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.
I’ve heard a dog’s the best security,
against a village pillager or thief
who’d breach the door and mess with property,
disturb the peace, and give domestic grief.
Although they can be noisy, I agree:
canine as excellent’s been my belief.
Perhaps instead the guarding can be kinked,
and given to a dragon that’s extinct.
What good’s it do, to trumpet your own praise?
Is anybody listening to you?
What carries weight in each self-serving phrase?
What good’s it do?
For even if the claims you make are true,
they won’t convince a soul. Are there displays
that can inspire them to honor you?
You either know your value or you’ll craze,
attempting to compel I-don’t-know-who.
A bluster only windiness conveys.
What’s good’s it do?
Encountering a pattern on real walls
while using a salon facility,
projects me back. Now memory recalls
a time when talent hung where all could see
above a wainscoting. True papery
design that can be felt as well as seen
provides a touch so satisfactory,
it renders pallid my computer screen.
Go figure this – she focused the complaint
on one of two. Maternal prejudice
from her is never subtle, nothing faint –
go figure this.
What she deems cute is dull and obvious.
She thinks a gripe and blurts without restraint,
and any wound she’ll with a snarl dismiss.
I think she’d try the patience of a saint.
And as for me, I’m on the precipice
of critical – I never find her quaint.
Go figure this.
I notice Berkeley dogwoods every year,
when they put forth their multitudes of bloom.
My brother said they cannot flourish here
(our air’s too damp, there’s insufficient room
for roots to find the needed pedosphere),
but I don’t see impending any doom.
Today I aim to imitate the tree:
to stretch in light on earth, and simply be.
Chaotic as that photograph appears,
my gard’ner spent last week almost a day
engaged with rake and bucket, broom and shears,
and filled two bins with what he cleared away.
A neighbor planned and planted it ten years
ago, and now the yard’s a lush array.
I’m grateful for that erstwhile friend, but more –
it’s this, our local climate, I adore.
I’m guessing that she never really meant
those careless words. Some hours afterward,
I thought it would be foolish to resent
comparison insulting and absurd.
The other’s not alike – if there’s a bent
for acting like my mother, what I heard
is incorrect. The case is, every act
the speaker makes resembles Mom in fact.
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