“How can I bring a child into this,
our fucked-up world? I just don’t think that’s right.”
I’ve heard the claim that global messiness
disputes gestation of new life. It might
make sense if birth were for the embryo
alone – to set an egg-and-sperm to grow.
How full or halfway empty is your cup?
We all need little kids, to cheer us up…
They called the generation Great, who bore
as children the Depression, and then fought
a few years later in the awful war
(that birthed the bomb) in which the world was caught.
But speaking as a child of that lot,
before the last of them has passed away,
I’ll mention errors everyone forgot
amid PR and movie fiction’s sway.
The cohort all agreed that they had earned
the right to self-indulgence, so they made
the suburbs, pill-abuse, and they unlearned
all debts to earth while chasing global trade.
Attending to resentment for lost youth
they focused on themselves, and tarred the truth.
I long to know the reason we’re all here.
I recollect that as my lasting goal.
As far as I remember, it was clear –
the question bloomed and never left my soul.
I set myself to plumb the depth of me,
eschewing all delusion and pretend.
In earnest I allowed no fantasy,
pursuing meaning as my means to end.
I mated twice, and each time tried to parse
the truth of him, inviting a return.
No matter how I tried the yield was sparse,
for shame and habit barred the path to learn.
I kept my aim. My mirror sight was keen,
but neither you nor I are fully seen.
It’s no big deal – it’s just a Wordle game,
and though at first I played at several types,
I never registered a username
or password. I ignored attempted hypes.
But still I see statistics all the same,
and while I’m not expressing any gripes,
some quick addition, if one cares to peek,
reveals a glitch display in winning streak.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m not hungry, but
here are two ripe nectarines:
sticky temptation.
How often now I wake and feel my age,
and shuffle to the kitchen for my brew,
and listen to my neck, and try to gauge
the quantity of creaks and tweaks. I skew
intention – maybe I should rest today.
Perhaps I’ll take it easy – skip the bike
and yoga too – just read a book and play
at solitaire – that could be what I’d like.
But thirty minutes later something stirs
in me. I figure I can stretch at least.
And bending leads to poses leads to spurs
to pedal, just a little, soon increased
to constitute my customary ride,
and yield delight at how I feel inside.
I noticed the unnoticed in my youth –
my friends and neighbors often failed to see
the world around themselves. But here’s the truth –
the situation’s worsened drastically.
No doubt the Web and brain plasticity
have changed those minds – distractive in all ways,
inducing stuttered impulsivity,
but how I wish you’d just look up, and gaze.
(Huitain)
I walked into a bookstore and secured
the lowest-paying job I loved the best.
I got to spend my days with dust, immured
amid used books, near maps, at the behest
of inattentive managers. I sold
the stuff I craved; I dealt in print with glee.
I found old folios and grew so bold
I hawked the 13-volume O.E.D.
I interrupted college to work more,
advancing to book order and return,
and searching for the out-of-print. That store
was love but little profit, as I’d learn.
I have no better memories, I think.
I read a Kindle now, but still love ink.
In time I moved ahead, as did the shop.
The owner passed – retirement or death
attracted a new buyer. Soon a stop
was put to vintage – retail paid for breadth
of profit and the changes, banal, dull,
made uninviting any future there.
But I went on with love of books so full,
I always sought more shelf space everywhere.
Eventually I downsized to this place.
I had to part with hundreds and restrict
my further acquisitions. I have space
for what is here – in general, well-picked.
Such books have been my sweetest friends, I think.
I read a Kindle now, but still love ink.
I’m sorry for your loss, my sister-friend.
Although there wasn’t likelihood you’d get
maternal love and nurture, still, her end
eliminates the chance that she’d regret
her failure, and employ this time in tender
late expression. Please don’t be upset
too much – she suffered punishment of sorts.
You saw her live too long, by all reports.
(Ottava Rima)
I’ll want to say I missed you when you’re back,
but I don’t think those words will be sincere.
We talk too much – I never feel a lack –
and you’re so often home you’re always near.
You like to wage a vehement attack
against old ills. I wish you’d disappear
for just a little longer, my dear friend,
and then my loneliness won’t be pretend.
(Ottava Rima)
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