Pathetic fallacy requires storm
or quake, or morning overcast at least,
but we are budding, sunny, fragrant, warm.
The avian concertos have increased,
and hummingbirds are making daily feast
on spears of nascent color in the yard.
Wisteria is soft, but this is hard:
remembering it’s dangerous to kiss,
to wear the mask, and socialize on guard,
and hope that spring’s the sweetest thing we miss.
They built their place of hard-packed straw and thought it strong enough
to serve their purposes – they saw sufficient room for stuff
for sale, but didn’t see the flaw of flimsy hiding rough:
Infectious waves will wash their room away.
The sociologists found wood and spackled it with mud.
Assuming sticks cohering could withstand the viral flood,
they posted theories bad and good, ignoring leaks of blood:
They needed more than twigs, but didn’t pay.
A few good scientists took bricks and made a recipe
for mortar to connect and fix, with sure integrity,
the edifice that wisdom picks for health and sanity:
And finally, that earned the kids’ okay.
I learned to
buy no more than what I need
back when my besties burned to
gather goods
in bulk. They bought from big shelf
names instead of neighborhoods.
I’d deride,
except I need to nix now,
and stock what I’ve specified
I’ll want when
viral loads subvert the vend,
when we’re arrested again.
I used to
burn to buy no more than one –
of late I learn to choose two.
For over 40 days I’ve stayed inside,
a senior with a bronchial history,
and every day since this began, I’ve tried
to pen a novel form of poetry.
No sooner do I comprehend the drift
of rules today for meter, length, and rhyme,
than I select tomorrow’s footsome gift.
The project eats its share (and more) of time,
and acts as catalytic brain enzyme.
It’s like a catalytic brain enzyme,
the way the exercise engages gears,
it puts me at my puzzle-solving prime –
no crossword or acrostic grid appears
to challenge me. So now that House Arrest
is going on extension, I’ll as well –
continuing with verse I’ll be less stressed.
As long as I’m sequestered for this spell
I’ll write, but now I’ll title what I tell.
We can’t foresee the shape of what comes next.
Prognostication’s eye is blurred with strain.
“It could be worse” is everyone’s refrain.
For now we have the Internet and text,
connections to assuage the social brain.
We can’t foresee the shape of what comes next.
Prognostication’s eye is blurred with strain.
We did it to ourselves. No demon hexed
us or enchanted us to aim for gain
preposterous, all wax and never wane.
We can’t foresee the shape of what comes next.
Prognostication’s eye is blurred with strain.
“It could be worse” is everyone’s refrain.
I had a fantasy, not long ago,
in which I didn’t use the fridge at all.
I live where nearly anything will grow;
I thought I’d shop each day. And I recall
when I transitioned to this little place,
I knew the cabinets could not embrace
the bulk of multiples, the giant size
of Costco goods – I had to minimize.
I shopped on foot, my purchase on my back,
and made the task efficient, light, and smart,
developing a focus neat and nice.
Pandemic puts me on a different tack –
I used to take one onion for my cart,
but lately I’m attempting to think twice.
The silver lining in a prison term
is time for exercising brawn and brain.
This sentenced House Arrest serves to confirm
that: daily riding, daily trying out
a puzzle of poetic form. I squirm
at repetition, cringe at lines too short,
but work it like a robin at a worm,
and find the rules of rhythm entertain
and help me duck the passage of this germ.
I’m ready for our morning FaceTime session
(I just completed all my exercises).
The coffee’s poured – it’s now in Dad’s discretion
to hook us up, for caution still advises
we stay apart today. My flu confession:
I miss so much your hugs, your word surprises,
and tender exhibitions of frustration
(he’s 3 years old and practicing vexation).
There’s nothing fortunate about his stroke,
except it happened twenty months ago,
before Coronavirus came to choke
the hospitals and propagate the woe.
It would have been more challenging last year,
when I was out of house all winter through.
My cottage needed work; I sheltered near
without my daily comforts, making do.
The children in my life were younger then.
They would have been more needy and confused.
It’s difficult to hear them question when,
but not as hard to keep them all amused.
Imagine how compound the tragedy,
if we’d the dreaded earthquake on our plate,
or if we battled flames concurrently.
We get to concentrate on one bad fate.
And though I’m aging steadily through this
obnoxious break, discovering new cracks
and bumps, massaging spots of tenderness,
I don’t need medicine for these attacks.
We’re in a mess. We suffer sad reverse.
But timing could
and future may
be worse.
The morning cold here
is spring atmosphere,
and yet,
as tulips appear
and daffodils spear,
we let
our plans disappear,
on pause most the year,
upset.
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