Yes, I know, I keep going on about mistflowers. They’re just so amazing. They show up for free. They’re native. Pollinators like them. They sow seeds everywhere because the seeds are small, lightweight, carry well in soft breezes. I’ve yet to put together the panel I took, and I’m too tired right now to do more than publish this barely-needed-editing photo I took this morning.
After 90 minutes at the computer, first time in days, I ached all over. Anti-inflammatory to the rescue! I realized a short time later that I had been awake the entire afternoon, that I had a small something that could be called appetite, and that I had the energy to go cook a very simple meal (my wife is marching behind me on this Road of Sickness).
What's this?
Is that my brain?
No! Really?
Consciousness, creative thought?
For more than one hour?
Oh, happy day!
Now listen up, Body:
You're lagging behind.
Yes, I actually stayed awake
through this afternoon—good start—
but you've got a long way to go.
I need appetite, normal temps,
and speaking of normal,
let's start sleeping at regular bedtimes.
I'm tired of getting up at four a.m.
Okay?
90/100
100 poems in 100 days
I didn’t think I would be posting a poem today. I woke at 4 a.m. because I turned out the lights to sleep around 7:15 p.m. I’ve been spending much of my time asleep these past three days. When I woke today my temp registered 102.4 in its continual upward climb. For a guy who normally registers 97.8, it was just too high. Couldn’t stay awake, but after another couple hours of sleep, I booked an early appointment at the UNC Urgent Care. In just over an hour I confirmed that I have the flu (A) despite testing negative for it on Thursday morning. Apparently the fever broke because they didn’t even get 100 until I made them do it again: 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Forcing myself to eat some toast, I napped yet again, but woke feeling a little more normal. That short period of lucidity produced the poem. Having napped again(!), I now feel I’m slipping downhill, but at least I know there’s nothing for it but to drink ridiculous amounts of water, sleep, and wait it out.
Why is it called
"The Flu"? From where
did it fly? To where
could it be going?
Certainly not far.
Like guests who say,
"I must be leaving,"
only to do anything but,
this unwanted visitor
refuses to leave or
to let us get on with
our lives. Sure, there's
some scientific mumbo-
jumbo about 'influenza'
but if your nickname's
The Flu that's enough
certitude for me. Long
ago I had The Flu.
One night I thought I might
be dying, so scoured by
its fevers. This time I
half wished for that kind
of fever to carry me away,
to wherever it flies. Now
boarding Airline Flu!
88/100
100 poems in 100 days
Fall jammed its foot
in our weather's door
today. Summer will
make peace with it
three days from now,
but we'll all be uneasy.
Perhaps Summer might
assert itself? Take over
October's start? Push
those eighties at us?
"Eighty is the new Ninety."
But Fall's persistent.
It knows its time has
come. One, two weeks,
no big deal. It can wait.
Regardless, trees will
shower leaves now, birds
will pack their bags, our
storms will turn cold.
How can sixty-some feel balmy,
nice, when Spring reminds
Winter it's time to leave? How?
Remember that while you're
resurfacing sweaters, wool,
long sleeves, rain gear, while
readying fireplaces, heaters,
thermostat settings, while
finding those recipes for
soup, stew, hearty breads.
While dreaming about when
these temps will be welcome.
85/100
100 poems in 100 days
W I D E O P E N S P A C E S
pull wandering eyes to possibilities
more expansive, more accepting
of greater distances, as if taking
your car to the next town over
were no different than running
downtown for your errands.
Islands—physical, urban, mental—
inhibit, implode possibilities, put
'too far' signs on near horizons,
as if traveling to city's center
might entice disastrous demons
to steal rational thought from
your well-balanced senses.
"Why would you want to see
Pittsburgh?" asked my friend,
lifelong Philadelphian—
"Because I've never seen it,"
my response—"I've never seen
it either!"—he claimed fifty years.
Her father-in-law's village
nestled near Windermere
in England's Lake District.
He complained he hadn't
seen his best friend in years.
"But why?" she asked, "he
only lives one village
over."—"It's too far."—
"It's only five miles away!"
High school athletes from
Havre, Montana; Colville,
Washington; Priest River,
Idaho; any small, one-school-
fits-all center for everything
educational, all claim one
commonality: their parents
think of distance in units of
time not distance, add one
dose of necessity to the mix,
stir, and pour their lives into
driving, driving, driving—
etching mental maps on
synapses stretched to "yes"
84/100
100 poems in 100 days
It’s time to find a poem again! Yay! Today’s paradigm will be…what I found over the past 50 hours.
pills once taken for entertainment
now do anything but, maintaining
dubious adherence to general
opinion. schedules provide
meaningless information to
entice us with false surety.
familiarity with annoying
situations eases moving
through them, no one's idea
of good design. security doors
which open for everyone.
here mister tee-ess-eh? will
you pass this through your
magic gate? how does he know
it won't explode? not planning
for Game Day in your bar
most assuredly epitomizes
poor planning, understaffing,
my lovely barmaid. silent
Uber drivers receiving their
instructions in Chinese,
afraid to make eye contact.
beautiful golf courses, those
green monuments to money,
grass, dominating nature.
never in one dozen years
has any hotel thermostat
delivered any temperature
near its displayed number.
until you knot your necktie
around your head like poetry's
morning Rambo to avenge this
collection of glib promises,
lame excuses, forms without
function, lies of omission.
"Reality, I'm coming...for...you!"
83/100
100 poems in 100 days
I attended a memorial today for my first cousin, once removed, my mother’s cousin who showed at the funerals of both my parents. How could I not fly across the country to mark his passing?
family asserts, sending roots
which become us, their shoots:
defiant, ambivalent, loving,
we only succeed in proving
our roots run deeper. They belie
that upon which we say we rely.
Rare friend indeed who commands
instant connection, instant demands
upon our heart. Relatives though
take love for granted, seem to know
our innermost secrets, history:
this connection remains our mystery.
82/100
100 poems in 100 days
Flew cross-country yesterday, arriving in Seattle at dinner time. After several wonderful West Coast beers and a burger, my East coast biorhythms took hold: “It’s almost 11 p.m., nimrod! Go to sleep!” I did just that, totally forgetting the poem at all. At least there are “four.”
AIRPORT HAIKU
Non Sequitur
"If you listen to
music, you must use headphones
or mute your speakers."
Airport Cool
Act like you've been here
before, but hang onto your
sense of innocence.
You Could Have Walked
She pumps her arm up,
down; he mimics her with his
left arm: Oh! Fitbits!
Meaningless Schedules
Late again leaving
gate. When all flights arrive late
Aren't they all on time?
81/100
100 poems in 100 days
Would it help to know I’m a double-Gemini (both sun sign and ascendent)?
Dichotomy,
meet Contrary.
Loved sport—disliked
jocks, hated pep rallies.
Baptized at thirteen,
Atheist at eighteen,
Agnostic at twenty-five,
Catholic at thirty-nine.
Supported group marriage
of the "line" variety, found
monogamy difficult enough.
Voted for Carter, editorialized
supporting Reagan.
Call Washington "home,"
Can't live there—love rainy,
warm South-East. Love
spicy food, can't eat it.
Believe sobriety equals our
natural state; drink like a fish.
Studied communications,
journalism, wound up
playing scientific expert.
Planned working to seventy,
retired at sixty-five.
Believe in "live every day
as if it's your last," stand
fixated in space-time's
ambergris, pinned by
my dwindling time.
Don't believe astrology
(much) though I studied
it enough to know
ascendents from sun-signs
yet how can this Gemini
resist, confronting
all these two-faced
contradictions?
80/100
Every Wednesday from September through May we attend a rigorous choir rehearsal for two hours at Raleigh’s Holy Name of Jesus Cathedral. We arrive home at our usual retire-to-the-bedroom time, far too wired to think about climbing into bed for some quick reading and lights out. (We’re old, and heck, I’ve been turning out the lights between 9:30-10 p.m. for the past 30 years.) At our age, staying up another two hours or so, as we do, is akin to traveling a couple time zones to the west. We wake up a bit fazed, disoriented, run down—more so if we indulged a nightcap the night before. Several years ago, we realized that our attitudes toward the next day resembled how we used to think of Fridays: no big responsibilities faced us the remainder of the week, particularly after noon; we usually felt like knocking off early and grabbing a drink; it seemed to be a day just made to relax and have fun. Therefore…First Friday was born, the opening act to Second Friday, Real Friday, harbinger of the weekend.
Today’s particularly fuzzy: it seemed a good time to write an ode to the day.
First Friday, A-K-A Thursday,
when all your cares dissipate,
dissolved in to-do tasks left
unfinished. Thursday greets
Wednesday's final push to
birth Accomplishment with,
"so what?" and "what's minimal?"
Creeping emotionally
on hands, knees, you find
one singular moment,
Accomplisment balanced
against Surrender; do you
give in to the latter at
two or at four, because it
always ends that way,
doesn't it? Energies
wind down. First Friday
knows Second Friday,
"Real" Friday will take
up slack, relishing her
finish-with-a-bang
sense of theatrics,
her role as Gateway
to Weekend. Thursday
smugly smiles. Her
finish occurred
before her start.
79/100
100 poems in 100 days (and that’s three more weeks!)
