Away and off five days feels like a week
or more, although I’d never opt for home
when Sam requires company, to speak
a bit about big change but mostly play
together, as he teaches his technique
for screening semi-terrible cartoons
(at least it isn’t Elmo). Now we peek
at newborn sis. I pen a paltry poem,
and bend to stroke and kiss a silken cheek.
(Magic 9)
Precious to return
home, no matter the reason
for time spent away.
When we began this fractious quarantine,
I feared sequester might exceed three weeks.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
Our fate was like a busted trampoline –
we tolerated broken springs and squeaks
when we began this fractious quarantine.
Some fell and others stumbled, caught between
conspiring fears and factual techniques.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
Politicizing masks and spitting mean,
we didn’t know our fellows could be freaks,
when we began this fractious quarantine.
Some reasoned but so many were unclean,
ignoring soap because the soapbox speaks.
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
It’s near a year, and still we all careen.
We’ve fallen and no longer see the peaks.
When we began this fractious quarantine,
I never dreamed how plague would intervene.
(Villanelle)
My second shot, I’m fortunate to write,
was painless and no hassle to obtain.
The venue wasn’t crowded and the chain
of volunteers was organized and tight,
directing us with smiles masked but bright,
conducting an inoculation train –
my second shot.
My arm is sore, I’m tired, I feel light
in energy. It’s nothing to complain
about – a grumble wouldn’t be germane
or accurate. My age meant expedite
my second shot.
(Rondine)
I got my second shot a week ago –
they say I may in 7 days proceed
exploring more of what I used to know
last year before the fear of flu appeared.
Now I’m some time away from home, although
I’m relatively comfortable right here –
these days amazed to watch the household grow.
I get to meet the sweet they grew from seed –
an infant who last year was embryo.
(Magic 9)
I had a bout of strong anxiety
a month ago. I recognized the stress,
although at first I worried I might be
about to have a stroke. I was a mess
and then resolved attempting to relax:
to slow my breath and strengthen my exhale.
I tried to counteract the sharp attacks.
I didn’t fully win or fully fail.
I have a friend who panicked yesterday –
she called and tried to get MD advice.
Between some cancellations and the way
her iPad wouldn’t work (it locked up twice),
she soon demanded pills to calm her nerves.
She didn’t opt to tap her own reserves.
It’s still too soon to socialize with you
in person – we must manage via phone.
That second shot we get this week is known
to carry strong protection – that seems true –
but we are told to let its power brew
another fortnight into strength full-blown.
It’s still too soon.
I owe my bubble care until we’re through
the staggered quarantine we don’t condone.
Until my kids are covered, we must groan
alone. You asked although I know you knew
it’s still too soon.
(Rondine)
I wonder how bad actors sleep at night.
When famous athletes lie, it boggles me.
It’s obvious they aren’t thinking right –
with no regard to their mortality.
Their actions can’t produce true self-esteem.
Their treasures must disable them with murk.
They cannot own enough – gold turns to steam,
that came without morality and work.
They’re after short-term gain and solo fame –
their focus isn’t building dynasties.
Venality and vice are not supplies
they’d use to love themselves. So please don’t claim
they’re great, and don’t invoke conspiracies,
to comprehend a cheater spewing lies.
The more things change, the more they stay the same,
is probably the falsest claim I’ve heard.
Though mimicry and metaphor can frame
idea, denying change is too absurd.
Not even Peter Pan stayed immature.
Pandora peeked, Eve nibbled, and I’m sure
that rocks erode and continental plates
are destined for uncertain shifting fates.
Observing how our babies learn to be,
we see them make tradition of two days.
They long for repetition, and derive
assurance from familiarity.
That early work implants, becomes always,
and paves the notion yesterdays survive.
My daughter had no hair when she emerged.
What grew in that first year was dusky gold.
A blue-eyed blonde she was, till fancy urged
experiments with tints the drugstore sold.
In time her natural color toned light brown,
and later locks of silver threaded through.
She highlit when the mirror brought her down,
and now it’s looking white and wanting blue.
Throughout she’s self-described her hair as blonde;
to her that definition’s nothing strange.
She took it up when young and yellow-fond,
and though she understands that life is change,
she’s stuck in that pre-teen identity,
and gives short shrift to time’s reality.
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