Past Problems Present Ploys

I certainly don’t want us to return
to good-old-days when children weren’t heard,
and women knew their place and couldn’t earn,
and Master was a titulary word.
Of mental health we then had much to learn,
but consciousness can generate absurd
degrees of understanding and excuse,
cascading into empathy abuse.

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Brother Colleague Friend

A dozen years ago, I put the reins
and office ownership into his hands.
Though time and he have changed it, he maintains
a waning practice. And he understands
enough to earn enough to compensate
himself, another, me for daily call
and half a day there, when I allocate
my effort to preventing someone’s fall.

Diversifying Tuesday so, I heard
his plan to close it in a year and sighed.
To say I’ll miss the labor is absurd,
but I then realized I’d miss him beside
me talking. We devised a new technique –
no matter what, we’ll still lunch once a week.

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Combative

Whenever I in speech appreciate
a day off after office work or kids,
my interlocutor is bound to state
that nothing in my circumstance forbids
devoting nearly every day to me.
And that was even true ere I retired –
my busyness is picked deliberately;
by diverse occupation I’m inspired.

My words the other day must have revealed
how tiresome her non-advice is, yet
my saying such relief will be concealed
henceforth, was never offered as a threat.
For sure it was no anger that she heard;
her tending so combative is absurd.

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Alien Aging Lessons

My mother never taught me anything
I valued. She suppressed my every ask,
regaled with superstitions, couldn’t bring
herself to laughter, ever in a task
or planning more, and even facing death,
the only lesson I derive is not
to mimic her. I will not waste a breath
on gripes. I’ll take the best approach I’ve got.

I’ll ape instead the dog I lived with long:
to use what works and work around the rest.
I’ll self-survey, exert when I feel strong,
and sink to nap whenever that seems best.
I’m grateful for what’s functioning today,
and patient irksome pain may fade away.

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On Broadway

An ordinary Tuesday afternoon
except for an appointment down the street,
I walked six blocks, arrived a little soon
and then sat down with whom I chose to meet.
Our business took an hour to complete.
I thanked the banker and reversed my stroll.
The ambience above the broad concrete
was cool in nose and soft upon my soul.

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Gratuitous Nastiness

It isn’t meet to always voice complaint.
I watch you pick minutiae like a sweet
confection you ingest without restraint.
It isn’t meet.

You needn’t be enraged at someone’s tweet,
or accidental overcharge. You taint
your talk with bullying, or snarling bleat.

And bolstering your gripe, you like to paint
your wallet powerful. So I’ll repeat
what you won’t hear, although the line’s not faint –
it isn’t meet.

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Yoga for Writers

I try to practice yoga every day,
for finally I’m old enough to get
the value in its calling for outlay
of energy less frantic than a set
of heart-sped effort metered for display.
And yesterday’s has underpinned this rhyme –
the posing picked for writers was sublime.

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Admission of Arrogance

Although I sort this work, I haven’t yet
produced selected stanzas on a theme,
a chapbook or a comprehensive set.
But I could issue volumes on the stream
of my friend’s arrogance. To not forget
a moment when she saw herself, extreme
and cocky, and confessed (last Sunday) flaws,
impresses me and gives these iambs cause.

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A Little Schadenfreude

A friend declared she’s furious about
a minor retail act she disapproves.
It minded me how often she will spout
with indignation, like its flavor moves.
The way my mother gathers energy
from negative emotions, I well know.
I turn the scope to next examine me –
am I propelled by anger’s heady flow?

The answer’s no, for though I often see
a former friend who wronged me several times,
who occupies a role near family,
and never has acknowledged her old crimes,
I do not seek revenge. I am not mad.
But I’ll admit the lift when she feels sad.

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Wee Control

It’s obvious, but someone had to teach
us to respect his narrow point of view.
The man is altered – now his feet can’t reach
the attic or the basement in his home.
A stroke six years ago beset, with breach
in brain and his mobility the price.
Confined to just four rooms, and with clogged speech,
of course he’ll angle to control the few
events and objects there. Let’s give him each.

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