A staggered walking shuffle after stroke,
a toddler’s drunken stumble to a chair,
a tentative attempt when someone spoke
on subjects sensitive, with urgent care,
all beg for some encouragement, and share
a need for help developing a knack.
I can’t imagine any act more fair
than gentle push of palm upon the back.
(Huitain)
Alone is worse, perhaps, but maybe not.
This year our conversation’s like a curse.
I used to like to talk with you a lot.
Alone is worse?
We’re neither so infirm we need a nurse,
and though there’s nouns I know you have forgot,
I wait for wit and now receive reverse.
Declaring love, of late I’m sensing rot.
Avoiding bicker trims my talk to terse.
I doubt the phrase that I’m about to jot:
alone is worse.
(Roundel)
I know you work on balance, heart and mind
and body too, and you are 48.
To expectations I am not inclined –
comparing paths is vain – we can’t equate
our progress for you’re scores of years behind
(a generation, if we calibrate).
Advice is cheap, but don’t seek recompense
from bitter martyrdom. That’s my two cents.
(Ottava Rima)
As when a high-rise building is allowed
to stand above, behind, and at each side
of some historic storefront, there’s a crowd
of new construction bordering my pride
and joy, the haven where I love to bide.
My cottage has existed 80 years
without a neighbor. Now a pair appears.
I understand. To build here is a must –
the people press and we’ve no new frontiers.
But I may need a while to adjust.
(Dizain)
The persimmons hang
as ornaments from leaf-lost
December branches.
The solitaire was challenging today.
I should have stopped – I have a lot to do.
But I indulged a stubborn drive to play,
and that resulted in an altered view
of what and when desires I’d pursue.
The sweet result was hours I enjoyed –
a little less exertion and a new
perspective on how stamina’s deployed.
(Huitain)
She needs her guilt. She has to feel that sink
of self-esteem that pushes her to wilt.
Erect she’s off. No matter what you think,
she needs her guilt.
Pathology has brought her to a tilt
without an avenue except to brink
of darkness where her possibles are spilt.
And so she clutches, winces, tries to blink
away the tears that stain the walls she’s built.
To justify and earn another drink,
she needs her guilt.
(Roundel)
I used to wonder at discourtesy –
that drivers will act so impatiently
when piloting from point A to point B
in vehicles that move so rapidly.
I asked my brother and I queried friends.
I entertained a theory that transcends
all logic, and another one with bends.
I got four shrugs on means, but to no ends.
And finally an answer soft-arose.
I realized that we humans may be kind,
until we’re forced into a crowded pose –
we prickle then, and some leave nice behind.
Conditions can annoy us any place,
but we’re in cars – that’s where we forfeit grace.
“You have kind eyes,” the cashier said to me,
while ringing up five items at the store.
I smiled, and I thanked him pleasantly,
and carried that and backpack through the door.
The notion stuck. I thought on it some more,
and maybe that’s the reason it took root,
but dealing with a small retail dispute
just after that, that showed the clerk to be
in error, while her “sorry” was acute,
her eyes conveyed overt hostility.
(Dizain)
Unlikely this existence had to be –
a life-allowing planet first of all;
a primate’s gradual ability
to walk and climb and run, that used to crawl;
that reproduced a line successfully,
by gamete generated to enthrall
adults to nurture me to fully grown…
I’m grateful for what consciousness I’ve known.
(Ottava Rima)
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