Rx

Posted on December 20, 2018 by sputterpub

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

Declaring I’m not stressed when any ask,
and sleeping rather soundly for my age,
I’m quite sincere – this visage is no mask,
I’m not a martyr, and I don’t engage
hyperbole to write or self-portray.

But lately I’ve a tender neck that tells
me to relax, my right eye tics to say
the similar, and honesty compels
me to admit I really should regard
myself:
release my shoulders and my jaw;
protect my skin;
ensure my spine’s not jarred;
obey my cells’ requests,
my natural law;
and practicing my preaching, run the drill
that doesn’t feature sweets or sitting still.

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Holiday Weekend

Posted on December 18, 2018 by sputterpub

imagesCAF3CVSA

There’s precious dullness
in family these rainy
Sunday afternoons.

Posted in Family, Holidays, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Vagabonding

Posted on December 17, 2018 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

Another grandmother would visit less,
contribute money more than presence now.
Acknowledging catastrophe, I guess
it’s true another’d try a different how.
But I can’t stay at home while they contend
with hospitals and stroke dimension’s pace
and space, with daily micro-measured mend;
I have to bring my wallet, hands, and face.

It isn’t sacrifice. It will not last.
I view it as a vagabonding year.
The patient will recover. I’ll get past
construction’s hard disruption. Air will clear
and I’ll return to nights of comfort, ease
by day, and seek out new activities.

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Ice

Posted on December 13, 2018 by sputterpub

three-ice-cubes

In love with ice although it makes him choke,
he asks for cups and settles for three cubes.
He’s weeks away from swallowing – his stroke
disabled signals, plumbed his face with tubes,
and swept him out of balance, off his feet,
removed him from his customary bed
and ordinary habits with complete
betrayal. The explosion in his head
has decimated, cancelled or postponed
ambitions that were mounting rugged heights.
He’s dwelling in the stroke dimension, zoned
for days of drugs and therapy, for nights
of pressured respiration, standing dreams,
and lust condensed to icicle extremes.

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It Takes Two

Posted on December 11, 2018 by sputterpub

two_silhouette_profile_or_a_white_vase

Don’t self-describe with
“I’m the sort of person who …”
No one is a sort.

Posted in Philosophy, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

Good Neighbors

Posted on December 10, 2018 by sputterpub

Skunks at sex

Two skunks made babies in my yard last week,
assuming that was reproductive sex:
two poufs of jet bisected by a streak
of white elongating their backs and necks.
That’s two months early, says the Internet.
Their mating season doesn’t start in fall.
Wait six and sixty days now; will we get
a winter litter in the yard at all?

We’ve seen at least a quad of kits each spring.
At times I’ve sensed their reek released at play.
My neighbors cringe at skunks, but everything
they do is cute, and never do they spray
a careful resident, who’s no canine –
compared to ‘coons and ‘possums, skunks are fine.

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

A Bus Gap

Posted on December 6, 2018 by sputterpub

IMG_3724[1]

I fell into a bus hole yesterday.
Conveyances that should have stopped near me
six times an hour suffered some delay
(although the suffering appeared to be
confined to would-be passengers instead
of buses, drivers, transit employees).
I had a thirty-minute wait, unless
I called a car or walked. That didn’t please:
my time was tight; all aggravated stress.

But some events, quite out of my control,
are barely bad enough to write about.
I don’t like what disrupts my plans, at first,
and don’t appreciate surprise. A whole
five minutes had to pass before my pout
relaxed; my shoulders eased; my frown reversed.

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

The Last Persimmon

Posted on December 4, 2018 by sputterpub

Persimmon

My neighbor planned and planted our shared yard,
then moved away before she could observe
the fruits of cultivation. I regard
the lemon tree containers and the curve
of apple branches, and the graceful lines
persimmon limbs display against the sky.
I count on roses, wait for columbines,
and think my thanks while pleasuring my eye.

As winter treads toward us, the leaves amass
in soggy clumps among the roots and dirt.
There’s only one persimmon on the tree.
I’ve daily checked it through my window glass.
I’ve watched a squirrel chomp, a sparrow flirt;
it seems a token of tenacity.

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Omen(ish)

Posted on December 3, 2018 by sputterpub

CAMP FIRE

I booked the flight at least a month before
November fires blanketed the state.
In miles from my bed, 534
is measured if a crow is flying straight,
but climate differs more than by degrees;
here’s autumn color, air that doesn’t choke
or irritate, most afternoons a breeze,
blue sky, white clouds, and not a thread of smoke.

Prepared in California for the quake,
predicted as a devastating blow,
we all have stored necessities to take
us through it when it comes, except we know
that’s not enough. Of late we’ve had to learn
the land will last, but all we love will burn.

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Care

Posted on November 29, 2018 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

I love the kids — I really do — and yet
they’re easier to handle after weed.
I raised mine but I managed to forget
that dealing with monotony makes need
for any substance that will alter mood
without conveying toxic consequence.
And pot is less caloric than the food
I’d use, by day, although at more expense.

When evening comes, I pour a glass of wine
and listen to minutia about games.
That’s no more boring than what friends of mine
converse about, dissecting, dropping names.
I modify the way I hear and see.
I’m still too weird to be straight company.

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