I’ll take a break from posting poetry.
Although undoubtedly I’ll see and make
a note that may have footing metrically,
I’ll take a break.
I’ll lock my door to open to a wake
behind a boat amid new scenery,
recording with my hands and eyes opaque
or focused realizations fresh for me,
but I won’t post them yet, for resting’s sake.
I’ll turn away from habit’s tyranny.
I’ll take a break.
(I expect to be back in about two weeks.)
I asked “How are you?” and I meant it too.
You sensed sincerity and looked concerned,
as if I had suspicions maybe you
should be upset about, as if I learned
some fact of disadvantage. That’s untrue.
It’s just that I’m aware how often burned
you are, deservedly, by compound stress,
an overload so likely to depress.
A house behind a gate, with screens and locks,
and information screened on screens displayed,
suggests household security but mocks
reality. As ever, I will trade
such gimmicks for the features well-conveyed
by walking under trees, inhaling air
outside the bounds of institution’s grade.
Of earth’s diversity I’ll take my share.
We managed every day to walk outside
beneath some green or into river breeze:
some pictures shot; a plant identified
(clematis with a beard); our hips and knees
well exercised; our talking less decrees
than observations, diligent and fair.
There were complaints, of course, among the trees,
but mostly we exchanged our planet’s air.
The toothpaste won’t go back into its tube.
The travel out the lamp is just one way.
When curiosity unhinged that cube
and let fly trouble to the light of day,
there was no method to reverse the spray.
Such lessons are so easy to forget,
nobody turns from digital display
as maypoles morph into the Internet.
Sixteen years old suggested someone kill
the figurehead. The grownups jumped and said,
Uh uh – that course of action no doubt will
produce a martyr – leave the jerk undead.
Eliminate another way instead
of cartoon violence – the remedy
will not emerge from arms but from the head.
You have to search for long-term strategy.
I loathe it then – you waste your words to me,
suggesting fruitless effort once again,
or starting any statement “hopefully.”
I loathe it then.
I wish you’d mean it if you say amen,
conversing with apparent empathy,
or syllables that use no oxygen.
Of autism is this variety?
I’d have you be deliberate as this pen.
Above all, please don’t fake sincerity.
I loathe it then.
I hit the floor in drive to tick off things:
the puzzles, Duolingo, more, implore
due time from me, until set schedule brings
me showered dressed & ready out my door.
From 6 until 11, I’d before
me motivation and a bid to move.
When finally I walk outside I’m sore,
but feel accomplished as my thoughts improve.
I’ve tried with my co-residents for years,
to get them to respect, in courtesy,
our smattering of shared stuff. It appears
my efforts just collect futility.
They overload the landfill, and don’t bend
their cardboard back to flat. Economy
of space and time don’t with them seem to trend.
Their aims appear to angle differently.
So after ten and seven years, wherein
I had to pass their garbage in my path
from door to curb, I sighed in oxygen
and then exchanged initiative for wrath.
I swapped the placement of the ugly cart,
and felt new lightness in my head and heart.
When Covid started and we stayed inside,
I aimed to post a stanza every day.
To meet that goal I sought verse forms, and tried
a multitude of rhyme and meter schemes.
The effort reimbursed me with a wide
collection – inventory I can work.
For sixteen hundred fifty days, I plied
this trade, and soon I’m putting it away.
The streak became a bully, not a guide.
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