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)
I gave up cannabis a while ago.
I had to stop all smoking, and what’s more,
the high was unreliable. I know
some other ways to take it in, but vape
induced a cough, and gummies didn’t show
a benefit I could appreciate.
My wisdom discount made my brother glow –
I went with him to purchase as before.
But I’m not needed now he’s aging so.
(Magic 9)
You’re always tired now. We understand.
You’re nearly 98, and what’s required
is rest, although that isn’t what you planned.
You’re always tired.
We wish these slowing changes had inspired
some thoughtfulness, a little self-command,
but you’d as soon return to feeling wired.
So you complain. You ever have at hand
a grudge, a criticism gripe-desired.
You’re negative, and days are like quicksand.
You’re always tired.
(Roundel)
If I were you I wouldn’t fret so much –
I’d never let insomnia affect
my attitude. I’d try to get in touch
with rest by inspiration. I’d expect
to soothe with meditation, breath and such.
I wouldn’t toss until my sheets were wrecked,
or seek an aid from CVS’s shelf.
But I’m not you. I only guide myself.
(Ottava Rima)
The dowager becomes more miserly
with every year that’s passed. Although her wealth
increases from compound longevity,
and she sustains most limb and organ health,
her gift for giving dims more than her sight;
her spending’s lost more volume than her ears.
For holidays she writes a check so light,
she hasn’t upped the quantity in years.
She turns away from strategies to peel
the liquid cash from assets in degrees
advised; she finds excuse to spurn the poor.
And losing sleep if we research the deal
she tantrums, but the source of her unease
is worry that we’ll notice and deplore.
I wonder why I heard the train today.
Inversion in the atmosphere can bring
the whistle from the tracks that edge the bay,
but weathermen have not said anything
of variance. The rails are miles away
(like two point five by crow or seagull wing).
The train sound’s rare. The volume wasn’t strong,
but serenaded like a pleasing song.
(Ottava Rima)
We made the cookies early Saturday.
Participants were two years old and six.
They measured solids carefully the way
we read, while I creamed sugar with the sticks
of butter, to the texture of wet clay.
Our bowl soon held a yummy perfect mix
we rolled in balls they rolled in brown and white.
And then we baked, and ate, to their delight.
(Ottava Rima)
By planting passionflower once, I found
I didn’t like its ranginess – the way
its branches climbed in clusters from the ground
and how it dominated the display
my trellis offered, crowding till it crowned
the young wisteria in spring’s array.
I pulled that passionflower vine by fall,
but I still like it on my neighbor’s wall.
(Ottava Rima)
I started hearing hoots a week ago –
an evening croon from somewhere up above
that penetrated consciousness to throw
attention from TV to trees I love.
I couldn’t guess at first. I didn’t know
who spoke, except it was no mourning dove.
I haven’t seen her form to know what fowl
is roosting near. I think I host an owl.
(Ottava Rima)
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