It seems Nextdoor attracts a local group
with whom I wouldn’t party or converse
about the things that interest me. Each scoop
of news reports a lurk or something worse:
invasion caught on camera from a stoop;
smashed auto glass; a shoving grab of purse.
They write of fright at noises every night
that aren’t like the varmints in my site.
(Ottava Rima)
Is this unease I feel? What’s bugging me?
My health is good, the weather’s fine; today
I have no tasks, no place I have to be,
and as I run an intimate survey,
I’ve not offended friends or family.
I haven’t lost my memory or way.
My slate is clean. I’m struck with no mishap.
There’s nothing wrong. Perhaps I’ll take a nap.
(Ottava Rima)
I’m not a nudist but I’ve been around
some clothing-optional environments:
hot tubs, exotic beaches, places found
in wilderness or travel. No offense
was ever offered and I try to ground
my vision, but to me it makes no sense
to bare the skin to San Francisco cold –
in 63 degrees, this body’s bold.
(Ottava Rima)
A skunk explored the garden yesterday
at 10 a.m. – a little late to show.
Twelve hours later raccoons raced their way
across my roof. They thumped and scurried so,
I nearly yelled through skylights – “time to go!”
I found a moving bug inside the stone
that split within my peach. I rose to throw
it out. An owl crooned a tender tone.
(Huitain)
My thoughts are stuffed with pillows recently,
inspired by a sham that shows some stain,
compounded by a purchase bought for me –
a cushion filled with buckwheat hulls, a main
support I’ve taken to use frequently.
The sham is old – it’s more than served. It’s lain
too long abed. I looked and browsed, and face it –
I’m filled with will and down to now replace it.
(Ottava Rima)
I want to be engaged but I’m annoyed –
bad grammar, sentence fragments, run-ons too.
If they were used deliberately, employed
in aid of narrative or ringing true
to dialect, supporting point of view,
well that would be excuse. But this is bad.
The plot’s okay, but can I see it through?
Poor overwritten language makes me mad.
(Huitain)
My mood was good already, but it rose
a little higher when I saw the birds –
two pigeons gazing roadward in a pose
suggesting they were monitors of cars.
They perched, wings folded, steel beneath their toes,
and seemed when traffic passed them to converse.
I snapped two photos, grinning, and I chose
to capture them as well in careful words,
selecting wings of meter over prose.
(Magic 9)
Her argument was vehement and fast –
abrupt and cold refusal to abet
my statement there’s a difference (nothing vast)
in quality of parents siblings get.
Maintaining that her sister knew the same
attention, action, discipline she had,
for they were close in age (two years), became
annoying to me from my old comrade.
She wasn’t using memory or mind –
those 20-somethings had to morph, of course.
And marriages evolve – love will unwind
or grow, to prosper or to find divorce.
My friend says her objective is to learn.
I wish she’d lighten up and be less stern.
The office for my home’s a wooden shed,
with outlets and sufficient window glass
but little insulation. Comfort’s fed
electrically, by heater or by fan.
The former is to warm my hands and head
all winter long. The fan makes breeze from June
to autumn – till this year. I leave my bed
each morning and I greet a chilly mass.
My fan is idle now. I heat instead.
(Magic 9)
It doesn’t take that long to sweep what drops
from branches of the eucalyptus tree,
but lately leaf- and bark-fall never stops –
each day a new assortment’s there to see.
Attractive and provocative to me,
enticing tidiness about my home,
I daily gather, and they’re frequently
an inspiration for a homely poem.
(Huitain)
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