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.”
Last night I took some sanctuary time.
I sat receptive and congenial,
and what I felt I cannot call sublime,
but I experienced familiar pull.
And tears from long ago then rinsed my eyes,
enhanced my meditations, counseled me.
What filled my thoughts presented a surprise,
and gave me space to wonder presently.
This morning we spent time in talk and drinks
of steeping tea and well-dripped coffee brew.
I listened carefully to what she thinks,
and tried to offer gently one or two
suggestions from my age and knowing her.
I pray some benefits may soon occur.
Two feel-good chemicals can circulate
inside our mammal brains, I understand,
that trigger happiness but don’t equate –
they’re separate and distinct. For on one hand,
the serotonin’s needed to command
deep-seated satisfaction; dopamine
is easier to purchase on demand,
but doesn’t gratify as deep or clean.
Your words have power but it’s indirect.
You won’t convince antagonists with facts.
Such effort is a waste. Instead, connect
the other with suggestion that attacks
unquestioned stale assumptions. Sense distracts,
but subtle and subliminal might win
adjustment near miraculous. Impacts
are possible with artful origin.
In transit to the compost bin to toss
the morning coffee grounds, it caught my eye:
a harbinger of coming spring, a gloss
of blooming foliage 12 inches high.
I planted neither seed nor shoot across
that space between 2 bushes. I could try
identifying this emergent gift,
or simply ride its January lift.
A doctor once advised me not to poke
an item less than elbow-size in ears.
Detecting solid wisdom in his joke,
I took his point to heart. That was 10 years
ago at least, while he removed the wax
I’d grown (that syringe brought wince and even tears).
Benign neglect since then has been too lax,
for seven days ago my hearing paled.
I thought it bathing water, but the cracks
and pops persisted till I almost failed
to hear the toilet flush, or tones around
the neighborhood where traffic noise prevailed.
I tried a recommended kit, but found
inadequate relief the first three days.
Resorting to a nurse’s care, some sound
returned but all that wax went in a ways.
She said “continue drops, next week come back,
and we’ll lavage again.” But liquid stays
inside my ears whenever I attack
with dropper or with syringe. I seldom spoke
alone, but now I’m sensing aural lack.
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 