To My Left Foot

Posted on April 14, 2024 by sputterpub

The benefit to size in leg and foot
and ankle no one could describe as slender
is sturdiness, for even when I put
my sole down crookedly, it’s never tender,
till recently. Recovering from stumble
(I didn’t fall), I must have wrenched within.
Advancing age reminds me to be humble,
no matter what seems clear beneath my skin.

I’ve always walked a lot, and didn’t care
for shoes that are for motion engineered.
They looked too big on me – I chose to wear
a lighter type, and balance. I appeared
as I preferred, but lately pain has taught
me I’m too old to spurn what should be bought.

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In Process Progress

Posted on April 13, 2024 by sputterpub

Until I checked and saw the welcome phrase,
I didn’t know how much my peace was wrecked.
I’d wasted months and suffered more delays,
until I checked.

At first Manhattan led me to expect
if I’d apply and give them 90 days,
they’d honor what they then chose to reject.

I called and wrote. I worked on other ways.
I had to postpone plans, to sore effect.
My agitation mired like malaise,
until I checked.

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Winding

Posted on April 12, 2024 by sputterpub

A skein of wool should not be tightly wound,
for that will stretch and stress the twisted thread.
It needs a gentle laxity, that’s found
by spacing with a fingertip, she said
and showed me how, when I was sick abed
and soft enough to learn a thing or two.
From then to when I end, until I’m dead,
I gently play my fate out, clue by clue.

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Kindle Kill

Posted on April 11, 2024 by sputterpub

From car to plane to train this body went,
so tired that I dropped my Kindle twice.
My brain was dull;.my stamina was spent;
I closed my eyes. My grip was not precise,
and though retrieval fixed each fall event,
when I reached home and stretched within a nice
hot bath, I once again succumbed to sleep.
And killed my Kindle, loosed into the deep.

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Impression Expression

Posted on April 10, 2024 by sputterpub

I’m sensing insecurities in all
I fondly visited so recently.
Five minds in bodies, bent to overhaul
experience that’s obvious to me.
I wonder how they’d fare if they could see
themselves relaxed and open to a flight
of fancy ballasted but ranging free.
I wish they’d let escape what’s wound so tight.

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A Cause

Posted on April 9, 2024 by sputterpub

It hurts to witness the emotions here –
a character oppressed and overworked;
a brain-reduced adult who’s never clear;
three teens by games and carbohydrates jerked.
I love them though I’d skirt this atmosphere,
but visit often lest my cause be shirked:
to nudge them up and stand behind their backs,
my arms in hug or brace for life’s attacks.

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Growing Pain

Posted on April 8, 2024 by sputterpub

Hostility’s perceptively reduced.
We see that 18 is a calmer age
than 16 was. Or maybe “calm” is loosed
with timely therapy. There is no gauge
available, but now the second’s juiced
by anger Mom can’t manage to assuage.
This middle kid was never harsh or mean
before, but recently achieved 16.

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Equipping

Posted on April 7, 2024 by sputterpub

On Easter eve we made a team of 3,
equipping baskets for the family
(although no one’s religious, very young,
or needing sugar raiment for the tongue).
The oldest would have rather done without,
but watched my daughter’s face suffuse with doubt
potentially resentful, or at least
sincerely disappointed, so I ceased
refusing, quick as Easter bunnies spring.
The other mind set sours everything.

Posted in Family, Holidays, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment

The Thrumming Din

Posted on April 6, 2024 by sputterpub

The thrumming din of rain enchants my ear;
it almost makes me want a roof of tin.
I turn the TV down, so I can hear
the thrumming din.

I scan the forecast – when will it begin?
I scrutinize for dark the atmosphere.
I don’t love leaks, but patter makes me grin.

All winter is my favorite time of year.
Though colder as I age, rain lets me spin
with glee. In nature’s temple I revere
the thrumming din.

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Mating Game

Posted on April 5, 2024 by sputterpub

I never found a soulmate, but I didn’t search for long.
I had no faith his feet were on the earth.
I harbored fancies in my head, but facts were always strong,
and likelihood was where I lived since birth.
The mating game seemed like a vote to me:
the field imperfect and the task to choose
the lesser (least?) of flawed humanity
that would reciprocate and not abuse
imagination, body parts, or time permitted us.
Romantic wait I never could sustain.
Perhaps I should have bided, dared, and staged flamboyant fuss,
but no one moved my heart or stirred my brain.

Posted in Love, Personality, Poetry | Tagged | Leave a comment