Near ten days into Twenty Twenty-six
I finished with the circum-holidays.
The fetes were done, and down were candle wicks,
the birthdays celebrated, and the maze
of novelties were solved. I need no fix –
I’m feeling fine – I’m readying to blaze
a path projected to provoke me well.
Four weeks from now, I’ll learn what time will tell.
I used to think the barrier to prose
at length was lack of patience for the plot
proceeding at the pace it should. I chose
short forms instead, accepting what I’m not.
But as I edge toward days when I’ll compose
without a detailed outline, I’ve begot
the notions of humility and love,
for characters to pull in place of shove.
I cannot be more fortunate than this:
6 days alone at home, with spates of rain
outside. By emailed love and texted kiss
I was beset, with much to entertain.
In solitude I reveled, and the bliss
was more than I can fluently explain.
I venture out today. All rain has passed.
The sky is blue. My satisfaction’s vast.
My almost-week alone was very nice.
I slept so much at night I took no nap.
I didn’t overuse any device,
but typed and solved and screened enough. One app
I glad-deleted. Masked and bombed I thrice
indulged. Of restlessness I had no scrap,
while anger and ennui did not impose.
I’m willing to come back now, I suppose.
I saw a scrub jay on the deck. That’s rare –
I never winter-spotted one before.
A lookup says they’re common – but I stare
with interest out my windows all the more
now I’m retired, and in fact it’s fair
to state, since Covid first secured my door,
I watch while I compose each metric word,
and till today I haven’t seen this bird.
Invited to survey my every sense,
I felt a twinge of warning in my spine,
the fire on my left, and no offense
received or sent to others. Peace was mine,
and music was the rain – a bit intense
and coursing down the glass, to intertwine
apuddle on a threshold freshly sealed.
I felt protected, rested, limber, healed.
I like to think the algorithm’s pained,
for I deleted, unsubscribed, and left.
I know that’s fanciful – my son explained
the tech – but still, the program acts bereft
at my abandonment – a course disdained
after my selfish use, a loss like theft.
I chuckle at the begging more than twice,
till noting it still lurks on one device.
I have a day at home in perfect poise,
with lovely rain outside and warmth within.
I stretch, and am not bothered by the noise
of others, or complaint beneath my skin.
I know the family has food and toys
sufficient, and I feel the love of kin.
But I am left alone to bask the way
I wish. Euphorically I feel today.
If life’s a game, and winners play each round,
a scheme as heartless as, by any name,
divinity, barbarities abound.
If life’s a game.
Your tears fuel poetry but have no claim
to better life or more extensive ground.
Survival’s often traveling with shame.
So rape and ravaging should not astound,
in contest for more dominance and fame.
The generous and wise are seldom crowned,
if life’s a game.
Regardless of the date I post this poem,
I typed it on December 31st.
Expecting rain, I edited at home,
the place where I’m most likely to be versed.
Without an outside aim, I’ll be immersed
in words and in a bath with bomb and balm.
I’m prerecording here a day self-nursed,
transmogrifying remnant wrath to calm.
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