I have to lie, although that means I throw
a game we said we’d honor till we die.
The whining for “I’m sorry” makes me know
I have to lie.
It’s not my fault she’s bothered. She won’t try
examining herself as cause of woe,
but fancies others’ words have birthed her sigh.
It’s no relief to hoist the mirror, though
reflection shows her whom to vilify.
She won’t attend to explanation, so
I have to lie.
Her brain’s too old, her heart too apt to hurt.
She’s nothing but emotion, truth be told.
She feels her feelings tear, and ought to blurt
her brain’s too old.
She looks to blame someone outside, to hold
responsible in words she doesn’t skirt,
a friend’s responses never uttered cold.
Emotional’s okay, but to desert
all reason and indulge in uncontrolled
hysteria just prompts me to assert
her brain’s too old.
A person acting crazy rode my train
last week. I heard her on the platform first.
She yelled into her phone enough to strain
a normal throat, fast-striding as she cursed
and ranted, sounding mad and unrehearsed.
She boarded and raved on. Now I suspect
it may have been an act to custom-burst –
a victim of those screams would disconnect.
Adults are kings at first – they have to be.
At least until the offspring spread their wings
the parents are omnipotent – kids see
adults are kings.
From birth that keeps the children safe, for things
are hazardous, the rules security
to guard against time’s arrows and life’s slings.
But sometime after 5, autonomy
emerges and the power balance swings.
Repeated wounds reveal the fallacy
adults are kings.
Obsessive language study lately fills
up time I used to put to poetry.
If I have any bucket list, it wills
me to acquire bilinguality.
I’ve thrice attempted it half-heartedly —
in class, through books, at home or restaurant —
but never till this month so faithfully.
My effort bodes to take me where I want…
It seems to me, when love is not supplied,
although an infant’s fed sufficiently,
the baby’s sense of normal’s quantified,
it seems to me.
A while passes learning how to be;
as words and actions are identified,
the kid acquires optimistically.
So fault must be upon the child’s side.
That explanation’s shown repeatedly
until, with age, the truth is signified,
it seems to me.
Well I could write a book about shared bins,
that nobody would read, no matter what.
The latest wrong, among the neighbor sins,
is dumping landfill like it’s greenwaste, but
they have to know their plastic will not rot;
they’re students – I assume they comprehend
how compost works – what’s food and what is not.
Oh, fuckit – they’ll deserve what they portend.
I’d like to write today, but need to rest.
A mystery of decades may relax,
and offer up a pattern to suggest
a pathway through a maze that’s paved with facts.
A recent recollection has impressed,
illuminating myriad attacks.
I want to take a day to play a clue,
from origin to utter point of view.
Remembering a woman 40 years
ago, who birthed a daughter long-desired,
and then confessed to me, voice choked with tears,
she couldn’t love the baby as required…
It wasn’t that she’d harm the child – no –
but deep attachment didn’t fill her soul.
Two years of challenge later let her know,
with baby number 2, love true and whole.
I wonder if that aberration’s rare.
In fact I can imagine such a mom,
alike in bleakness, absent honest care,
responsible but apt to raise a palm
of distance in the place of an embrace,
bereft and sore, an amputee of grace.
Her misinterpretation is so gross,
the cause could be stupidity or, worse,
perhaps it’s really meanness and a dose
of insecure amounting to a curse
that’s warped her view and obviated close
relationship. Love shuttered to reverse.
The pearl devolved – became a grain of grit –
and who would have esteemed is moved to quit.
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