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.
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.
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.
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.
There spans an oblong redwood deck between
my one-room home and mini office shed.
I dragged the flexy hose to it, to clean
two months of droppings off its planks, instead
of calling for the pressure wash I mean
to have before this summer goes to bed.
I’ll write that mission here, lest I forget.
It’s nice today, but that’s because it’s wet.
If I had space, I’d plant a dogwood tree
where lemons fail to grow, outside my place.
Its leaves and blooms would please abundantly,
if I had space.
But there’s no room for new roots to embrace,
and adding shade would block good light from me.
There’s green already everywhere I face.
I’ll exercise restrained sagacity,
appreciate some neighbors as I pace
a block nearby where thrives what here might be,
if I had space.
Thrice seventeen was in my head today,
increased a hundredfold, to be exact.
It didn’t bear significance, I say,
reminding me of neither thought nor fact.
But pondering, I spilled to my dismay
a little salt. I let that dream distract
me mixing saline for a nasal rinse.
My nose feels slightly tender ever since.
The first time I had Covid, I took pills,
because of age and lung-predicted fate.
The side effects felt worse than any ills
the virus brought. So for my second bout
I didn’t fill a ‘scrip – I bore the chills
and pleasant fever for two days and stayed
at home another five, as prudence wills.
A steady headache went another eight,
abating softly, like a hiccup stills.
I’m heartened to perceive the window blinds
installed in the adjacent residence.
I had no will to disapprove these kinds
of added housing units – they make sense
in metro areas where meet the minds
and bodies who agree to dwelling dense.
But having to my east such windows hover,
I’m glad to see the glass is backed with cover.
Returning home I have some vacant days
ahead this week, with no demanding task.
The house is sound, the forecast shows no haze
or heat, the office holds no urgent task.
One family is visited, away’s
the others’ situation. I can bask
in privacy, in solitude, in rest,
attending to a personal request.
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