An empty can that once held CO 2
took out my favorite mug 3 days ago.
I knocked it off my countertop, and threw
it accidentally into the sink.
I self-chastised, but nothing I could do
reversed the chip in porcelain that could harm
my lip, my sponge, my morning coffee view.
Accepting loss, I soon resolved to go
a mile south and purchase something new.
One night last week I thought the wind was rain.
The thrum on skylights woke me up at 2.
Four hours later, through my window pane,
I marveled at the scatter, clutter, strew
upon my deck, amid my yard: a slew
of naked twigs that cluttered wood and dirt,
without a leaf to moderate the view.
A block away were marks of bigger hurt.
What purpose does an escalator fill
that’s going down? It contradicts the name.
Do planners short on brains and long on will
mistake a walker’s needs, and think the same
degree of aid is needed in descent
as in a laden rise through gravity?
Was it a sacrifice to symmetry?
I’m tired. This seems unintelligent.
The kids have helped me playing solitaire.
It lets them learn their numbers and each suit.
They touching put the cards most moments where
I guide them, fingers poking, faces cute.
It hasn’t been my motive to compare,
but there are differences I won’t dispute.
Our heads abut, I smell their silky hair,
and note the variations of astute.
At nearly 4, one wants to press the sign
that launches auto-solve and then, transfixed,
she sees the cards fall smoothly into line
with sound effects. The other ever picked
each card, in order forming neat array:
the end the same, the means a separate way.
If we were kind, it’s seldom we would yell.
We’d demonstrate the gentle in the mind,
respecting how our lives have intertwined,
refraining from a tendency to tell
each other how to better. We’d compel
behavior matching what we wish to find.
If we were kind.
And if I could, I’d cast a magic spell
designed to send the negatives that lined
our plans and faces quietly behind.
We’d neither lie – it’s snarkiness we’d quell,
if we were kind.
At what age does the child comprehend
the parent is a person who can live
in panorama, as the years extend
until the kid can venture to forgive?
Perhaps it happens when he starts to bend
to parenthood himself, in stress’s sieve.
Or maybe it will take three dozen years,
of late aware respectful love appears.
Expecting inattention all around
from neighbors who seem mentally unkempt,
I’m never stunned – this is no battleground,
but I’ll admit to harboring contempt
deployable the second signs are found.
But when there’s evidence that will preempt
my caustic thought, I’m swept with sweet surprise.
A mote of countenance gets in my eyes.
The kids will eat the vegetables I cut,
and fruits that I arrange in patterns neat,
mandalas where there’s care how things abut.
The kids will eat.
I mimic chalked-in pictures from the street,
selecting foods to satisfy the gut
and sight, as well as taste. The task is sweet.
Embellishing with pumpkin seed or nut,
the project is as pleasant as it’s meet.
No candy now: the produce here is what
the kids will eat.
It took 3 days at home for me to rest.
The punch lists have been checked and tossed away.
Some tasks remain, it has to be confessed,
but there’s a clearance present for today.
And though I’ll have to shop and then to pay
for gifts December ransoms every year,
I’ve time this afternoon to change array,
and wrap myself in flannel atmosphere.
I walked to BART the long way yesterday.
I thought I’d stop and purchase something good.
The market had low stock, but anyway
I sampled senses in the neighborhood.
The turning leaves against blue sky held sway;
I photographed that color where I stood.
Far tastier than crackers would have been,
I filled my lungs with Autumn oxygen.
 | sputterpub on Old Haunt |
 | zumpoems on Old Haunt |
| sputterpub on Master of Destruction |
 | groomie on Master of Destruction |
| sputterpub on Vacuum |
Sputterpub's Blog 