessed of late with someone’s stricken lung,
impressed with every pulmonary fact
I have to learn, has given wisdom tongue
I hear, who’s known for years that I’ve ransacked
with smoking arrogance my breathing tree.

Tobacco first and then the weed I’d score,
I fired and inhaled so lustily,
I learned to cough and yearly to ignore
the signs my body gave to modify.

I’m smart, but I suppressed intelligence.
I bargained when too ill to quick-deny
the logic, science, choking evidence.
I’m lucky I’ve so far avoided death.
I promise now I’ll concentrate on breath.

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ABCs

Posted on January 29, 2019 by sputterpub

School_Building_21611_7[1]

I never angled for a better school;
I figured safe and good was hard to miss.
I didn’t want to elevate a fool
in family, or ignorance as bliss.
Although scholastic days were overlong,
experience with boredom is a skill
my offspring had to learn – their brains were strong,
and teachers were too impotent to kill
their spirits: safe at home, asphalt abroad.
They learned to educate themselves some ways.
Their schooling never drove me to applaud,
but also didn’t damage them, or craze
their moods, or motivate a turn to bad
behavior. And it taught them both to add.

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Skyward

Posted on January 28, 2019 by sputterpub

orionstars_small

The rain at 10 p.m. last Sunday night
concluded days unsettled, gray, and wet.
I stepped outside to savor sound and sight,
and looking up, I noted heaven’s net
of stars – amid the drizzle shone the belt
and sword Orion wears, and slightly east
there hung the moon at full. At that I felt
the boons of my existence like a feast.

I’ve obstacles and nettles in my path,
but I can walk with stamina and spine.
My worries are without resentment, wrath,
or railing. Life’s an analog design:
My dial spins to miracle from pain,
like moon and stars illuminating rain.

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment