The CEO of cowards is a rat.
He never was a winner – he’s a wimp.
We’re looking at a drake that has a limp.
Resembling the mean guy in a frat
who hazes with the morals of a pimp,
the CEO of cowards is a rat
(he never was a winner – he’s a wimp).
His muscles are illusion; he’s all fat.
His volume of hot air exceeds a blimp.
He’s bad like a mosquito or an imp.
The CEO of cowards is a rat.
He never was a winner – he’s a wimp.
We’re looking at a drake that has a limp.
(English Madrigal)
I never owned designer clothes or shoes,
but still I used to ponder what to wear.
To look all right and feel okay, I’d choose
my outfit carefully. I didn’t care
about the latest styles, but I took
some time and effort when I made my picks.
I paid attention to the feel and look –
what I in morning donned I couldn’t fix.
But 2020 is a fashion bust.
I have nowhere to go, no one to see.
My bubble is so tiny, I adjust
my choice of garb; it’s only seen by me
alone, at least 5 days in every week.
Deliberately I’m wearing nothing chic.
The winter solstice is upon us now –
today we have the shortest span of light.
We mark the start of winter, and allow
ourselves provisions to endure the night.
Tomorrow brings us longer light, and then
succeeding days will lengthen daytime’s rule.
The sun is coming back to us again –
the turnaround occurs with every yule.
And maybe it’s the endless quarantine,
but I’m more thoughtful this year than before.
It strikes me now as odd that we all mean
by “winter” the return of sunlight, more
than boding cold and early darkening.
We bottom out today, and move toward spring.
When we’re beyond this virus, will we look
at all the agony that we’ve endured,
and then conclude that, really, what it took
was waiting to by pharmacies be cured?
And for the next disease that sweeps the world
by global interaction, must we duck
inside our homes again, our present hurled
to argument, our clamor “What the fuck?”
Of course there has to be a wiser way
to travel, interact, inhabit here.
The age of grift and theft has had its day –
the limits breached, we lack a new frontier
to rape. We’d better wake and come aware:
if we’re to benefit, we have to share.
I used to be plumper and seldom felt cold.
I liked 68 degrees.
But now I’ve lost weight and I’ve gotten so old,
my hands every afternoon freeze.
I’ve always liked winter for hunkering in.
I’m fond of the fireplace view.
But now with my shivering herringbone skin,
I’m shifting to 72.
Entitled and intelligent, I blurt
(so fortunate I really can’t complain),
that even first world problems carry hurt –
if one’s alive one senses: pain is pain.
So I will mention (softly, like a mouse),
that though I love my hermitage, I learn
I need to leave the confines of my house,
if I’m to have the comfort of return.
I’m lucky, healthy, sheltered, on my own
(So what if I’m locked in? I’ll write a poem).
I can’t see half my kids except by phone.
Forever here I never welcome home.
I’m near-ashamed to gripe, but I assert
that pain is truly pain, and hurt is hurt.
Afraid to raise a subject with offspring
that could result in argument or breach
(not permanent but not a welcome thing),
I waited and rehearsed. I didn’t reach
the limit of unease until last night,
when need to calm exceeded caution’s rim.
With firm resolve I brought into the light
the subject. I conversed with her and him.
Then I was floored to see their unconcern.
They’d read and soon forgotten what I sent
two weeks ago – they’d other fish to burn.
Their daily stress is high. They hadn’t meant
offense or lack of sensitivity.
My angst was in my head. Again. That’s me.
I heard a story once, about a boy
who hoisted in the air a newborn bull,
determined to each morning re-employ
his muscles as the bullock grew. At full
size he would surely raise the beast, he thought.
That attitude seemed accurate to me.
But long before he pressed the weight he sought,
ambition was upset by atrophy.
I recollect that fable now, as I
observe my gym-rat friends fall out of shape.
We’re aging – we must use or lose, that’s known –
but quarantine extends and muscles die.
The only reason I don’t share their fate?
I’ve always done my exercise at home.
Historically, I don’t stay down 3 days –
I may feel sad but nothing like depressed,
and after 60 hours blue, the phase
wears off regardless of how much I’m stressed.
All Sunday and through Monday I obsessed
about our public health, economy
and independent businesses. I’m best
alone awaiting equanimity.
(Huitain)
It’s times like these I wish I liked to buy.
The season is upon me. I have means,
computer, family. Compelled to try
to send them gifts, I leaf through magazines
and catalogs, attempting to comply
with social orders during quarantines.
The work demands odd creativity,
suppressing these attempts at poetry.
(Ottava Rima)
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