The chorus of raptors is raucous today.
I noticed the noises at 8.
Accustomed to few and infrequent, the play
of timbre in timber was great.
I didn’t hear crows and I witnessed no flight,
but whistle-like calling was strong.
It set my attention and hearing alight,
diverted by hawk morning song.
I’m glad to note, the lumbar twinge perceived
when I arose today, diminished soon.
And inconvenience lab and doctor peeved
me with, will probably inspire thought.
No doubt some novelty will be achieved,
experienced through slightly altered state.
And data will be gathered that’s believed
of use, for which I’ll spend an afternoon
and overnight sincerely not aggrieved.
I must have been preferred when I was born:
desired by my parents, and the first.
But Mom was scared and hasty; she was torn
between the love and errands. I was nursed
by a professional, to scheduled sleep,
and bottle-fed, with days and nights rehearsed.
I don’t remember primacy that deep
until I grew to a priority.
I married him, but learned to loathe the sweep
of adulation suffocating me.
To be my husband’s favorite felt a chore –
the weight of bliss the opposite of free.
My babies each were angels to adore,
and soon esteemed me most in their small world,
but also taught ambivalence, for sure,
as in unending labor I was hurled.
So while I’ve several times been Number One,
by love surrounded and in passion whirled,
it never was unmitigated fun.
In truth, I feel alone a lack of stress,
existing now as other than a Sun
or Moon. First-favored brought no happiness –
perhaps by Mom’s unease I was forlorn,
but of triumphal love I’m best with less.
Returning home from lunching with a friend,
I saw the varmint sunning in the yard.
I waited for this photograph, to send
an early summer stanza, nothing hard
and nothing brilliant – like a greeting card
I’m jotting to convey a note to each,
that tough as now is I can soft-regard
a neighbor, as I bite a perfect peach.
Increasing weekly walking quite a bit
of late, but always with an end in mind,
like getting to a place appropriate
for family or labor or the kind
of groceries I savor and think fit
for purposes to which I’m strong-inclined,
my path is often varied purposely.
And sundry sights are entertaining me.
I waited 60 days to take a seat
and ask an expert questions I possessed;
his specialty is swamped by a complete
disruption of nutrition, he’ll attest.
I liked him and respect his skill, but guessed
correctly he’d recite the standard care.
So while I’m willing to endure a test,
I doubt this course will get me anywhere.
A bit concerned about last night’s report –
her cracking voice, fatigue so evident,
a mess she tried to clean of vile sort –
and knowing that I have no precedent
for how the 99-year olds comport
themselves (without a time line prevalent),
I carried tender feelings to my rest,
and hope by gentle passage she’ll be blessed.
What harm’s it do, imagining a plot
that justifies the actions of the few
I’m contemplating? Whether fact or not,
what harm’s it do?
I planned to write about the things I knew,
but such did not enchant – so I forgot
that tactic and decided I’d imbue
the characters I hear of with a shot
of probability. Their acts I view
as driven by a circumstantial lot.
What harm’s it do?
Can she be indolent? If it’s a skill,
she may need time to find her expertise.
Since seventeen the girl’s derived a thrill
from countering her mother’s harsh decrees
of selfishness and laziness. Her will
has led to diligent activities
that now appear a form of O.C.D.
To idleness she’ll put her energy.
Is this bad journalism, or contempt
for every reader? Someone okayed “hype”
to end a headline, like they were exempt
from objectivity. Of course I gripe
to read “ideal”’ as if it were a type
of lukewarm adjective, and see there’s no
distinguishing veracity from tripe.
I wish I could respect the pressured flow.
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