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)
Two score and seven after giving birth,
I choose these words to publicize a child
my husband and I loosed upon the earth
who’s always been a force, and seldom mild.
In some ways she reminded me of me,
but we’re as unalike in wit and taste
as I am from my mother – differently:
I didn’t try to mold her. She was placed
upon my breast, alert and beautiful,
her focus forming as she tasted air,
from Day One bright and rarely dutiful,
implacably herself without compare.
She wasn’t easy but she widened me,
expanding how I deem reality.
“Odds are…” “You never know…” we tossed around.
“Of course it isn’t likely, but he may
be prompted to improve.” And then she frowned,
asserting yet another bald cliche.
But I’ve seen new examples that confound
her banal expectations, so I say,
“My optimism’s cautious but sincere.
Let’s keep the faith. We might as well. We’re here.”
(Ottava Rima)
I know she’s fueled by malice and complaint.
I’ve watched her all my life, and heard a lot
of judgment, criticism – nothing faint
or circumspect, and not to be forgot.
Though motes of truth were scattered in her shot,
unduly mean but not a fantasy,
of late her snips and snipes at me have not
an intimation of veracity.
(Huitain)
I bought black market drugs some years ago,
when I was young and laws had not yet passed.
Back then, of course there was no way to know
their provenance – who held them next to last.
But that was better than Big Pharma’s show
(concealing fact and leaving me aghast).
So though I suffer stuffy aging head
I’ll duck the pharmacy, and breathe instead.
(Ottava Rima)
When you hear hurtful words, they may be true,
in which case you might heed and thereby learn,
or else they’re not and thus your point of view
can shift, indicting speaker. You can turn
away then from the fool insulting you,
and let that careless blurting speaker churn
alone in sinks of verbal paucity,
except you’d rather like her, if you’re me.
(Ottava Rima)
I like each poem I post, but some speak more
for me, and satisfy an itch I may
have not yet recognized. They might explore
a path unseen till now, or find a way
to pair the words that thrills me in my core.
I notice then no matter what I say,
what sings to me, true-put and firm-believed,
is likely to be not as well-received.
(Ottava Rima)
Is it too soon to put my nightclothes on,
at 2 p.m. on Sunday afternoon?
It’s light outside but all my vigor’s gone.
Is it too soon?
My stamina is low enough to swoon.
I’ve wrangled stimulated kids since dawn.
We danced around like we were a cartoon.
I’m strong but not a mighty Amazon.
I’m ready for the silence and cocoon
of solitude. I rub my face and yawn,
“is it too soon?”
Roundel
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