Bayarea

Posted on July 19, 2018 by sputterpub

weather

“I feel a little guilty,” someone said
to me last week, “because I don’t attend
events this place is famous for. Instead
I stick to home, avoiding traffic, spend
my weekends in my yard, my neighborhood,
my livingroom.”
I boggled at his words.
Yes costs are high, and entertainment’s good,
but I contend his guilty claim’s absurd.

Nobody lives here for the games and shows.
And while we’re graced with great topography,
the secret every San Franciscan knows
is we enjoy benign humidity
and temperature; our blessing and our pride
is weather that invites a soul outside.

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Sot

Posted on July 17, 2018 by sputterpub

booze

I want to like her but she drinks too much,
and isn’t near as fun to be around
as she must think she is. She’s apt to touch
me needlessly, repeat herself, expound
on criticisms victims overhear,
embarrass me and shame herself of course,
while steadily refusing to appear
contrite, or learn, or even feel remorse.

She’s rarely well and searches for a cure
in homeopathy and supplements.
She blames her sorry state on wheat, or thinks
the newest virus theory is for sure
the cause of her disease – that’s her defense:
it blocks her from regarding how she drinks.

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Inspiration

Posted on July 16, 2018 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

“You oughta be a lawyer,” Mama said;
“the way you always argue” she would add.
She meant no compliment, but sought instead
to quiet and suppress me. Even Dad
who seemed to like me aimed to modify
my passion, my exuberance and voice.
“Don’t shout,” he would admonish. “You should try
for better self-control. It’s your own choice.”

So I confronted less. I learned to screen
my judgments and complaints more than they thought.
Alone I threw some hangers and I cursed.
Within my room, I nurtured harsh and mean
ideas, and over time my theories wrought
in poetry conveyed my best and worst.

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Myriad

Posted on July 12, 2018 by sputterpub

human_locomotion

The sages say it takes ten thousand hours
for someone to acquire expertise.
While talent may be there at birth, the powers
in success require practice to increase.
And though you’ve walked since you were one year old,
your average steps per day have been so few,
you’d have to live a hundred years, all told,
to ambulate with skill the way I do.

But everyone knows how to walk, you say,
if they have working legs and hips and knees.
I disagree. I’m out there every day,
and have to dodge the zombie-strollers. Please
ignore my words on driving. If I talk
of love don’t listen. I know how to walk.

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Dowager

Posted on July 10, 2018 by sputterpub

gray

I never thought my mother’d be alive
this long, the way the woman used to smoke.
She’s slowing down at 90, but she’ll drive
her car to stores nearby, until the stroke
of 3 when the commuters clog the streets.
Returning what she purchased yesterday
gives purpose to her mornings. She repeats
her words in every evening’s call, the way
she always did, if I’m to tell the truth.
She’s not demented but she has condensed –
the traits that drove me crazy in my youth
are just more obvious performed against
a narrowed backdrop, faded arid beige,
and vanity’s the anthem of her age.

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Bad Driver

Posted on July 9, 2018 by sputterpub

goofy_car

You’ve always been unfocused when you drive.
It can’t be blamed on age or your disease.
The wonder is you’ve managed to survive
with jerky hands and eyes. Activities
requiring close attention never suit
your empathetic gifts for social good.
I’d rather never ride with you. My route
is bus or train or walk a neighborhood.

But yesterday I took the shotgun chair
and let you drive me home, and when you cut
that walker off who softly told you how,
I couldn’t reassure you you were fair.
Perhaps I should have sealed my lips and shut
my mouth, but you should give up driving now.

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

The Fifth Wheel

Posted on July 5, 2018 by sputterpub

black sheep

The oldest kid, the only girl, the black
sheep in her family of origin,
she early learned to be alone. In fact
she liked her solitude – she could begin
a poem, reread a book, design some clothes
for paper dolls, make stories out of dreams
that lacking plot and climax failed. She chose
Alone over Obedience, as themes.

Her solitary habits served her well.
She’s healthier than all her peers, because
she followed logic, let her body tell
her needs, stayed out of managed healthcare’s claws.
She’s likely to survive her friends – that’s known.
It’s fortunate she’s happy all alone.

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Step Aside

Posted on July 3, 2018 by sputterpub

human_locomotion

My daughter told me women step aside.
Confronted by opposing walkers, men
don’t detour or deflect, like it’s implied
they’re Masters of the Sidewalk. I said, “When
and where’s this happening? Just who contends
behavior never known of me and you?”
She said the claim’s been made by Facebook friends.
I countered that in my world, it’s not true.

Reporting this to son & wife, last week,
they said I’m incorrect – perhaps I fail
to notice my submission (like I’m meek
and unobservant, too?) This is no male
& female test: if you just walk with verve
and confidence, you’ll never have to swerve.

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

Jacaranda (An Etude)

Posted on July 2, 2018 by sputterpub

Jacaranda

The legend of the Jacaranda tree
was told to me one Saturday in June.
I loved committing it to memory;
by 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon,
I knew the tale as if it were my own.
I swallowed Amazon mythology,
acknowledging old custom, little known,
and reveling in ancient legacy.

Admitting Mitu and his priestess friend
to join the pantheon of magic thought
I harbor in my head, I comprehend
that lunar wit and solar love was taught,
and luck befalls the pate that bears the bloom,
yet students in Australia call it doom.

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Not Done Yet

Posted on June 28, 2018 by sputterpub

250px-Out_of_ink

A year ago, I thought I might be done
with sonnet work, except revising those
already written, read by few or none.
I’d take a break and maybe turn to prose.
I had a thousand little songs or more;
I figured I’d revisit all and cast
them into subsets in the cloud, and pour
creative vigor into other tasks.

But though the pressure weakened, still the tap
has not turned off; the current isn’t blocked.
I’m sitting less to write, but concepts rap
at me, conceits occur, and words unlocked
while walking spur iambic phrases yet
(I pause to text myself lest I forget).

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