You think her age means she got something right?
I’ve known her for a quarter century,
and I say no. And she who sleeps all night
at 68? Her conscience isn’t clear;
there’s much a friend can mention to indict
a character who knuckles under fear.
The evidence is obvious and bright
of line though shaded in life’s mystery –
desert’s delivered with disparity.
Near three score years ago I crossed this span
to leave my parents’ home and live apart,
apace at 17 to run the plan
of university and make my start.
I little guessed (it happens no one can)
where I would plant my future and my heart,
and even now, to dine with Mom, I’m found
revisiting my teenage stomping ground.
I knew your choice was wrong. I did my best
to influence without an argument.
I tried predicting what you hadn’t guessed
would be the outcome, and no accident.
From love, restraining fervor, with intent
to gently redirect where you would go,
I have to witness what’s now consequent,
with no enjoyment from I told you so.
I thought I’d hate the windows gone, but now
it’s not so bad. They won’t be long this way.
And in the winter chill, the blocks allow
a cozy privacy I face each day.
I sit with fragrant coffee and I play
selected games, with glances toward this wall,
imagining a cave, in comfort’s sway,
and feeling nothing bothering, at all.
Admitting that she voted for the jerk,
and not for any reason that makes sense,
now even with a squinting mind, small work
is needed to contest intelligence
that’s avalanched by damage so immense
and early, like a camp-bred refugee
baptized in fear and hatred – she’s intense
and never had a chance at sanity.
I woke away from home before the sun,
and though most Saturdays I will omit
the mat, preferring talk and iPad fun
with bouncing kids, last week I did commit
to 7 days of Prana. I could wait
for guided breathing till the afternoon,
but better early ended my debate,
and coffee-less I stretched a little soon.
The almost 8-year old arrived before
I finished 20 minutes, but he chose
to quietly observe, asquat, and more –
he joined me on the floor in final pose.
His whispered “namaste” produced a hug,
and wrapped us in affection on the rug.
Preempted by complaints she feels unwell
(beset by stress, depression, lethargy),
there isn’t any space for me to tell
her I’m exhausted by her tendency
to chastise, judge, attempt to yank by yell
for her sore feelings some apology.
I’ll have to wait to modify the way
we’ll future-interact, another day.
The preposition is the part of speech
that isn’t emphasized but serves to show
like stage direction where the actions reach –
intent and tending implications flow
that preface phrases. I don’t surely know
a break up’s coming or a breaking down.
But after bearing tides of ebb and flow
for decades, breaking off becomes my noun.
As if I were reminded of a dream
I had, by simple movement on the day
that followed, or when random postures seem
informative, by showing me the way
I must have torqued to earn an injury
not catastrophic but by age induced,
travails that you last week described to me
have struck a chord. Old memory is loosed.
As you endure and struggle with the cause
your teen presents, I vibrate like a drum.
I hear your agony; I feel the claws
of impotence and anxious worry. From
three decades plus, I get it. I’m surprised
to comprehend how I was traumatized.
I wonder why I’m feeling bored today –
not into books (I’m reading two), or you,
disinterested in what they have to say
whom I respect and love. No point of view
is snagging my attention, and no play
invites me to engage in what I do
(by choice) most every morning. So I sit,
receptive to learn what’s appropriate.
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