It’s going well, although there’s one small test
ahead, which will not discommode or smell.
The phrase that captures life this week the best?
It’s going well.
I love my work, my kids, the place I dwell.
I don’t sleep long at night, but I get rest.
There’s nothing pushing that I would repel.
I must pursue a bureaucratic quest,
but I think I’ll succeed without a spell.
For now my vigor’s fine. I’m feeling blessed.
It‘s going well.
Attending to the guidelines, quantities
and measurements, screening protocol,
for 40 minutes I gave histories
and answers. I posed questions after all,
about the aging symptoms – phlegm and sneeze
and ready bruising, breath and ethanol.
I left relieved, unchanged, with nothing wincing,
resolved to increase daily nasal rinsing.
She took her time committing to the work,
but now she’s gym-bound twice a week or more.
She learned the benefits – she’s not a jerk –
but won’t apply the lesson. I’d implore
about home yoga, but she’ll just ignore
at best; or worse, she’ll bristle and resent,
preferring all those other friends who meant
to coddle disability with care.
I think she’s well enough, but I’ll relent –
I know my words won’t move her anywhere.
On January 2, I started in
with 30 days of yoga where I dwell.
Day Zero – New Year’s – led me to begin,
and I choose 30 lines to show & tell
routine I know will lead to feeling well.
Intending to compose dizains for thirds,
I hope to find the rhythm and the words
in 10-line stanzas, on curated moves.
Each iamb builds a headband that begirds
intention, as my posturing improves.
The afternoon was gray. Without was rain.
Within I kept 2 children company.
Observing we could make a paper chain,
first 6 endorsed, approved by almost-3.
We found some colored paper in 5 shades,
a roll of tape and scissors I could use
(to cut effectively took grownup blades),
and then we sat to labor and amuse.
Scotch tape dispenser was my job to do.
He governed paper strips and dealt them round.
She giggle-garlanded as linkage grew.
Then all together we festooned, and wound
the longest chain we’d ever formed before.
So now the tree will stand a few days more.
You never thought your cousin would reply,
and yet you sent resentment, overwrought
and angry, heels dug in, about to cry.
You never thought…
You knew you should suppress the impulse, fraught
with indignation, shrapnel in your eye,
flailing blind, forgetting that you taught
us all to true our aim before we ply
our words. You let yourself by rage be caught,
and now your ire has to multiply.
You never thought.
It wasn’t you who helped me overhaul
perspective in the pits of 22
years old. You gave advice, but overall,
it wasn’t you.
Some bar room rules you mentioned – that is true –
and how to flirt or even fake a drawl.
But thinking on it now, your mots were few.
I didn’t beg for expertise in mall
affairs. I’d have you think before you do.
Reviewing memories, I can recall
it wasn’t you.
Is this compulsive, or a discipline,
to daily post a poem for near four years?
It had a therapeutic origin
in quarantine – locked in I thought for weeks,
I figured I would give new forms a spin
(I’d worked in sonnets for some decades then).
I’m now near fourteen hundred mornings in,
and no impulse to stop this craft appears.
It’s under, like a fine tattoo, my skin.
Last night I didn’t hear a ceiling sound.
No thump or whimper moved me while I slept.
There’s nothing musky in the air around
me now, and nothing black & white has crept
peripherally into sight. I found
no sign of skunks today to intercept
my peace and atmosphere, but I don’t guess
they’ve yet removed their noise and noisomeness.
(Ottava Rima)
Twice recently I woke amidst a dream
in which I had a worry or concern
about my little girl or boy. The scene
was not a nightmare, but it took a turn
of search or plan required, and between
the instant fade and blink, I’d time to learn
my circumstance was dream. Then real was known –
my kids are well away and fully grown.
(Ottava Rima)
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