I never felt my name was right for me,
my parents’ choice too girly, and the last,
acquired through a marriage that would be
dissolved deservedly and somewhat fast,
yet after naming kids and company.
I bore it, but until events just passed,
attempts to steal this old identity,
I didn’t know how dear these tags became –
I’m driven to protect and keep my name.
(Ottava Rima)
I froze my credit. I secured each door.
I spoke to fraud departments and – oh wait!
Although I see no evidence of more
intrusion, looking at the redwood gate,
I note it isn’t latched the way I’m sure
I left it last. I’m strengthening its state.
I can’t prevent a climb but I can block
at bit, retard. I gild it with a lock.
(Ottava Rima)
Eight days before today, I wrote these words,
expecting when it publishes I’ll be
at table watching feeders ringed with birds,
and interacting with a family
I fly to now with loving frequency –
four days, five hundred miles in the air.
I write expecting equanimity –
may irks be minor and my manner fair.
(Huitain)
I learned about a rabies incident –
the victim of a mad dog didn’t get
the painful gut injections that prevent
the hydrophobia that will beset
and, odds are, take the life of who was bit.
The doctors had to battle, one-by-one,
each dire symptom as in time it hit,
until the course of illness had been run.
The victim lived. I recollect that tale
as fresh attacks are made on my I.D.
It seems through vigilance they’re bound to fail,
because of acts by banks and even me.
I didn’t buy a lawyer, tech vaccine
or Ring, but it appears my credit’s clean.
Ungracious me, I’m sure I didn’t thank
my friend enough for giving me a purse
I’d rather pick myself, if I am frank.
For truth be told, my losses were no curse.
It wasn’t hard to notify the bank.
To find replacements I am not averse.
Good gracious me, it would have been preferred,
if she had bought instead my careful word.
(Ottava Rima)
My family in Oregon have fried
this summer, as the Northwest veers to warm.
And East Coast relatives have all supplied
complaints of smoke and ash from firestorm.
But here this year we’re comfortable outside.
The weather has been mimicking our norm.
The atmosphere is sick. We’re still impaired,
but this notes we in ‘23 were spared.
(Ottava Rima)
The symptoms – evening time a clot of phlegm,
and midnight dryness in my throat or nose.
Then every day at nearly 8 a.m.
I count 10 sneezes till the mucus flows.
I wonder if I’m ill or should suppose
I’m aging into local allergies.
But as I suffer the 11th sneeze,
I feel a cough roll upward like a plow.
And then bronchitis prompts a modest wheeze.
Apparently I host a cold for now.
(Dizain)
The sympathy’s appreciated. But
it leads me to believe I ought to feel
more grief and insecurity at what
occurred last week. The violation’s real,
yet I’m serene in cranium and gut;
this thievery’s a petty kind of deal.
A mess suggests whoever played a part
was needy, grabby, leagues away from smart.
(Ottava Rima)
The violation must have taken place
on Friday over night, while I was gone
to children and their children, to embrace
young torsos and the games they’re doting on.
The Sunday morning mess and loss, at dawn
discovered, brought denial, then dismay,
but not for long. I’m not depression’s pawn.
I’m cleaning, dusting, purchasing today.
(Huitain)
Arriving home, the first clue was the gate,
but maybe neighbor Sally missed the latch
when she replaced the nozzle we both hate.
The second oddity I didn’t catch
until I glanced outside at half past eight –
my laundry door ajar that gaped a patch
of void which when it’s closed it never shows.
I didn’t see the mess till I arose.
(Ottava Rima)
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