Caveat: Poem #527

Just
Tuesday.
The long week
stretches ahead.
Though I like my work,
Sometimes I start feeling
stuck, frustrated, and doubtful,
about my actual teaching.
Wanting to be good isn't enough.

Caveat: Poem #525

The snow doesn't come when it's forecast,
instead it waits and just sneaks in
at those unexpected times
between the days and hours,
at the welds of time.
No one sees it:
the sky fills…
motes of
white.

Caveat: Poem #524

Certain flaws of character
tattooed on the skin of the soul
and borne agonistically
through the beautiful world
without compromise or clarity.

This poem, unlike most of my daily efforts so far, has no meter. It's free verse.

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

Caveat: Poem #522

The conversation takes a wrong turn.
The mood slips down into a mode
of a defensive anger.
Words then transform themselves
into parries, thrusts.
Whence this attack?
Disturbing.
Seething.
Dark.

Caveat: Poem #520

ㅁ
The doctor's office was still the same.
"I don't see anything," he said,
looking at the CT scan,
and pushing on the mouse.
I felt the tension
rush out of me.
I could breathe.
He smiled.
Good.

– a nonnet.
picture

Caveat: Poem #519

Twice a year, now, I get checked for cancer;
these dates with doctors, big machines and fate…
small fears begin to worm into my mind:
I can't retain a happy, easy mood.

Caveat: Poem #514

Then, I took some words and placed them,
Face up, meanings showing.
Knowing what they meant, all humdrum,
Still you pondered, asking, why some
Words were missed: "It's snowing."

Caveat: Poem #511

Sun
rises
and slowly
illuminates
the snow-covered trees
lurking on the hillsides
until a lance of purple
and gold reaches out to just touch
the frosted edge of my window frame.

Caveat: Poem #510

I said to them "Let's choose a song to do,
that everyone agrees is fun to learn."
They wasted over fifteen minutes while
deciding what they thought would be the best,
and then at last we started through the song…
a hand shot up: "This song is boring! Stop!"

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

Caveat: Poem #505

I have two neighbors, who both, it seems,
like to make noise. One plays keyboard,
repeating the same bland tune.
The other cleans her floor
with a rattling
floor sweeper thing.
Today, they
were in
sync.

Caveat: Poem #495

sounds
that fail
to form words,
but just spill out
like torrential rain -
at some moments quiet
incoherent murmurings,
but then drumming against the walls,
aggressive, challenging all meanings
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