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.
Already quite relaxed, I didn’t mind
the interruption of the Internet.
We’ve left the coast of Canada behind
for now, and though devices should be set
an hour forward, Apple cannot find
the proper number, so I’ll just forget
all obligations while we plow the sea,
and pay attention (analog) to me.
I won’t complain about complaints I hear.
I’ll try ignoring grimace, grunt and frown.
There’s negativity imposing near,
but nothing has occurred to bring me down.
The views are water-colored, edged in brown
of earth and hues of aging autumn leaves.
The motion of the ship’s vacation’s crown.
We arrow northward and the water cleaves.
At half past 3 I’m chased out of my room
by chambermaid a little late to clean.
I don’t mind, though admit I did assume
she’d make our beds before. But here the scene
(14 floors up the air’s without a plume
of smoke from yesterday): we rest between
ten thousand steps and what will be light food,
transitioning to a vacation mood.
The last five years, I haven’t traveled far.
I’ve never ventured out with easiness,
and as I age considerations are
increasing. I have ways to calm the stress,
but doubt I can extinguish it in full.
No matter how I do, I can’t correct
the urge to be at home – that comfort pull.
But I’m determined to be looser-necked;
deliberately I make my shoulders drop.
I won’t allow my lower jaw to clench.
I guard my hands from bruising, and I prop
my spine, preventing any lumbar wrench.
I’ll still get up too early – that’s for sure.
But I can make some progress toward a cure.
Three days it always takes to carve a groove
that I can start to follow forwardly,
to make initial paces to improve
in movement, diet, and mentality.
Six weeks to form a habit, experts say,
and I’ve experienced that’s wisely neat:
a new tradition’s born that can convey
the gentle motivation to repeat.
Recidivism’s lurking even then.
The wagon rail is flimsy and not tall.
It’s easy, even tempting, to return
to vices recollected once again.
One year is what I need. A span from fall
through winter, spring and summer burns the learn.
 | 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 