Last year was hard—it was brutal!—as the world endured the Covid-19 pandemic. Here a mother died, there a father, and somewhere else a whole family. Some of us lost our homes, because we couldn’t work. Some of us ended up sleeping under bridges, or in fields, or in other out-of-the-way places. We were desolate. We couldn’t reach out to each other for a hug or handshake because we were in lockdown, afraid for our lives. Nothing seemed to help. And then came harbingers of hope, bearing strange names: Pfizer, Moderna, AstraZeneca—vaccines to vanquish the virus! We offered our arms for a jab, and started to look beyond our nightmare, daring to hope that our world might someday be normal again.
Hidden mountain stream—
see, a doe and her fawn come
for the day’s first drink!
I am a poem.
A poem that says it needs to be famous,
but busies itself with mundane work.
A poem that sometimes acts as if it were on stage,
but usually cowers in the bedroom closet.
A poem that defies gravity like a trapeze artist swinging
through space, only to find no place to land.
A poem that wants to attend the School of Extraordinary Feats,
but after graduating would not know how to apply what
it has learned to ordinary life.
Who would read a poem like that?
More The Whirligig #319
More Writers’ Pantry #71 at Poets and Storytellers United
Come now, let us mourn
all things broken, chipped, and torn—
who has skill enough to mend
my threadbare blue shirt?
Winter drive to work—
on the bridge I see skid marks,
remnants of a crash.
Itching to plant seeds,
I thumb through the catalog
that came in the mail.
Bar of soap in hand,
I draw water for a bath—
More The Whirligig #306
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon
More Writers’ Pantry #58 at Poets and Storytellers United