At loose ends on a Friday close to 6,
without a task ahead and feeling well,
I have the yen to pen again, affix
a nib to paper, let the blue ink flow.
Without a pressing subject (nothing sticks
in mind or begs to make a cursive mark),
I’ll just commemorate there were no tricks
from kids, and treats amassed are looking swell.
Of candy caught, I’m eying cups and Twix.
She must have meant her look to be extreme;
those lashes perched like brushes on her eyes.
I watched them give her trouble, with a seam
of glue apparent. It was no surprise
they bothered her – with nails of lengthy size,
she picked with care and lightly stroked an end.
Her fidgeting defeated style’s guise;
she may have found the limit to the trend.
I screened a dream vignette the other night,
a nondescript adventure, and a face
I never saw before. Without delight
or deep intrigue we shared a brief embrace
before I woke, in some familiar place.
I rose a little hungry for more view,
receptive and adjusted to the pace,
aware we called each other “you” and “you.”
There’s quiet satisfaction that I feel
as soon as they come running through the door.
Their energy is boundless, coursing, real,
and I sit back, receiving hugs and more.
High-pitched their voices greet me with a peal,
for they are nearly 8 and almost 4.
And though they’ll swamp me with their energy,
I’m sure there’s nowhere else I care to be.
When I return I’ll get to be alone.
The only hum will come from bugs. I’ll burn
some time on streaming and my telephone,
when I return.
For solitude I’ve had the time to yearn.
Companion comments have devolved to drone;
the unintended resting-face is stern.
The break’s been good and ideas have been sown.
I liked to sleep atop the ocean’s churn.
But two days hence sweet comfort with be known,
when I return.
I’m noting scant diversity aboard.
There’s sameness in the posture, heads, and skin.
I haven’t seen expressions I’ll record,
or heard an observation quick to spin
my mind through avenues that cast reward.
But I am breathing salted oxygen,
and filling with fall color softened gaze,
alone with drifting thoughts, for three more days.
There’s unreliability in some
depictions of a character like mine
(or yours as well). Describers may be dumb,
or envious, or simply careless. Fine
precision isn’t usual. Combine
that with resenting any female grist,
or family dynamics. I opine
from sore experience, with sorrow kissed.
So here’s the thing: she hums when she exhales,
self-deprecating with complaining face.
I’m opposite – my silence none assails,
but I seem harsher than my thoughts embrace.
Adopting patience now, receptive grace,
no longer feeling adamant or stern,
we each are our reverse. What’s more, the case
is only one of us appears to learn.
I’m babying my neck and back today
(though babies don’t ingest an oval pill).
We’re relatively late to bus away
from Sydney’s pierage – 10 a.m. until
mid-afternoon, when we may start to sway.
They warn a storm will blow and maybe spill
some Nova Scotian rain upon the deck,
for which I’ll have prepared my back and neck.
At table with four strangers, we engaged
in pleasant conversation more or less.
Amid strong personalities, none waged
a war of words or politics. I guess
a phrase was coined (by me, I here confess),
to put in words a parent’s strategy:
“I have their backs but not their fronts.” Hell yes –
that’s been my role and how I roll you see.
 | 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 