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)
Sometimes I try to keep a memory.
I recognize a moment to retain,
and plant it in my brain deliberately.
Recording for the future, I maintain
its health against a certain bout of pain
that’s bound to come for, aging, what I know
is life will fluctuate and vary so.
But I’ve learned not to play recall at first
when struck by grief. I have to let it flow
to ebb, or else the recollection’s cursed.
(Dizain)
“Like any other parent,” stated she,
“I want my children happy.” I conveyed
a little argument. “It seems to me
we aim instead avoidance of the shade
unhappiness to darken them.” That made
good sense to her – she understands and cares.
But when I told my friend, she harsh-displayed
stupidity, and said “You’re splitting hairs.”
(Huitain)
My oldest friend reported recently
her brother took his life three months ago.
Her phrases dropped with such finality,
they struck and haven’t left my head, although
they weren’t close, and half a century
has passed since he would terrify us so.
I don’t know if he used his gun or knife;
I mourn his past and present waste of life.
(Ottava Rima)
My office, an uninsulated shed,
is chilly now to nearly March each year.
I have a heater that can quickly spread
the warmth I need to type and pedal here.
But I returned from travel to a queer
aroma and a noise that shouldn’t be.
The next day the appliance balked at me –
it didn’t light or sound or work at all.
I donned a coat and gloves for industry,
and ordered wattage from the online mall.
(Dizain)
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