This is a space to share poems that offer fortitude, hope, resilience, humor during this time of sheltering in place due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Share a poem, or a link to one, and in two to three lines convey how it inspires, or moves you.
Submit to poet@humanities.org
The site will remain open to submissions until the end of May 2020 – thereafter consider submitting poems to https://www.poeticshelters.com/
May, 2020
Synapses showcases the many connections shared among students. Experiences encountered at a college campus shape the time spent on-campus and the aftermath of many decisions made during each interaction with people. There is resilience now in the way a student’s role and existence during COVID-19 develops.
Synapses
The student body
further unveiled at night’s fall.
Embraced by the moon’s flow.
At times full, at times it’s shyness weaning from sight!
Seeing each other’s plight
Long hours of study
Harnessed to the repetition of the semester’s clock
Outside the university
Here we are
missing the shared stories of who we are…or were.
We listen for each other’s encouraging pressure to sumise to the grasp of alcohol’s reach, no longer.
Outside the dean and financial repercussions for years to come.
Students meet among the waves of the food that minimally leaps to its goal of lending extra pounds to thighs,bellies, and double chins.
Fall is fast upon us and the synapses continue.
Now in this insatiable occasion for connection,
The circuit repeats endlessly.
As age deters the true meaning of connection and what is means to be students.
Ever changing
day-to-day.
— Mayte Castro
********
Quarantine/Solitude
I feel the loss of being ripped from where I was.
I feel the loss of isolation.
I feel the pain of isolation.
But I see light that shines through my window.
I see the art that I have hanging in my room.
I watch my cat as he sleeps peacefully besides me.
I will cry.
I will cry a lot thinking about what comes next in each day.
I will feel overwhelmed to the point that feels like insanity.
I will again look around my room and see the lights I hung my senior year of high school.
I start to feel like I am in high school again.
I’m regressing.
But I see the sun shine on my cat’s orange fur.
I hear the music coming from my bedroom speaker.
I see the flowers that my mom put in my room.
I’m being forced to slow down and pay attention to my mental health.
I’m learning so much about myself in the solitude of my room.
I start to feel like Rapunzel–I’m waiting for someone to save me from the isolation.
But I am learning it is time to find me.
~Bella Garibaldi
********
About the Shopping Angels volunteer group, their willingness to get and deliver supplies for free to those who can’t is inspiring.
Darren Nordlie
Shopping Angels
Need food and cleaning supplies, but
afraid to leave your home?
Immunocompromised?
Easy prey for corona?
Just call the Shopping Angels,
they will hunt the aisles for what you need,
wearing gloves and mask when they drop
off at your door.
Call and stand back to see you pick them up.
Wave and turn.
Invisible wings on their backs.
~Darren Nordlie
********
May 30, 2020
~Salah Dandan
********
Home
It’s six in the evening. I’ve brushed
my teeth and taken the bath
I’ve been thinking about for three days;
put off vacuuming again and sorting
and straightening papers and books
into supply line limits for making vials,
a demanding and time consuming process,
vials which must be glass for viable storage
of vaccine, “the vaccine” being
the Corona virus vaccine, of course,
so many that need the vaccine
that the timely delivery of the earth’s store
of sand for making glass becomes now
a significant, perhaps fatal, snag
in our mission to save us all,
whether bee or coral or pangolin
the too many of us being
why we are in this botch
together, unable to curtail
even to survive on earth
our only and last home.
CHILDREN AT PLAY
Sat in an easy chair, stay-in-place compliance,
music throbbing a beat, toe-tapping reliance.
Window wide-open, welcome new sunny day,
bewitching chorus, laughter—children at play.
Watching trikes, bikes, skate board—a parade
circled counterclockwise, rewound time made
a hypnotic charm—merry-go-round cul-de-sac.
A memory of days outside, big-time skate key,
dazzling medal on a ribbon hung for all to see.
Tighten wheels on shoe—need to be just right.
Loose skate, skinned knee, foolish bloody sight.
Up and down sidewalk block—skills, fascination.
Unlock skate, temporarily feet expand vibration.
Recalling times past—old view-master click back.
Watching children, on the sideline of their play,
I follow spinning circle, return to a long ago day.
~April Ryan May
*******
Today marks the 40th anniversary of the devastating eruption of Mt. St. Helens. This anniversary is occurring during a worldwide pandemic caused by the Coronavirus. Both events happened with unexpected rapidity and intensity, but just like all other natural disasters, whether regional or global, they dissipate in time but leave in their wake lasting societal change. That’s the theme of this new poem, which was inspired by the line, “Every storm runs out of rain,” which is also the title of the song in which it appears released in 2012 by country musician Gary Allan. This line was subsequently quoted by the late African American poet Maya Angelou, saying in an interview that she wished she would have penned it herself……
Broken Landscape
Barbed wire fenced off the West,
transformed the open land,
transformed its inhabitants.
Now masks take the place of barbed wire
Transform our communities,
Transform us,
and, all around, the threat of death
hangs low in the air,
a drifting ground fog.
I sing a broken solo, like a lone coyote
whose plaintive yips pierce
the pre-dawn darkness.
I long for my friends –
to sing with them
and raise a carefree chorus.
The coyote lifts its fresh-caught rabbit-furred
supplication to the Moon, calling
for its friends to come share the treasure.
Will they ever be able
to circle together again?
Or will their path lead them
to a hidden trap
that lies in the mist,
waiting, its jaws open?
~
Kathy Haug (4/29/2020)
********
“Train us, Lord, to fling ourselves upon the impossible, for behind the impossible is your grace and your presence; we cannot fall into emptiness. The future is an enigma, our road is covered by mist, but we want to go on giving ourselves, because you continue hoping amid the night and weeping tears through a thousand human eyes.”
(Prayer by Father Luis Espinal, whose life was brutally taken in Bolivia, for his activism and outspoken journalism for human rights & social justice. Quote found in Gustavo Gutierrez’ On Job: God-Talk And The Suffering Of The Innocent, pgs. 91 & 92)
Mist
That day the sun was white-bright.
It was summer-hot.
A July day.
In the morning, I went for a run
at my daughter’s high school track.
I am running and see that there is a white mist hovering
Over the track.
Not the grounds, the grassy island within, not the stands, not the ticket booth.
A white, cool mist hovering over the track.
As I am running, I can see my knees and my legs penetrating
This community of watery particles….
I am aware of the magic, the run, my deepening breath, my legs slicing through –
I run round and round and round.
Where there is emptiness, space invites
and the mist moves with me.
Bends when I bend
Turns when I turn,
around every curve.
I notice that the earth desires to stay
like a warm wind under the refuge of a shade tree
hesitant to leave.
While the white mist rises with me, my legs, my hair, my breath.
And I thought this is my body and this is yours
Moving forward – flinging ourselves into the impossible human assignment –
Of living and dying all at once; flesh and spirit
Time and timelessness and out of time.
Straight clear highways and shadowy bends in the road.
Shattering disappointments and ecstasy found.
The wrenching brokenness of a human heart and the careful
Mending of my husband’s shirt sleeve.
Loss and loss. The finding of treasure.
The dreams of summer grasses bending in wind – oh tell me where are they going?
The persistence of weeds.
The constant streams of illusion; the efflorescence of truth.
The play of rock and air.
The treasure box hidden.
The treasure box unearthed.
Sunflowers giving birth in yellow for a young girl
in her garden.
The Mist.
The enigmatic road.
The Enigma.
The Light.
The Alchemy (of it all).
Holding the light and the dark in our arms all at once
Flinging the possibility of the impossible through the mist –
This history, this family of human tears
Legs, knees, feet, body and breath
To run traversing the impossible taking the turns
In an open rain-washed sky
Jumping into streams, so many streams
So much light
~Cecily Markham
********
May 13, 2020
Beach Notes is a meditative poem series composed while self-isolating and walking a local beach. I began to write it as a way to heal from a personal loss. Through the poems I see nature as it is, and strive for hope, and healing for all.
Cat Ruiz Kigerl
Beach Notes
— (Excerpt)
Tuesday, March 3. 1:03pm
The beach is stormy. I visit the high surf then climb the hill.
A virus creeps into the city across the water. It creates fear in people
across the world. The wind blows hard over the bluff.
Wednesday, March 4. 2:45pm.
On the beach it does not matter
that people do not listen to warnings about the virus.
The tide slowly goes out. An oyster shell is bleached by the sun.
Sunday, March 8. 1:10pm.
The beach, a home at the end of the road for those who find it.
The wind is chilled. The sun is striving to warm.
One must keep looking up.
Monday. March 9. 2:23pm
Many eagles bless the beach, whistling as they greet the sky.
Seals pop up and then are gone.
The city is quieter on the other side. What is here, today?
March 11. 1:49pm.
The beach is filled with life. Many seagulls feed off shore.
Seals bark and play. A pandemic has now been declared.
The sun sends rays onto the water through the cloud.
~Cat Ruiz Kigerl
********
NEW NORMAL
During this time…
Television programs create emotions upended,
feeling confused, news that can’t be defended.
Changing channels, comedies rerun past years
must deliver laughs—but bring lonesome tears.
Stay-in-place, time stirs—wish world mended.
During this time…
Drove to the Post Office, need to avoid a late fee,
saw a Robin fat as a chicken atop evergreen tree.
Red light stop, open window—chipper birdsong,
whistled happy notes—flawless, rock star strong.
Trip to buy stamps: adventure, surprising reverie.
During this time…
We have a new wonderland—inside of a mirror,
world turnaround—look calm, but hide real fear.
Happy news, essential workers are Easter Bunny,
Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, and bees making honey.
On a future day, bells will be ringing, ALL IS CLEAR.
~April Ryan April 10/2020
********
May 6, 2020
Cutting Each Other’s Hair During the Corona Virus
We are two women who got married
seven years ago
but that is not our story of courage.
This story is about
sitting in the yard
in a plastic chair
an old towel around my shoulders,
clippers, scissors with teeth
on a side table
and my wife
with an anxious face
coming toward me
with sharp, small scissors.
If you think
we have no training for this job,
you are wrong.
We watched an old guy
with thinning hair
cut his own
on U Tube.
But now,
my wife lifts the clippers
to the back of my neck.
The goldfinches in the apple tree,
dapper in their bold spring plumage,
chirp encouragement.
Our dog watches
from the sidelines,
face filled with alarm.
The clippers buzz their way
along my neck,
then she grabs handfuls of hair
on top and lets the toothy scissors
munch on each clump.
When we switch, I let the clippers
linger and a bald spot
glares on the back of her head.
After,
when we look in the mirror
my formerly fluffy hair
is flat and the back of your head
is too close to bald,
but we glitter
smiles to each other
as if we just renewed our vows.
—By Dotty Armstrong
*******
What if I Should Die Today
What if I should die today
Is there anything I want to say?
It’s hard to imagine being dead
And being somewhere else instead.
I’d want to say goodbye to those
I love, even some not so close.
What about those I still want to know?
And really, I’m not even sure I’ll go.
There’s Carmi and Betty, Margaret and Mel
Kathy and Alan, Joyce, and well…
So many more, I’d have a big list.
I’d call everyone up and start like this:
“Hello,” I’d say,” I might die today.
I also might not but I still may.
If I stay alive, all this would have passed
But if I don’t, this might be my last.
I want you to know you mattered to me,
So much so, you made my heart happy.
I love you and ‘round you my spirits are high.
It’s OK that you know even if I’d don’t die.”
I’d want my mom and dad to know
How good they were to raise me so
I could read, run, and play each day
And treasure the life I have today.
I want my sibs to sing a song
Even ma and pa should sing along.
And probably a hand to hold
Would be better than a pot of gold.
I want to say goodbye in my heart
To the trees with whom I’m sad to part
They listened kindly, my thanks won’t end
They’ve been such special, giant friends.
I’d want to thank the moon beams too
For following me around the house like they knew
When I needed a friend. They kept my secrets well
Traveling so far through the sky as they fell.
I’d say goodbye to that moon as well
Who brought me to tears ‘cause its beauty was swell
And the stars, the rivers, the birds and my pansies
The tallest mountains and our sprouting vegis
After all the goodbyes I’d rest a spell
To breathe and feel sad and also grateful
For the miracle of life that happened to me
And I’d wonder what’s next and I guess I’ll see.
~Cathy Cuenin
*******
Memories
by Teague Song (age 11)
Memories,
great ones, remembered
good ones, kept
bad ones, forgotten
Sometimes you forget one
let it go,
like a squirrel burying nuts
But then it sprouts
A tree grows
Your imagination
filling in a hole
Your lost memory
********
I have attached a poem for your online community. I wrote this poem years ago, and I keep a copy of it in my wallet. During hard times, I pull it out to remind myself to savor life, no matter what!
Poetry is good for everyone, and we need the arts more than ever right now.
Francine Walls
Emergency Poem
This is the poem for emergencies,
like the spare batteries and extra gas
you pack when you drive into the wilderness.
When you discover you are lost,
you can press any word in this poem,
and walk beside calm waters.
This poem does not have
water, food, shelter or energy bars
yet courage is hidden in every line.
Before you crumple up this poem,
feeling danger south, north, west, east,
remember love’s gift to you: your next breath.
~Francine E. Walls
*******
Things I Imagine When I Can’t Handle The Real World
I imagine I made friends with that girl or her friend who’s so tall.
I imagine I kissed the girl who never stops dancing.
I imagine all the things he did to me never happened.
I imagine the first boy I ever kissed and I becoming the new Bonnie and Clyde; we’d be called the Sweetheart killers and we’d take down all the acquitted guilty.
I imagine my first love had asked to kiss me.
I imagine I know who I’ll marry one day.
I imagine soulmates are real.
I imagine I had a soul to sell.
I imagine I took the chances back.
I imagine I’m not constantly erased to make the paper more comfortable.
I imagine there is more to me than invisible scar tissue.
I imagine loving myself enough to stop my childhood from killing me.
I imagine the bathtub had worked, had been possible, had been knives.
I imagine I’d stood up for myself when it mattered, not weeks or months or years later when there was nothing left to stand up to.
I imagine I’d changed my mind before my mind started to change me.
I imagine I have more than the remnants of my father’s trauma and my mother’s love.
I imagine I don’t feel like crying every time I wake up.
I imagine innocence was something I ever had a chance at.
I imagine I hadn’t stolen so many things, hadn’t returned them, hadn’t gotten caught.
I imagine I really had killed him.
I imagine I made good decisions when I had the chance.
I imagine I’d taken my revenge while I still could, instead of sitting back down, instead of crying, instead of saying sorry.
I imagine world after world where everything is different, and then something–a noise; a flicker; a calamity–brings me back to reality and I have to confront what I’m left with:
A girl;
Her past;
And a pen.
~ Hallie Dickinson
********
April 30, 2020
Poetry is the first responder. A poem takes your hand, walks with you, inspires a larger vision, and wants for you a larger life. A poem is a friend, a mentor, a wise counselor, priest, sage, and lasting companion, and its humor the happiness of gods.
During this time of lockdown, poetry helps interpret challenging feelings and more importantly connects us to a more meaningful way of life this pandemic is demanding of each one of us.
Judith Adams
In days of isolation
You climb a few steps to your pulpit
in the pigpen of your mind
your own brand of damnation
your own pattern of hope.
In these times
the planet has a small
chance to breathe, to pause
to heal her wounds
as new winds clean the oceans.
History will document
many were sacrificed,
brought to their knees,
A vulnerable softening
in the faces of achievers
and famous.
Markets shifted from
acquisition to compassion.
workshops set up where love is minted
and in warehouses love stockpiled.
Everyone will say;
consciousness took a great and mighty leap.
Nobody was left behind,
the historic tide turned mankind
towards beauty and the feast of the invisible.
~Judith Adams
********
April 23, 2020
A callarse
Ahora contaremos doce
y nos quedamos todos quietos.
Por una vez sobre la tierra
no hablemos en ningun idioma,
por un segundo detengamonos,
no movamos tanto los brazos.
Seria un minuto fragante,
sin prisa, sin locomotoras,
todos estariamos juntos
en una inquietud instantanea.
Los pescadores del mar frio
no harian danio a las ballenas
y el trabajador de la sal
miraria sus manos rotas.
Los que preparan guerras verdes,
guerras de gas, guerras de fuego,
victorias sin sobrevivientes,
se pondrian un traje puro
y andarian con sus hermanos
por la sombra, sin hacer nada.
No se confunda lo que quiero
con la inaccion definitiva:
la vida es solo lo que se hace,
no quiero nada con la muerte.
Si no pudimos ser unanimes
moviendo tanto nuestras vidas,
tal vez no hacer nada una vez,
tal vez un gran silencio pueda
interrumpir esta tristeza,
este no entendernos jamas
y amenazarnos con la muerte,
tal vez la tierra nos ensenie
cuando todo parece muerto
y luego todo estaba vivo.
Ahora contare hasta doce
y tu te callas y me voy.
Keeping quiet
And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas,
wars with fire,
victory with no survivors, would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
(Life is what it is about,
I want no truck with death.)
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve,
and you keep quiet and I will go.
Sickness Slept in Us
It was a time when sickness slept in us waiting
It was a time when birds dove through slick oil
and came up without feathers
a time when no one was immune
Are you now
or have you ever been
a member of those
who face the days with no natural defense?
who face a slow and certain death?
diagnosed, the new lepers
under wrath of god.
Can they lock us all up?
~ Karen Brodine (1985)
Ode to Shadows
You can trust your shadow.
Like a faithful friend,
It attaches to your body
and never leaves.
You can trust your shadow.
It moves in sync with you
as you cross into the light.
Even in the darkness, it’s there.
Silent. Quiet. Waiting.
You never worry as it
willingly follows
your every move.
Shadows leave records,
you know.
Remembrances of your
earthly time.
The most compelling shadows
Bear witness at Hiroshima
and Nagasaki.
There a girl jumps rope.
There a child plays with his toy truck.
There a man and woman cross a street.
Their shadows impressed
forever onto the concrete.
Trust your shadow.
Though history may never
record your name,
Your shadow knows.
~Robert Francis Flor
********
David True
Covid Tale
The “Red Death” had long devastated the country.
No pestilence had ever been so fatal or so hideous.
Edgar Allan Poe
Like a leper outside the gates
I can see the upturned brows,
eyes that glance away, faces
drawn tight to quell the drum
beating within their chests.
Passersby on city streets
avoid each other, listening
for sniffles, watching for hands
touching eyes and nose, for hands
reaching out in proffered greeting.
Signs held up to elders kept
behind shuttered windows
give sympathy for their plight,
“Jesus is with you”, they say
“even if we cannot come”.
Racing to shelves swept clean
in stores emptied of goods,
masks are worn like amulets
to ward away exhaled humors
of unseen scowling demons.
Fetid winds seep under doors,
foreign yellow faces seen
as “other” steal away breath
of those unaware, those lain
to rest under red-stained shrouds.
The healer now one of the exposed,
my masked face spurned invitation
to the macabre dance, left alone
away from the undulating limbs
that await the stroke of the hour.
Behind the red-horned mask
laughter comes, a voice echoes
“suffer not these fools”, such
are born alone to an illusion
that all of this will remain.
In our hearts?
********
The following poem was prompted by a Zoom workshop with
Redmond Poet Laureate Raul Sanchez.
Kari Tai
Together Apart
reflects the dual nature of our times, the pandemic game of opposites–
the invisible that creates the indivisible.
Virus driving us physically apart, like mercury beads from a broken thermometer,
but we crowd source, cloud source, rising up in the ether.
The speed of adaptability is infectious. Empathy spreads rapidly.
Like walking down a sandy dune, the casual ease of daily life slipping past us,
our footprints leave deep imprints of who and what are important. A tap on the brakes of our monkey minds rocketing to the future,
alerting us to the Zen necessity of the present moment.
Outside, the gifts of spring are exaggerated. Even the prolific weeds a gracious path
to a sense of productivity.
Best of all, everyone is dancing in their living rooms like no one is watching,
a silent disco to which we are all party.
~Kari Tai
********
April 12, 2020
Thank you for this outlet. I have been enjoying all the poems. Here is one that I wrote this week – week four of quarantining.
Kristen Orlando
All This Time
I have been watching you watch me
while we watch the birds at the feeder,
the dog sleeping by your feet,
the little boy across the street
tossing the basketball
into the hoop again and again.
I have been watching you watch me
while we watch the sun announce another morning,
while we read the books, the papers, the media.
We move from room to room, tend our days —
expect less from each hour as it leans into the next.
At night I am not sleeping.
I watch you.
I think about the threat
in the air between us.
I want to touch you,
press our bodies together
until you are my only blanket —
until I fall asleep.
In the morning, birdsong.
I smell coffee waiting for me,
a cup to warm my hands.
In the reflection of the window
I watch you watch me,
my whole body a prayer of gratitude.
~Kristen Orlando
Stay at Home with Me
Stay at home with me
The best is yet to be
Rest in the middle of day
Sleep long nights too
Take my hand so tiny
Into your big strong palm
Touch me as if touch
Will keep us alive
Touch only me now
As if we will live forever
This is all we have
You and me this day.
~Leslie Wharton
********
~christine lamb white
*******
April 8, 2020
Everyone is invited to my birthday party. It’s happening separately outside in solitude or quiet joy all day. Even a little sip of a breeze at the window gets you in or a reciprocal look into the sky. I’m serving a violet scented cake with chocolate shavings and freshly whipped cream. It’s a magic cake so it tastes like whatever you love though- like cheering for an owl in flight, like kissing your Grandma’s cheek, like braiding your friend’s hair, like holding your sister’s hand, like pretending to be your best friend’s child’s child, like listening to music in the dark, like the sound of the sea on sand, like the possibility of enough healthy food, shelter and insulin for everyone, like a surprise beverage in a tiny beautiful jar, like hearing drums that turn out to be your Dad or the songbird’s nest of your mom’s home-cut hair- like the smell of the sun-warmed grass, like a little dog leaping over a forest log, like discovering four shapes of daffodils grow by the mailbox and where the hummingbird lives.
I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.
And nothing
happens! Nothing…Silence…Waves…
–Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?
Allow Me
“Thanks for staying home.”
To the Younger Generation:
We worried about the wasted hours lost in gaming, posting, scrolling
And aimlessly watching Youtube.
We predicted depression, loss of social skills, anxiety,
And an inability to focus.
We bemoaned the degradation of writing by hand, the lost art of reading cursive,
And of holding conversations face to face.
Little did we know, we were preparing you for war.
War against the unseen virus,
Floating aerosol, unseen,
Deadly coughs and fevers attacking the vulnerable.
We remain locked inside.
Preoccupied by our devices:
Connecting on-line, gaming with friends, learning new things on Youtube,
And conversing over Face Time.
Hunkered down for the duration.
And you are ready, device in hand,
Armed against COVID 19.
Little did we know,
War was coming,
And you were ready.
~Hope Nichols – Enterprise Middle School
********
“Mother Winter” is a poem I wrote this past December. It’s a poem about nature, family and home. It is reminding me of the hope I can find within the view outside my own window.
Joann Renee Boswell
Mother Winter
I love this time,
sky dome sleepy,
when Mother pulls
down the atmospheric
blinds, we’re drawn too
into effervescent dusk.
the mountain-sill is lit,
thin line over-saturated
pale pink and clementine.
She does this on purpose
leaves peaking space
(closet door cracked —
Mother likes a sneak)
pulls f o c u s
to the perimeter. we come
together, attracted by Light.
this is Her way
of putting the dogs out,
shuttering distractions,
inviting us all inward —
we remember our roots.
lure us home, Mother.
~Joann Renee Boswell
********
I’ve been trying to find meaning in this time of isolation. Part of that is removing myself from the fear cycle on the screen and in my head and really paying attention to what’s happening around me in Nature. This is a time of mourning, but also a time of creativity as we try on new ways of being.
I have been enjoying the “Poems to Lean On” webpage and also shared it with my students. I’ve told my students that our current pandemic has canceled and postponed many things, but it cannot take away Poetry Month! I have a poem I wrote and would like to submit. HAPPY POETRY MONTH: Read it! Write it! Share it!
~Lisa Salisbury
When the Time Comes
When the time comes
To reunite again
In the physical world
Do you want to come out
And play with me?
Do you want to walk
Side by side together along
A long open stretch of beach
Breathing in the salty sea air
While feeling the wind on our faces?
And at the end of our walk
We could hug
Like we usually do
Before we part and return
Back to our homes
Until we meet again
When the time comes
Do you want to come out
And play with me?
Do you want to hike
Side by side together
Up the highest of hilltops
To look out at the islands below
And the beautiful Salish Sea?
We could stand next to each other
With our arms gently
Around each other’s waists
Enjoying the view and the moment
Together
And at the end of our hike
We could hug
Like we usually do
Before we part and return
Back to our homes
Until we meet again
When the time comes
Do you want to come out
And play with me?
Do you want to wander
Side by side together
Through the meadows
And wooded trails
Enjoying the wildflowers
Listening to the birdsong?
We could hold hands and
Swing our arms and skip
Together along a wide path
Just because we could
And at the end of our wanderings
We could hug
Like we usually do
Before we part and return
Back to our homes
Until we meet again
When the time comes
Do you want to come over
And play with me?
Do you want to come over
And sit at my table for tea
Like we’ve done
So many times before?
We could talk and share
Looking into each other’s eyes
We could listen, laugh and cry
Together
We could write, paint or draw
We could just sit
Being together
Drinking tea
And at the end of our gathering
We could hug
Like we usually do
Before we part and return
Back to our homes
Until we meet again
When the time comes
We will be together
Side by side
And we will do all of these things
My friends
Just because we can
We will smile and laugh
At the simple joy of it all
Sunshine, wildflowers
Freedom, fresh air and open spaces
And us, the beauty of us
Simple joys to embrace
And when the time comes
Let us not forget
How precious such moments are
********
April 2, 2020
[I am] including a poem that I wrote a few years ago that is meant to inspire
during bleak times.
Heidi Seaborn
How the Light Gets In
~After Leonard Cohen’s Anthem
These days, we’re broken—
a horse, spirit-whipped, made
to trudge our load,
haul someone’s ass around. Our
car breaks down in the fast lane,
in the rain, in the dead of night.
Dishes break in anger, bones at impact
hearts in an instant—these days
as a constant. Your voice cracks
with light caught in your throat.
When day breaks like an egg
bleeding across distance, you
nonetheless rise to birdsong.
When there’s a crack
in the windshield, jagged like a pulse,
let it set your horizon.
Valerian blossoms out of broken
stone. Thunder cracks open
the sky to lightning—
the darkest storm leaves light.
~Heidi Seaborn
********
THANK YOU FOR ALL THESE WONDERFUL POEMS!! 💟
Self Solitude
We’ll look back on this time someday
maybe
see it as a warning
a cue
to retreat from our forward march
for mother earth, her inhabitants, her lungs
how to treat one another, everything…
with potent awareness
with awe
gaze from a distance
we’ll recall how we talked to the sky
the stars, trees and streams
how this time disclosed deep ties
with one another
the ground, the sound, our skin our hands
that being together in leisure is a blessing
that each of us is rare and wonderful
that returning to ourselves
in solitude
reveals our entirety
— Lisa Nash Lawrence
Below is my poem “Hope.” It’s from my book, An Exaltation of Tongues, from MoonPath Press, and inspired by Emily Dickinson’s ‘“Hope” is the Thing with Feathers.’
Sincerely,
Paul Fisher
Hope
Impatient to be born aloft
where thousands fly as one,
starlings roost on branches
the way words rest on tongues.
Given silence, night speaks.
Given light, wings beat.
A single quill inks the sky.
A million plumes define the sun.
With the din of darkness muted,
fire’s fanfare hushed,
will song assume the form
of catbird, loon or meadowlark?
To rise from ash and ride on air
feathers must be strong.
Look where they have fallen.
Imagine where they have flown.
~ Paul Fisher
********
This poem was inspired by the phrase that so many commentators are using now with respect to Covid-19: “We’re all in this together.” Cliche or trite? Maybe, but many such aphorisms become cliches simply because they express universal truths and nothing could be more true now.
James Fly — College Place, Washington
All Together
We’re all in this together
for worse or the better;
We’re all potential vectors
so we have to be protectors,
physically deflecting
while emotionally connecting
until the time we may embrace
heart to heart and face to face.
–James Fly
********
March 28, 2020
Two Moons
When I was young,
I was a crescent moon
searching for a perfect fit
with the crescent moon
in the lake.
But no crescent
fit just right–
Always a piece missing
or a piece too large.
And I thought,
I will never be whole.
But in the fullness of time
our crescents
grew rounder
and rounder still.
Until I became
a full moon.
As did the lake moon.
And for one night,
each of us shined brightly
on the other.
And we were whole.
— Bob Zaslow
********
Keith Eisner
Message
My son’s mailbox is full.
Not the box the mail carrier fills,
but the “box” to leave messages on his phone.
Not that I have an urgent message for him
or, for that matter, anyone.
Only the message I give to everyone these days
as we greet each other
six feet away:
Hi/Hi
How/How
are/are
you/you… ?
Oh, how bright we are
in our words and stance;
how casual in our tones and smiles,
as if we’ve done this
all our lives.
Yet what we’re truly saying
is no more casual
than what planets,
if they could speak,
would cry to one another,
as they hurtle through
the dark and bottomless space:
hello, hello,
fellow planet,
sister vessel of light and sound,
be well… be well… be well.
This mailbox is full,
the computerized voice informs me,
and cannot accept any messages at this time,
good bye.
What would I have said
if his mailbox wasn’t full?
Most likely, the usual:
Hi how are you call me
when you get the chance.
Now I stare at the phone,
thinking of other things I might say,
things like, When we brought
you into this world, when we
drove you home from the hospital,
none of this,
believe me,
was in our story of your life:
No burning towers, burning
forests, no armies of dispossessed
men and women,
caged children,
endemic injustice,
pandemic sorrow.
All true, but who wants
to get such a message
on their phone?
Even—or particularly—from their dad?
Instead, I offer this poem,
whose message, from one
planet to another, comes down to:
be well
be well,
be well…
— Keith Eisner
*******
Spring
Spring harvests surrounding perceptions
that deeply dwell in earth’s soul then
rebirth into brilliant flower parades,
revealing our desired selves
into millions of happy warm rays.
Animals run through the spring rain,
harmless and sweet, with love and joy to share,
providing all they can for their newly hatched,
their lives so precious with gratitude.
Wise men appreciate the sad souls encountered,
and offer ideas to carry on a mysterious unfolded
path, where they reach out their hands to be pulled out
of their despairs and told to never give up.
Such are the seasons destined to perform yearly,
as fall lets go of the carefree summer and winter freezes
the grounds, spring knows that it’s the season to be
most powerful and again pull through all that survives.
— Katarina Bailot
********
A poem I loved years ago and was recently reminded of when Ed Harkness recited from memory to open his reading in Anacortes. Two poets of parallel powers, a song of protection and refuge for the body beyond our body.
Michael Daley, Anacortes, WA
The Jewel
There is this cave
In the air behind my body
That nobody is going to touch:
A cloister, a silence
Closing around a blossom of fire.
When I stand upright in the wind,
My bones turn to dark emeralds.
–James Wright
*******
The Crown
The corona, means the crown, so who is going to reign today.
Who’s blood this crown of thorns will slowly siphoned away.
How long is quarantine? Forty days and forty nights?
I want life to return as I knew it, I want to fill in the void.
The emptiness of my sequestered existence.
The voices in my head have become a nuisance.
I tremble with fear. I need a hug. A word of reasurance, I need the truth.
I need common sense. What the hell is happening here?
and all over the world…
If we don’t keep our six feet distance.
We may end up six feet under.
— Martha Flores
********
March 24, 2020
How to Build a Peace Fire
Gather the dry branches of your judgments,
the keen blades of righteous words and thoughts,
the sly poison darts of gossip and innuendo,
all the stuff that made you feel bigger and better.
Pile these together and mix in tightly-rolled pages
of angry letters and emails hatched in your reptile brain.
A pitchy drizzle of self-pity
will make this bonfire crackle
when you torch it with your resentment
of bad drivers and inept bureaucrats,
of every one and every thing
not quite up to your high standards.
Now that it’s roaring, invite
others to throw on more fuel:
hooded sheets, swastika shirts,
combat video games, snuff films,
bloody robes from honor killings.
Keep collecting until the pile
bulges with border walls and fences,
acts of racial and ethnic hatred,
the rants of patriots and politicians
who stoke our fears of dangerous Others,
the ones we must exclude to protect
our just and superior ways of life.
When the flames are treetop high,
go away until the pyre collapses.
When you return, kneel and sift the warm ashes
through your fingers. Buried somewhere,
still glowing, are the igniting sparks that leapt
from your flinty mind. Now, stand to throw
pinches of ash to the four compass points
and say a prayer for peace
in your very own heart,
the heart you share
with all the world.
—– by Robert Nein
Despite our statewide lockdown, I am thankful I can still jog, solo of course, via the easements through neighboring properties, where the images within this poem greet me. Their quiet beauty and plucky survival ease my raveled cares, mend my hopes. I want to pass this on.
Sincerely,
Laurie Klein
How to Live Like a Backyard Psalmist
Wear shoes with soles like meringue
and pale blue stitching so that
every day, for at least ten minutes,
you feel ten years old.
Befriend what crawls.
Drink rain, hatless, laughing.
Sit on your heels before anything plush
or vaguely kinetic:
hazel-green kneelers of moss
waving their little parcels
of spores, on hair-trigger stems.
Hushed as St. Kevin cradling the egg,
new-laid, in an upturned palm,
tiptoe past a red-winged blackbird’s nest.
Ponder the strange,
the charged, the dangerous:
taffeta rustle of cottonwood skirts,
Orion’s owl, cruising at dusk,
thunderhead rumble. Bone-deep,
scrimshaw each day’s secret.
Now, lighting the sandalwood candle,
gather each strand you recall
and the blue pen, like a needle.
Suture what you can.
—Laurie Klein, Where the Sky Opens
********
Quarantine
With whom would you tolerate quarantine?
Like the old question,
What book would you bring to a desert island.
I can’t see you smile
Behind your surgical mask.
Breathe carefully, don’t inhale
The tiny beasts curling,
Reproducing and racing you
over the redline to death’s door.
Do I love you enough
To be your shut in?
We already pass germs between us,
Antibiotics killing, parasites, worms,
Emperor Norton Anti-Virus.
Shed your protective gear
And make love with me.
I’ll read you stories of the Fall, though Spring is hardly here.
Snow drops ventilate the lawn,
Pushing aside leaves.
I breathe fearfully,
Covering my knows; ignorance is ecstasy.
In the pre-apocalyptic darkness,
I no longer dream but instead perform
Autonomously, artificially knowing you,
Calling up your face from my files,
Backed up to a paywall,
Admitted by password
Or need to know,
Your soft user interface
A substitute for love.
Your original face,
The beta virgin of you,
Before the Net trapped us,
Before the last plague,
When we felt our friends fall,
When we were still gay,
And pronouns had not despaired.
—-Marc Brenman
********
March 23, 2020
I’d like to offer this poem for Poems to Lean On.
Ronda Piszk Broatch
HERE, WITH YOU
How good to be lost with you, soaked in sunset,
two gulls threading the grey air, wood smoke and tugboat,
swaths of water burdened to a sheen. Maybe time
is merely a construct of our making, but I believe
in hunger, in being fed. In taking a lifetime
watching crimson spill over foothills, dousing
Puget Sound. I wonder what it’s like to ripen without
fear, to be a near perfect body. I’ve heard it said
hot metal dropped in water forms a true sphere, held
in tension’s embrace. How nice to know when death lugs
at my life force, spreads my energy out into
so many billions of stars – such sweet amnesia! –
I will still be here with you, two gulls gathering the dark,
stitching closer, two tugboats pressing home.
Such dark times — thank you for your work to provide light.
Michael Dylan Welch
An Abundance of Caution
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your long-awaited book launch.
Hugging your mom on her 96th birthday.
Your daughter’s first drama performance.
The poetry conference at which you were a featured speaker.
Your cruise to wherever.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
All rock and pop concerts.
March Madness basketball games.
Your birthday celebration with friends and family.
Your grandchild’s bar mitzvah.
The non-emergency surgery you had scheduled for months.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your trip to Paris.
Visiting your dying grandma.
Attending your friend’s funeral.
Your ability to focus.
Baseball season.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
School.
Ski season.
High school graduation.
Ballet performances.
Your productivity.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your job.
The symphony, including the cellist you’d been hoping to hear for a year.
Your best friend’s wedding.
Church services.
Your pottery class.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your monthly bowling night.
All tattoo parlor appointments.
Social interaction with any human you’re not related to.
Visiting your sister in palliative care.
Your 20th anniversary surf trip to Baja.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Me time.
Your trip to Fiji, to Japan, to Ireland.
Moving to a new state.
St. Patrick’s Day.
Mother’s Day.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your colonoscopy.
Crossing the Canadian border to check on your mom.
Visiting family on the birth of your first grandson.
Having your wisdom teeth removed.
Your monthly open-mic poetry reading.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Your painting lesson.
Haiku group meetings.
Your barbershop appointment.
Your spring break road trip.
Your family business.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Dinner at your favourite restaurant.
All restaurants bookings.
Your dental cleaning.
Next week’s public lecture.
College classes.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Zoo visits.
Elevator rides up the Space Needle and the Eiffel Tower.
Your side gigs.
The workshop you were going give, the one you were going to take.
All library visits.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Jazz night.
Your usual bus route.
Tourist attraction visits.
Dance club soirees.
Your art show opening.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Day care.
Going out of the house except for groceries and pharmacy runs.
Barbecues and tailgate parties.
Coffee with the girls.
Your therapy appointment.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Hand sanitizer.
Your gym club visits.
Racquetball night.
Orchestra rehearsals.
Toilet paper.
Out of an abundance of caution, we have cancelled:
Not one thing, with help from each other, that we cannot recover from.
Michael Dylan Welch
********
March 20, 2020
Good Bones
********
Time is a river,
the Heart, a lion,
tenderly grooming red paws
when glutted.
Justice?
A stumbler, blind as a bat.
Sight?
Lost to Faith, for sure.
Faith sees the light,
cured of Knowledge.
When Memory cheats,
we’re sworn to love lies.
But, unlike Memory, Truth says:
“It is what it is, man.”
“Death comes for all
to sweep the dust we make
while, rain or no rain,
the Sun gets up to peek from the hill,
his gaze youthful, sweet, winning,
and such delicious optimism!”
Jeff Hanson
********
March 18, 2020
Peace
Julie Sevilla Drake
What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.
And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.
Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.
–Lynn Ungar 3/11/20
********
Resistance
pressure builds
energy multiples
friction heats
surfaces bubble
into atmospheric frenzy
even a political rubber-band
laying in a drawer
holds power
energy of potential
possibilities to amalgamate
bind superfluous entities
into a conglomerate
temporarily
until the resistance builds
beyond capabilities
or
dry rots into
Self-Isolation
The shadow of my early days
still likes to slide against my frame,
but in the context of new danger
I know there is no threat the past can make.
My clamor-chaos history rolled away
there’s lightness in me now.
At dawn the soaking of faint sun into the grey
reminds of happenings yet to come.
Chill evening air prompts newer whims,
repair of what I might have brooded on
before transition to the calmer cushion of the night.
I’m no longer hearing worry in the silent book,
tasting doubt in cups of tea.
I hold the slipper-soft of eyelids,
the kindly dark of dreams.
Linda Conroy
********
********
March 16, 2020
Poetry is one of the best spaces I know to listen and speak to both fear and hope simultaneously. I wrote this poem a few years ago when a number of my beloveds were in deep agony. I thought of it when I read about Poems to Lean On. I hope it will remind beloved readers that they still have agency in every minute, even in a global pandemic.
Sandra Yannone – Olympia, WA
The Next Open Space
We think it’s about
our footing, planting
the fleshy parts
solid to ground, taking
it one step at a time,
whatever it is.
I try to remember this
as I comfort my sisters
and brothers
as they migrate
to spaces that feel
closed before reached.
I have been there, outside
in that dark that redefines
dark, without words,
lifting my feet
or voice, impossible.
And, yes, it is
our daily dance
that offers
to turn us toward
the next open space,
teaching us there is
so much more
than what we perceive
breathing under our feet,
the ground rising,
rising all around us
like immaculate glass cities.
Look up, look up, always
look up. Find the bird
inside you
and remember this
about the next
open space:
There is always
more than one.
There is always
more than one.
Sandra Yannone
*******
I chose “Urban Law” by Alison Hawthorne Deming. It is one of my favorite poems. Its imagery is so evocative, and has the effect of elevating a small, modest gesture to life-changing and world-saving proportions. When we feel out of control, it is sometimes the simple acts between people, sometimes even strangers, that can sustain and empower us.
Rabbi Seth Goldstein – Olympia, WA
Urban Law by Allison Hawthorne Deming
I wrote this children’s poem to celebrate spring. Daffodils have a lovely way of lifting spirits. I hope this poem does, as well.
Kris Beaver – Kirkland, WA
Daffodils
Don’t you love
the look on daffodils
facing this way and that
smiling out to each living thing
and how even blind earthworms
wiggle awake to come say hello
hoping to catch a glimpse of spring?
Kris Beaver
Maybe
all this meditation
is finally paying off?
it was just about
riding the shadow of a doubt
through the river Styx;
beyond my Abyss
& being thankful for it.
on my own
poverty,
rather than seeing
the wealth I was given
what I lacked in love
I made up for
in adversity.
March 14, 2020
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
I go to this poem by Tomas Tranströmer for solace so often. Right now it seems like a particularly potent vision of recovery and reconnection.
Mandy Ellen
Despondency breaks off its course.
Anguish breaks off its course.
The vulture breaks off its flight.
The eager light streams out,
even the ghosts take a draught.
And our paintings see daylight,
our red beasts of the ice-age studios.
Everything begins to look around.
We walk in the sun in hundreds.
Each man is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.
The endless ground under us.
The water is shining among the trees.
The lake is a window into the earth.
Our Lives Suspended Until Further Notice
When I think about dying
I think about previous deaths
some tragic some natural
however there isn’t anything
close to dying while breathing.
The air we breathe sustains us
me need clean air to live
to create, to love, to live, to be.
None of us choose to be exposed
yet, here we are living in the epicenter
the zoo, dying while breathing—
breathing while dying.
Virulent baseless ideas, paranoia,
lack of understanding
unknown germs, silent, invisible
intangible, undetected.
World war without bullets
bombs, gases, but plain air
only we can save ourselves
from ourselves.
Raúl Sánchez
********
In this poem I am describing my mother/the ultimate mother/ and maybe Mother Nature. She nurtured me and then let go but never really let go because she is part of me.
Harvey Schwartz – Bellingham, WA
… and of course, everywhere
Mom’s everywhere, everything, every place. She’s been gone many years. But she’s never gone far. I fathom the fathoms of the depths of the deep, and her not being here. She’s never gone far.
She once was a garden and I was the seed. Couldn’t go very far since I sprouted in her.
When I swim down too far, to the whales, past the carp, she’s swimming right there. Never gone very far, though she’s gone many years, she’s really right here.
She once was a garden and I was a seed. She watered her crop, I felt drowned so I fled. On the tortuous paths that led me alone. I was lost in dark alleys of rocks, slippery stones. But to my surprise, they led me back home.
She was there round the bends and the curves over hills. When I traveled away, she was kind, let me go. She patiently waited as I searched in alone.
She once was a garden and I was a seed. Couldn’t go very far since I sprouted in her.
And the times that I strayed, wandered far from her world, weren’t really that far, even light years from home. Cause she glows in the stars, cause she shines in the moon, cause she’s really the sun on an inner queen’s throne.
She once was a garden and I was the seed. Couldn’t go very far since I sprouted in her.
When I’m lost in a fog, can’t see where to go. A voice I can hear says I need to come home. She hasn’t gone far, though I think that I’ve grown.
My guide’s still a glow, Northern Lights in the sky. For I grew up in her, from a seed to a sprout. Couldn’t go very far. That’s the place that I know. Deep inside where I grew. Deep inside who I am. Deep inside all of me. Deep inside’s never far.
Harvey Schwartz
********
This poem reframes, for me, our enforced ‘sheltering in place’ due to the coronavirus threat. Linda Pastan’s work has helped me navigate four decades or so of my life’s path. Here, unnatural removal from the social aspects of our lives becomes a doorway to magical realms.
Sheila Sondik (poet and printmaker) Bellingham, WA
********
Social distancing makes it harder to commune and celebrate, but non-infectious nature is always out there for inspiration and solace.
Bill Yake – Olympia, WA
********
biennial rosettes, a low-
life beach-blond scruff of
couch grass: notwithstanding
the interglinting dregsof wholesale upheaval and
dismemberment, weeds do not
hesitate, the wheeling
rise of the ailanthus halts
at nothing—and look! here’sa pokeweed, sprung up from seed
dropped by some vagrant, that’s
seized a foothold: a magenta-
girdered bower, gazebo twirls
of blossom rounding intoraw-buttoned, garnet-rodded
fruit one more wayfarer
perhaps may salvage from
the season’s frittering,
the annual wreckage.
********
I am a freshman in college. I reside in the evergreen state but a long way from home. I am from Pretoria, South Africa and have been living in my second home Seattle for seven fruitful years. “Poems to Lean On.” thank you for making a space for all of us and shedding light on the most fundamental human rights. Unity. There is unity in the word community. I recently picked up my pen and paper, all thanks to Mrs. Naomi Shihab Nye. I hope I can be of service to our community as this unrest subsides.
Najma Abdul-Aziz
W- NUR
My voice let out an agonized cry
My eyes wept all those tears my heart could not withhold
My mind absent
My soul saddened
My spirit in anguish
My shadow immersed in the meadow, seeing its reflection on the ravine
Questioning the moon
Why do you make me visible?
Ask the sun says the moon
The skies and ocean share an exchange
The sun dried the sorrows out of me
The moon the next night books me among the stars
And writes to me
“ shine amongst the stars because you’re no less than”
Najma Abdul-Aziz
********
March 13, 2020
gone is thinking we can be safe
by going it alone in this sticky web
the gooey strands of viral connections
we are one body after all
stone cold volcanoes to boiling blood cells
the raging fever consumes us all
no vaccine for our togetherness
no magic cure for communal life
we are one body after all
I live with you as you live with me
The awakening comes slowly
As we keep each other safe
Let us reach deep, reach out
Join hands in our hearts
Sing aloud in joyous dance
The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry
********
It was April, National Poetry Month, and one website had a recording of Jimmy Santiago Baca reading his poem “I Am Offering This Poem.” That man has a voice meant for reading poetry. In response, I wrote “Today at the Library.” First published by VoiceCatcher, 2014 Winter edition, nominated for Best of the Net.
Pat Phillips West
I Am Offering This Poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
********
Dear Claudia — I am sending you and everyone all love in this hard time…
Katrina Roberts – Walla Walla
Small Kindnesses
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here, have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
By Danusha Laméris
********
With its vision of people gathering, their spontaneous sharing of joy, this poem gave me solace and hope during a rocky time. Now, in this moment of social distancing, the poem also brings nostalgia—people coming together—and a reminder that we are still, essentially, together here.
Joannie Stangeland
Vulnerability
I was home sick last week
Four spring days in bed.
My wife asked, “What do you need?”
“A gun,” I said.
One night, unable to sleep
I saw images on TV news
A powerful earthquake
Destroyed much of Katmandu
A boy in a dirty shirt sat
In the Himalayan rain
Staring at a pile of bricks
Covering his family and simple domain.
His soaking pain is not punishment –
Nor my warm safety reward –
We share a breathing planet,
Brothers in our human state.
Whichever attentive god can hear –
Hindu, Muslim, or Jew –
Help us lean on our connection
And our courage renew.
Bill Kelley
Be well. Virus-free
Terry Lawhead
Bixby’s Landing by Robinson Jeffers
*******
Does it really matter that when the poet wrote this,
his wife was still alive and as a matter of fact, would
outlive him by some thirty odd years. Was the poet
cheating us by not writing from actual experience?
I think not because the most miraculous poems bloom
out of our imagination and in that imagination lies
another kind of truth.
Be kind to others, stay safe and keep that pen in hand.
alan chong lau on phinney
Piercing chill —
Stepping on my dead wife’s comb
in the bedroom
by Japanese poet Buson as translated by Haruo Shirane
********
I find this to be an especially good time to pause and consider that our deepest pleasures reside in the simplest things. Life is a reductive process, but the inevitable reductions in health are more than supplanted by the wonderful, distilling aspects of appreciation and gratitude.
Gail Ramsey Wharton
I Have Had To Learn The Simplest Things Last
How life is a funnel through which
the largest issues become small.
Days turn into minutes of wonderment.
All the complicated, squandered years
add up to these little moments
of success through the day.
A tiny spill of tea on my collar is okay.
How many times this would have been
a soreness. The mis-dialed phone call,
formerly a nuisance, is a strangely sweet encounter.
On a treasured ceramic figure
of pre-Columbian dancing dogs,
the cracks from a child’s accident
become a part of its perfection.
All that was commonplace before
is the vital punctuation of each day.
Focus is now heightened
to the miracle of breath.
The taste of water.
Gail Ramsey Wharton
*******
March 12, 2020
Of Being
By Denise Levertov
I know this happiness
is provisional:
the looming presences —
great suffering, great fear —
withdraw only
into peripheral vision:
but ineluctable this shimmering
of wind in the blue leaves:
this flood of stillness
widening the lake of sky:
this need to dance,
this need to kneel:
I like (this poem) because it makes me feel grateful for the variety of the natural world (even if I’m stuck inside), and because it has such tenderness and wonder for “all things counter, original, spare, strange.”
Tom Beasley – Seattle
Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins
********
This poem often comes to mind when newspaper headlines get me down. I’m sure I’m not the only person who will share it.
Bethany Reid
Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski
********
I enclose wonderful words by Emily Dickinson, written in 1860. I used her poem as inspiration for this recent prayer flag printed on silk. The photograph was taken just after the height of a tremendous, seemingly endless thunderstorm with black skies, screeching winds, lightning all about–very scary. Suddenly it ended, with hundreds of White-Faced Ibis flying gallantly into the golden, inclusive sky. It all made me weep, and happy to have survived and witnessed the calming skies, but mostly the majesty and determination of these very ancient and sacred birds.
Charlotte Watts
“This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky,
before the sun rises so let us keep fast old of hands,
that when the birds begin, none of us be missing”
—Emily Dickinson, from a letter, 1860
********
Undertaker
These days
I am an undertaker.
I close the casket on travel,
dig holes in the back yard,
toss in plays, poetry readings,
concerts, frivolous trips to the grocery,
the Farmer’s Market.
I mourn my favorite restaurants,
distrust the handle that dispenses
gasoline into my car. But though
the price of gas has dropped,
I’m not driving much.
I miss my beloved coffee shops,
the friends I’d meet there,
the conversations dipped into
as I wrote in my journal.
I miss relaxing in public.
I carry a dread with me these days
like a scythe. It shows in my eyes
whenever someone sneezes or coughs
and I hold my breath as I leave.
No one says Bless You anymore.
We just duck and scurry
like the rats we are, at the mercy
of the fleas we carry.
I’m even reluctant to hug my own children.
The fear has changed my posture,
hands stuffed into pockets,
shoulders hunched, arms tight
as if I can fend off this unseen threat
if I hunker deep enough into my coat,
deep enough into myself.
I am an undertaker all right,
scattered pieces of me
strewn everywhere.
All that’s left to do
is carve a headstone.
*******
March 11, 2020
Here is a poem that inspires me every time I read it. It was written by Michelle Carranza then an eight grade student at Denny Middle School in Seattle. Michelle’s fortitude floats upward through the lines. Despite her young age, she knows of what she speaks. The original poem was written in Spanish. Included here as well.
The Tree Inside Me
In the river of memory
the roots of my tree
search for security
yesterday places
familiar faces
friends of the past
my trunk, strong and tall
resists like a lighthouse
thunderstorms of thought
it refuses to fall
even after
wave after wave shove it
between the emptiness of words
and the silence of my body
even then, my branches reach
a far away adventure
among planets and stars
El árbol dentro de mi
En el río de los recuerdos
las raíces de mi árbol
buscan la seguridad
de un lugar de siempre
caras familiares
amigos del pasado
el tronco fuerte y alto
resiste como un faro
la tormenta de pensamientos
no se deja caer
aunque las olas
lo empujen y empujen
entre el vacío de las palabras
y el silencio de mi cuerpo
aún así, mis ramas tratan
de alcanzar una aventura
lejana entre planetas y estrellas