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)
Her personality was always huge –
she would have scared me but I have one too.
And of her three offspring, her centrifuge
released a kid who’s markedly askew
and difficult, diverging from the norm.
The atmosphere around their house is tense
at times – two characters on cusp of storm
in subjects that to others make no sense.
Familiar are their oddities to me.
I recommend that they consult each other,
and find an avenue that lets them be
themselves, but get along with dad and brother.
They have advantages I didn’t own –
I get them, and they neither are alone.
A little left of center, just below
the Yerba Buena midpoint of the spans,
I spent most daylights many years ago,
careering accidentally for scores
of clients then referred to me to grow
their wages into wealth by using time
and tax deduction. Decades whiled so,
and then we moved our office and their plans
across this shot, Uptown, where buildings show.
(Magic 9)
You know I like word origin, and wit.
I tend to read 200 years ago,
when writers strove to use appropriate
and careful language, often mixing flow
of syllable with concept, and a bit
of multi-sense or syntax, chosen so
a reader could enjoy the space between
the essence of minute in nice and mean.
(Ottava Rima)
Observing the behavior of some friends,
assessing misdirection trod by kin,
and knowing where futility extends
if I were to object or just begin
advising with a grimace or a grin,
I realize I should aim the scope instead
at infant implants under my own skin,
and ancient habits networking my head.
(Huitain)
A revolution’s start has neither place
nor time for nuance, subtlety, or laughs.
A splinter group must chisel out a space
where every claim is deadly serious,
and every member’s loyalty can grace
a clan dynamic tenuously grown.
So turns the tendency and limps the pace.
But I still dream another way, with staffs
for song, and lines for story’s comic face.
(Magic 9)
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