Rhonda’s rigid routines sit hard in concrete
flexibility to her is nothing sweet
everything in her mind is a must at a certain o’clock
leave the house at seven-fifty after a hard door lock
Eight o’clock, arrive at work on time
eleven fifty-two, it is time to dine
after work have a green martini or two
frozen lasagna for supper, sliver of bread too
go to bed each night at nine on the dot
on Saturday report to the used car lot
Church every Sunday, no matter what
Rhonda was stuck in a self-imposed must-do, routine rut.
People live by their routines
And some will never bend ‘em,
While others are more flexible,
Not minding an addendum.
Yet it presents a challenge
When those sticklers will not budge;
Instead of going with the flow,
They mire themselves in sludge.
By losing opportunities,
It seems they’re missing out,
But maybe doing what they do
Is what they’re all about.
We follow rules that work for us
And everyone’s unique,
Since what feels good for others
May not be the path we seek.
Cycles and routines
create a loop
it can be positive or negative
the loop that is never ending
You can be stuck in a cycle of
progression or degression
seasons they never end
thats just how the loop
Begins.
go to bed •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning,
jog an 8K •thinking of you, wash up
drink some flavored, black coffee
watch the morning sun balloon
eat toast while reading a set amount
write my unique and uninteresting analysis
work on half a dozen, odd assignments
walk .8 miles to campus •thinking of you
team up, with some older, uninteresting guys
interview a focus group, present dataset interpretations
walk .8 miles back to my flat •thinking of you
eat while reading a set amount
go to bed •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning…
.
.
Songs for this:
Falling Down a Wellby Jack J
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee [E]
Breaking up the day into coffee and cabernet,
energy and relaxation, sunrise and sunset routines.
—by poet
Sunrise coffee, percolating,
poured into four seasons.
As soon as the mug’s drained,
brush pearly teeth, slide frothy floss,
Touch the sky where the sun should be;
the reach of xanthous rays.
Leftover steam from coffee-up -
blow on the sky; blue hue.
Cabernet in late afternoon;
cerise-cheers at sunset.
Dress down in seasonal pjs.
Brush pearls ‘til they sparkle.
Touch the sky where the moon should be -
the soothe of milky-white.
Remains a drop, dark berry -
the twilight sky infused.
some bright sequins of fun shined amidst dull threads of routines... art time none
Today I’m thankful for routines
Because if part of my routine is doing something
healthy…
for me…
that I adore…
Then I’ll be doing something today…
my future self will thank me for
Dark and ordinary mornings start,
with haptic taps from my Apple watch,
and a yawning stretch, way before dawn.
I glance out my window, to check,
the weather because that’s the spec,
that decides whether, we’re outside,
or we’re down to the gym inside.
“Alexa, brew,” I compel my AI
thank God, she understands,
and my Keurig gurgles to life.
I brush the ‘ol tusks and wash my face,
before wiggling into spandex and taking a place
on the bench by the door where our shoes are stored.
When Lisa comes out, stout coffee in hand,
she slumps on the bench, with a sleepy pout.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she confides with a yawn,
“I barely closed my eyes - then it was dawn!”
Checking my watch, I haven’t the heart,
to say ‘dawn’s a half hour after we start.’
Every morning we rise and jog a five K,
we decided, last year, that it’s the best way,
to jump-start our brains and start our day.
Poets write about love, pure and chaste,
and less about morning alarms and toothpaste
but in these moments, the ways we start our day,
can influence our lives in interesting ways.
he sat there in his room
gently shaking his head as
he chalked ducks on the floor
which then he carefully fed
over in the corner
watching him with glee
the asylum keeper counted
from one to ninety three
ceaselessly repetetive
each number chanted out
sometimes in a whisper
sometimes in a shout
the warden made his rounds
with his little boxes of pills
each chosen for efficacy
on a multitude of mental ills
they washed them down with water
on sundays gin and rum in lieu
carefully rationing the alcohol
to never more than a tot or two
and there were watchers watching
the watchers as they watched the rest
each watching watcher watched
in that observed observation test
it all made perfect sense of course
he thought as he shook his head
ensuring that each chalked duck
received its proper share of bread
and every single morning
when their clock struck ten
the asylum keeper blew a whistle
and the routine started off again
I
Wet sky, I
Must greet morning
Rewards my eye
Flying beings swarming
II
Birds, bats, locusts?
Suddenly swarms sundered -
Sundered by Comorants
Usual places wet
None for drying
Winged variety morning
Commuting to feed
As employees do
Routines go on
Beautiful -- wet, too
What do theologians call a life without events?
The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush.
I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning.
I begin the puppetry of morning routines:
I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain.
I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water
on the face with an almost determined lack of expression.
I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold
as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom
- keeps me fit and acceptably sane.
Later, bathed in hot indifference,
and clothed in exhausting obligations,
I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations.
Soon I’m ready for another taxing day
of waiting for the disease to run its course.
I used to be excited on Fridays.
I used to have interesting plans.
My weekends were non-stop hectic,
my time was in high demand.
Now I live in repeated patterns,
I’m a servant to boring routines.
A fleshy teenage automaton,
waiting for science to intervene.
Oh, I'm readier than a girl-scout,
I’m more prepared than a marine,
I’ll be out the door like a cartoon coyote,
the second I’m shot with vaccine.
Caregiver's Whispers
I know enough that age edged
and this ailment agent ridged
you onto this bed.
A bus that never travel places
But loops with different faces
In the morning, afternoon, and night.
While whose owners recite
pay you with their backs and brains.
Even though sometimes
the physiology of your body
and the chemistry of their day
shear a slight fate to swear,
it is totally blameless on any!
Perhaps the yoke of the routines
which bang us amid scenes
because it is priceless
to trade brain in for bread.
So, when you close your eyes,
wink at me with opened heart prize
Odd such moves
Fill old grooves
Time tells well
My odd spell
Cast of one
Said and done
Day by day
My own way
Notes said brief
No sad grief
Things to do
Me and you
That and this
Cause for bliss
I turn up
To fill cup
Each a gem
Words I hem
A short nap
In my cap
Verse and tale
Like odd gale
Wait just now
To know how
Words said plain
Breathe new gain
Like a game
Start out same
I work out
Best not shout
In a gist
A fond list
Words forge zest
Feel knows best
Routines call
Words heed all
Leon Enriquez
30 August 2019
Singapore
We all establish our routines
Which differ man to man
And stick to them (we women, too!)
Both when and if we can.
The time we wake, our washing up,
The toothpaste that we use,
The breakfast that we eat or not,
The paper we peruse…
The games we play, the friends we call,
The places we hang out,
The TV shows we watch or don’t
Define what we’re about.
Some people like to shake things up
And vary their routines
But mine are as embedded
As my blood type or my genes!
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