Some mornings I wake up before I thought
I might, but after what’s sufficient sleep
to operate so consciously. I’m brought
to full attentive state, and I can’t creep
back into dreaming comfort. I’m not fraught
or even fretful, but don’t want to keep
reclining, so I rise before the sun,
to vary customary. And it’s fun.
Where crosswalks aren’t indicated, there
are fewer accidents. When workers wear
their chosen clothes, like Fridays, they produce
more than when they’re constrained in stuff not loose.
Catastrophes invite the best, and any
occasions full of looters aren’t many.
Around is mostly good, I want to stress
(and argue with attention-grabbing press).
We’re better than portrayers say we are
(but maybe that’s just negative P.R.)
Until his question, I was unaware
of anything abnormal in my eye.
An hour earlier it wasn’t there,
but suddenly two bloody streaks low-framed
my iris. I had moved with normal care.
I don’t recall a cough or sneeze or blow.
Another aging sign? A passing scare?
It cannot hurt to take a day to try
a spell of cherished rest within my lair…
“There oughta be a law,” she said to me.
“Without enforcement?” Then I shook my head.
“The matter just needs sense and courtesy.
Let’s leave it to our consciences instead.”
“I think you’re advocating anarchy.
You know the warlords; soon we’d all be dead.”
And disregarding me, in her distress,
I watched her parrot propagandic press.
A benefit to writing every day
is lacking topics of significance.
At times I pen a journal-type. I say
small news on health or give intelligence
of what I feel about some light display
encountered – items lacking heavy sense.
Reviewing such, perspective’s given me –
I read and recollect this nagging knee.
(As posted on 4/7/23:
I must have tweaked my left knee recently,
for daily it protests a certain bend.
As usual it’s port that bothers me –
my starboard side has been my better friend.
I notice symptoms of debility –
a bode of failure or a warning trend?
Recording, I’ll give ink without a frown,
as long as I don’t let it take me down.)
I tried the drops – they didn’t serve to clear
the wax and water blockage in my ear.
I had a doctor look, and learned that both
my drums could not be seen. I wasn’t loath
to seek lavage – the nurse applied with care
the fluid and the lighted probe, but there
remained enough to water-trap. I spent
some evenings semi-deaf. Annoyed, I went
back in for spray and pick. Another try
succeeded. Now relieved and pleased am I.
“If only I were bigger” I said when
she murmured her complaints, her stress immense,
her gaze within and gulping oxygen,
her patience sapped, but her intelligence
still active. So attempting making sense,
I added “then I’d curve around your grief,
and hug you with a passion so intense
my prayers and my embrace might bring relief.”
I’m not naive. I’m far too old to be.
But I believe that we’ve too many laws.
I say I’m versed in chunks of history,
and where we’re worst, perhaps the rules give cause.
Most people are benign and neighborly.
The bulk of us are fine avoiding murk.
But magnates surge with sociopathy
that drives an urge to manage like a jerk.
And rules without enforcement, or a fair
administration, summon discontent.
A witch’s spell, chaos to hellish lair,
that knowing brains, was probably unmeant.
So I conclude, and think more than believe
(submitted by a person not naive).
I tried for moderation while away.
I slowed, digesting sight instead of treat.
In storing fresh impressions every day,
I moved with care my mouth and hands and feet.
Refraining from opinion, to delay
a rush to judgment that would fail to meet
success or help a personality,
my aim was soft and softly tempered me.
Surrounded by degrees of discontent,
amid affection spotted with disdain,
I recognized and angled to present
a difference in perspective. To refrain
from an attempt to teach, beseech, or train,
I sought instead to read from my own page.
With softness, I said “try to entertain
some patience till you reach an older age.”
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