Uneasy when there was no quick reply:
she’d flown across the continent, and I
just longed to read my girl had safe-arrived…
And also, Mom had fallen. She survived,
but even tearing skin, at ninety-nine,
is serious, and so concern was mine.
When she did not pick up the telephone,
I paced a little then, at home, alone.
I think we liked each other even when
we squabbled young in bickering and tease.
But as we’ve aged, and only now and then
achieve a meeting, after kiss and squeeze,
we fall into affection’s lap again,
where every word and thought just serves to please.
I witness sibs who drift apart or rift,
and know this brother-love’s a precious gift.
I’ve socialized the last 5 days, a lot,
and that was stimulating, warm, all good.
But getting up today, I know I’m not
anticipating any time that would
be better spent with others. What I’ve got
around me now will cradle me, and should
be best deployed alone. My aim today:
to languish well at home at solo play.
When bird flu first arrived in Western news,
I recollect extreme anxiety.
A house ago, I entertained the views
of dire damage to humanity.
And maybe living through that episode,
embracing impotence and lack of fact,
is what prepared me, when the Covid rode
us hard, to keep my peace of mind intact.
Likewise, when now a panic holds in sway
some friends and relatives and clients, too,
I’m disinclined to join. I felt that way
eight years ago. I ran the fear, it’s true,
but learned to focus kindly, locally,
and strive to catch what wisdom’s there for me.
While waiting to get on the dentist’s chair,
for what he recommended he should do
beyond hygiene and minuscule repair,
I had a moment to absorb the view.
I noted that the rack that’s mounted there
is stocked with magazines, and not a few.
It’s further evidence we can forget
the plague; we face a more substantive threat.
I’m used to weird. A cuckoo in the nest,
the black sheep in my family, who veered
away from their conditions on my quest,
I’m used to weird.
A beatnik when the hippies all appeared –
an anarchist against all guns – unstressed
when solitude and all-alonely neared –
Conservative but radical, and blessed
with anti-chaos thoughts that won’t be steered …
Abhorring vote results, I’ve self-assessed:
I’m used to weird.
He landed in construction after school.
His liberal arts degree led to no chair.
He’d learned to use most any kind of tool
from summer jobs encountered everywhere.
The labor exercised his arms and mood.
His skills advanced with every passing year.
And years did pass – his prime time was accrued
by hours grown to decades in that sphere.
Preferring self-employment, he postponed
the plans that can amount. His strategy
still-born was wreathed in tactics, as he honed
old habits. Now the man is 53,
and seems to focus only with hindsight.
Although, you know, he always meant to write.
I’m halfway through obnoxious meds, and know
I’ll flourish when they stop protecting me.
I’m caring for myself, and I bestow
compared to ℞ automatically
dispensed, attention of prime quality.
I’m introducing exercise and food
appropriate for my recovery.
I’m nourishing a patient attitude.
A question tossed by media (big deal) –
Three favorite people? was the prompt I heard.
Without intention answers popped, surreal
but true 3 personalities occurred
in mind, like ghosts beside me. I was lured
to comprehend it’s not I love them more,
but I’m at home with each, to use the word
connoting where I am myself, for sure.
A browse through media that illustrate
the poems I’ve posted to the cloud for years
presents a picture used when I last ate
Amoxicillin (4 years back). My fears
are justified – last night’s 3 hour spate
of nausea and heartburn now appears
to come from meds. What then burned 6 days in
besets me 2 pills after I begin.
 | 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 