We know self-preservation instinct’s strong –
all act reflexively to duck a fail.
But I just watched an expert get it wrong,
I think, about the way we flail
as babies, startled, arms and legs outflung,
and, gasping then, delay our next exhale.
It’s not just neonates. Forever more,
endangered, we concave to save our core.
I am not ill. My brother didn’t share
his cold with me. And others failed to spill
the germs that recently seem everywhere.
I am not ill.
Though I’ve a knee that warns me to instill
due caution how I move, it’s only fair
appreciating wellness, so I will
this weekend day to gratitude and care
with exercise and diet, to fulfill
a state of anti-sickness. I declare
I am not ill.
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.
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