My mother never filters her own speech
among her family or closest friends.
Whenever I’d correct her and beseech
her to speak gentler, she’ll excuse herself
by claiming that such freedoms only reach
to those she loves the most. She’ll justify
impulsive with affection’s guise on each
occasion when her language most offends.
Sadistic comment classes she could teach.
(Magic 9)
I’m taking stock right now of how I feel.
I try to do this every single day,
but I’m about to leave, and as I reel
among my body parts, I sense okay.
The pains of yesterday have gone away –
that tweak in upper back has disappeared.
My foot is well. All indications say
I’m good to go and happy to be weird.
(Huitain)
Ahead of me, a woman walks uphill.
She’s dressed for exercise, with phone to ear.
She angles leftward toward the street, until
she nears the curb, and then she turns to veer
to right and plodding on her way, proceeds
zigzagging up the street. I can’t decide –
is she distracted? processing some needs
to add more steps by walking side-to-side?
And next I watch a guy in my BART car
switch trains but only ride one station more.
The rails he left would take him just as far,
so why did he elect to transfer? Sure
I witnessed slightly strange, but no one harmed.
By chance-encountered strangers I’m disarmed.
When I set up my kitchen as a spouse
of 23 (the ones before were loose
arrangements with my roommates, in a house
or casual apartment – no excuse,
but no deliberate acquisition spree),
I purchased several powders, I recall,
to douse a kitchen fire, should there be
an accident when cooking. After all,
I’d seen my mother more than once or twice
extinguish grease with bicarb or with salt
(and once with scouring powder – that was nice).
I made our place equipped for fire halt.
It took me several years – no flame occurred –
to realize Mom’s mishaps were not assured.
So many things my mother said were wrong.
I had suspicions early, but I tried
obedience at first. It wasn’t long
before I grew to be dissatisfied.
I ran my own experiments – a throng
of variance successfully applied.
Each step led to another, till my way
diverged in full from all she had to say.
(Ottava Rima)
Pure indolence is challenging for me.
No matter where I am I note a task
inviting some degree of industry,
although nobody is around to ask.
Today I need to rest. I want to bask.
I have no plans, no need to leave my home.
I’ll take a bath and then apply a masque,
but not apply myself, save to this poem.
(Huitain)
I’m paying close attention to my back.
An area was damaged long ago,
and it’s been warning me it might attack
my peace and introduce some pain. I slow
my pace, I bend with care, avoiding wrack
and twinge, but sad to say the winces grow.
Alas – I had three days of feeling fine,
but now I have to nurse a sorry spine.
(Ottava Rima)
Wouldn’t you think it both honest and right,
to repay extension of credit so fast
your lender in future will treat you less tight
and self-esteem flourishes lively and vast?
Wherein is honor if there’s a delay
without explanation or giving good cause?
These are old concepts, and they should convey
a goad to avoidance of ethical flaws.
I won’t assert or blurt, but I’ll record
a temporary state of well in me.
I’m currently unhurt – if I could hoard
this soundness, I would try to brew a tonic –
my cohort then could give me an award
for curing their acute and easing chronic.
But that’s impossible. Life won’t afford
the time or space for such a remedy.
For now I’ll savor vigor soft-restored.
(Magic 9)
Imagining the ocean drawing back,
receding from the shore and pulling sand,
and then reversing in a froth attack
that tumbles pebbles on the briny strand,
is how I think when breathing deep and full.
Inhaling I can sense the ocean’s pull.
My exhalation mimics foam at reach
to push the boundary from sea to beach.
And though the yogi speaks of trough and crest,
for me the thought of ebb and flow works best.
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