Familiars

Posted on August 16, 2018 by sputterpub

hands

I liked to think I had a magic touch
with animals, as if they knew I meant
no harm or hunt. Respecting them as much
as people, deeming them intelligent,
I noted critters never made me cry.
(I almost felt a bee when I was eight
and napkin-trapped a drone against my thigh,
but I was left unsplintered on that date.)

I’ve sometimes jumped between two dogs; no tooth
or claw attacked me as I stopped their fight.
I meet the eyes of wild birds. In truth,
a stranger-puppy nipped me just last night,
and then I wondered: have I lost my charm?
(He didn’t break my skin. I took no harm.)

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Early August

Posted on August 14, 2018 by sputterpub

August sky

The sunshine doesn’t strike the roof till 8,
but white infills the skylight glass at 6.
Through lids my eyes see day, and then the state
of sleep departs; I stretch to spinal cricks
and move to coffee, email, online news.
I putter and proceed to exercise
my arms and heart and think of what I’ll use
today, intending little compromise.

I plan to be like Beauty in the tale –
my wants as simple as a single rose,
disdaining finery and riches, pale
in lust but focused on my floral goal –
a creature in dilemma black and white,
against the spectral context of our light.

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August Light

Posted on August 13, 2018 by sputterpub

August sky

Dawn:

Now the sun retreats;
it will not rise till after
6, delaying dawn.

 
Dusk:

Mid-August evenings
linger late, but still the light
ebbs as autumn nears.

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Deterrent

Posted on August 9, 2018 by sputterpub

220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]

He likes a little Vicodin so much
that though he hasn’t sought it on the street,
he’s not above some friendly theft. His touch
is cautious and his attitude’s discreet;
he’s purloined pills from parents, in-laws, friends.
He likes the way a little dose forbids
anxiety, how calm his manner trends,
but he won’t steal a tablet from his kids.

His adult offspring have enough on hand
they wouldn’t miss a few, unless they paid
attention, kept a tally, maybe planned
surveillance from some symptom he betrayed.
Unlikely as discovery would be,
he dreads it so he’s bound to honesty.

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Resolved:

Posted on August 7, 2018 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

I ought to read more poetry – I write
it all the time. My sonnets are my thought,
my joke, my diary and diatribe.
I love the sound of Service, stanzas wrought
by Donne and much of Yeats, but I’m unmoved
by most attempters, and I’m not amused
enough. There’s nothing fun-with-fonts has proved,
and affectation makes me feel abused.

I’ll try to read more poetry, but pray
it be four times revised and twice rehearsed.
I’m asking not for solemn – let it play
with language lovingly, with meter first
and pathos last, and never flip the word
order, unless the goal’s to sound absurd.

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Not Dead Yet

Posted on August 6, 2018 by sputterpub

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

Six weeks ago I wrenched my lower back.
I’m happy to announce, as of today
I feel recovered from that deep attack,
and though some time was spent in pain, dismay
and grouchiness, at least at last I healed.
My future may hold flexibility.
I’m hardly spry, but grateful not to yield
so far, to elder immobility.

My brother says it only will get worse.
Except for blips, I fear his words are true.
My sleep is never sound, my gut’s upset
too often, and I bruise as if a curse
were on my hands. I look at me and you
and marvel – sure we’re old, but not dead yet.

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The Rise of Ignorance

Posted on August 2, 2018 by sputterpub

doom

Deliberately I choose to walk to BART.
The news makes me feel headachy and tense.
I figure something on my way will start
me laughing or at least deflect. Defense
against reality by exercise
and air: I’ll breathe in depth and make my pace
a balanced brisk affair; I’ll synthesize
the rise of ignorance, the fall from grace.

The only consolations I can find?
We must deserve the future we will get.
Myopia’s a symptom of our kind,
so uninformed by school and Internet,
distractable, unfair, and lacking breadth…
I guess there may be benefits to death.

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Remodeling Dreams

Posted on July 31, 2018 by sputterpub

Berk2010

Eleven years ago I bought this place.
I jettisoned some books and sundry stuff,
to fit my living in a smaller space,
and I was charmed and comfortable enough.
But time has passed; I’m older, and I’ve learned
what bugs me, what I’m missing since I moved.
Arranging rehab, listing goods I’ve yearned
to use, I’m set to have my home improved.

At first the cost alarmed me, but of late
I’m fantasizing bathtub, bigger bed,
new skylights, doors equipped with subtle screens,
a ceiling fan, remodeled deck and gate.
I’ll pay for what is crucial, but my head
keeps playing sequences of comfort scenes.

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Mr. B’s Phonograph

Posted on July 30, 2018 by sputterpub

vintage

One day when I was ten and in 5th grade,
the teacher spun a record for us all.
I can’t remember what the needle played,
but I can see the phonograph – a small
appliance on a table in the sun.
The lesson was particularly good:
We only needed ears, but everyone
was looking where the record-player stood.

And maybe that’s the reason I don’t use
my eyes as much as many, or it might
be compensation for how I’d refuse
to wear my glasses, but I don’t work sight
when walking like I exercise my ear,
and sample with my skin the atmosphere.

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Lies

Posted on July 26, 2018 by sputterpub

language

I didn’t get it when I was a kid.
I still don’t understand or recognize
a culture that insists I act as bid
by portions of a book that sanctifies
barbarity, selectively ignored,
composed by no one holy to advise,
and edited by others to afford
imperious behavior and disguise.

Demanding every pregnancy proceed,
without a care how fare they after birth,
is clearly wrong. No deity decreed
it so, I know, within or over Earth.
Why do we speak? I’m starting to believe
our kind developed language to deceive.

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