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)
Impossible to rehabilitate
if ultimatum’s used to push or pull.
That’s common but no way to motivate:
impossible.
She has no work to be responsible
about; she doesn’t move and won’t create;
she’s home all day; her plate is never full.
In solitude, how can she modulate?
She gathers nothing but some tufts of wool.
We feel you, but we’re hopeless as we state:
impossible.
(Roundel)
No sooner does the eastern building rise,
than framing to the north of me begins.
At least this one will not assault my eyes –
it happens that I’m windowless that way.
I’m hopeful neighbor noise won’t agonize
(the owners seek no tenants for the space).
We spoke; I read the plans; it’s no surprise
to see this edifice. The origins
of density demand a compromise.
(Magic 9)
“With baby steps,” she countered more than once,
when we discussed the changes she must make,
as if I had suggested she’s a dunce
or ineffective, when she needn’t take
that tone (abrupt and harsh), for goodness sake.
She’s bright, and her impatient tendency
impels her to cliched philosophy,
especially in throes of dire strait.
This baby must develop pace and be
a traveler who uses fuller gait.
(Dizain)
In 1951, some would have said
that youngster’s a bad seed, a vicious boy
who baits his sister, sneaks out of his bed,
steals booze and smokes from parents to enjoy
when he should be asleep. He would have led
a gang if some would follow him, employ
his brain to cheat and duck and lie, instead
of learning. Nowadays he might be called
a borderline, but still we’d be appalled.
I woke 10 minutes after 4 o’clock
abruptly, out of nestled dreaming sleep,
to one percussive slap or rap or knock,
as if a creature begged to breach my keep.
But outside my Dutch door latch and its lock
no figure lurked. I toured my place. A sweep
of eyes revealed my vigilance absurd.
And that’s how I began December 3rd.
(Ottava Rima)
Impossible to do in hardpan soil –
a tree root might prevail but nothing less
and nothing quick. A seam of clay can foil
aims for horticultural success.
What might produce a bloom’s a waste of toil
to plant in guarded old hardheadedness.
Reserving effort for more fertile ground,
the seeds deserve reception soft and sound.
(Ottava Rima)
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