North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

“Windowbox Flowers and Rain Barrel” by Mary M. Michaels https://marymmichaels.weebly.com/

Thanks to the poets for contributing to The Pandemic Issue #6 from North of Oxford and Mary M. Michaels for graciously providing her art.  In order of appearance we present:  Henry Crawford, Megha Sood, Sheila Allen with Emily Jensen, Kerry Trautman, M. J. Arcangelini, Stephen Bochinski, Christine Riddle, Maria Keane, Marko Otten, Patricia Carragon, Jonel Abellanosa, Reizel Polak, Lois Perch Villemaire, Stephen Page, John Stickney, Ethel Gofen, Nan Ottenritter, Larry C. Tolbert, Kirsty A. Niven, Roderick Deacey, Gwil James Thomas and JeanMarie Olivieri

.

.

Henry Crawford

.

View From The Refrigerated Truck

.

The one below me died last Thursday.

They took him to the ICU the day before.

Put him on a ventilator.

.

Next to me a woman I remember

from the waiting room. The steel doors opened

to a blast of sunlight and cold vapor.

.

Stacked her in the first

vacant space.

.

My wife caught me coughing.

Drove me down in our yellow Honda Civic.

She knew this woman.

.

They’d gone to junior high together.

.

There’s room for another body

on my left. I saw a technician sneezing

as they were hooking up my drips.

.

It might be nice to see her again

but not here.

.

I’d tell her watch out. It’s not the dying

but the dying alone. Not the pain but the

knowing. Not the void but the temperature

that gets you.

.

Henry Crawford is the author of two collections of poetry, American Software (CW Books, 2017) and the Binary Planet (Word Works, 2020). His online poems are available at Henry Crawford Poetry, Online. He is currently the host of the online series, Poets vs The Pandemic.

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Megha Sood

.

Insane “New” Normal

.

Like a blind cave

brittle rib cage hosting the infection

an unwanted guest:

the virus opens its mouth

its glistening black teeth

in the dead of the night

.

devours everything

precious and beautiful

cleaves the life out of the soul

leaves you gasping;

with bated breath and a jarred mind

.

you are left alone

in a vacant mind

lying on the death bed

reminiscing the day love embraced you

around a summer bonfire

.

now loneliness bounces off

sepia-tinged walls

death draped in pristine

white sheets sitting

at the foot of the bed

.

scoops its share masticating life

leaving you rotten like an empty room

with chipped off walls

forgotten and waiting for its due

.

vacant mind begets explanation

in the hollowness of the night

when the wheezing and choking

cleaves your soul

leaves you asunder

.

It rattles your mind

you struggle with the existential truth

as this insane “new normal” renders

dying alone a new meaning.

.

A Condolence Call

.

Grief sits like a day old soup in my kitchen unless the anger stirs it

rattles and boils it. Grief rises to the surface and chokes me

.

I hear the loss of a mother. My friend’s mother, over the phone

It’s a condolence call yet I can’t seem to join in his grief

.

Sudden loss disjoints your body, the pieces don’t seem to fit anymore

Body and language are extricable. Our tongue moves in the way

.

our body can’t decipher in grief. I can’t seem to form a legible sentence

our conversation keeps coming back to the grocery, the loneliness of

.

being stuck in a condo looking over the lush green deserted parks.

I don’t want to bring back the conversation of the dead and dying.

.

The whole thread of conversation is about feeding the ones we love.

Loss is pouring through the thin sluices of this city. Every damn day.

.

Which starts again the same way it ended yesterday Or was it tomorrow?

With sidewalks pitted with the bones of the dead.

.

I can’t seem to fathom the desperation and anger in his voice of not being

able to visit her mother during her last times, the pain and the grief carry over

.

like a failing enjambment from one meaningless conversation

to another till we ran out of the small talk. The silences between

.

the pauses take the shape of the unsaid condolence, as I slowly hang up the phone.

There is no defined language for grief. Lesson learned.

.

This City Weeps. This City Wails

.

The infection moving crisscross

jumping street and avenues

the Broadway Boogie Woogie

straight out of a Mondrian

A labyrinth of bones buried

under the sidewalks

.

Once lined with laughter

Now pitted with fear

Parks morphing into graves

Dead outgrows the living

Sky shredded with elegy

.

People drowning their grief

Looking out from the balcony

The incessant clapping

Can’t douse the cacophony of death

Of screaming hearts and sobbing souls.

.

Anger and grief filling the sewers

the putrid smell carried by air

Heavy with grief and sorrow

Nothing heavier than the pain of dying alone

.

As the infection moves through the

City wailing like a widow

The contagion like grief

Anointing every soul it touches

.

Earmarking it for death

The night whimpers

under its own breath.

.

This city wails. This city weeps.

.

Conjecture

.

What roses are blooming outside the four walls of my room with no name?

The seasons pass without waving goodbye. There are only enough things I choose

to ignore this year

.

Hunkered inside my room, I am counting hollow shadows crossing the streets

Tender sapling breaking open through the moist crumbled earth

.

Douse with the monsoon rains. Empty seasons passing outside this walls

like the phantom shadows beside a moving train, a fallacy of time passing.

.

Days rolled into nights like incessant numbers on my calendar.

A hamster on a wheel life with memories etched on our dead and the dying

.

Counting the loss by every passing day I wonder, what lilies are blooming in the square today?

Loneliness begets acceptance, bodies shriveled like raisins craving for the warm acceptance.

.

What buds have birthed in the small garden, I wonder.

Some losses are too heavy to count, some debts are too big to pay.

.

All my passing seasons are now a conjecture of my empty mind

Trapped inside the sepia tinge walls of my high rise, burgeoned by the grief

.

Like a father blackening his elbows on the window sill

counting his breaths like long scratches on a prison’s wall.

.

Megha Sood is an Assistant Poetry Editor at Mookychick.Over 450+ works featured in literary journals and numerous works in print anthologies by the US, UK, Australian, and Canadian Press. Blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/

.

Sheila Allen with Emily Jensen

.

Silent Killer

    -For Mark Romutis

.

Warnings were sent and then ignored

Washington heard not a single word

And blindly life continued on

While a silent killer was coming, going strong

.

He said,

We‘re all united together

We‘re all working so hard together

It will be a great victory soon

.

But the truth sings a different tune

There was no caution from our leader here

Except to pose and place blame here and there

But the enemy was in the air

And was on us, in us, hiding everywhere

.

He said,

We‘re all united together

We‘re all working so hard together

It will be a great victory soon

.

And so his voters listened well

And took no heed, even rebelled

And brothers, husbands, and sisters fell

While the virus raged on, raging hell

.

He said,

We‘re all united together

We‘re all working so hard together

It will be a great victory soon

.

We need a leader to help us heal

A ruler who listens, and deeply feels

Who makes science and facts the ideal

To bring our country back to life again

.

And THE PEOPLE now say

We‘re all united together

We are all working hard together

It will be a great victory soon

It will be a great victory soon

.

These are lyrics written after my brother died on April 12. – Sheila Allen

.

Kerry Trautman

.

Introvert Quarantined

.

It should be heaven here at home with people I

love and made, bright things I

.

chose to line my walls and shelving. Instead

I long for Manhattan, for the N train to 42nd

.

rattling grime and garbagey curbsides.

My children seem to multiply,

.

husband a coworker making smalltalk while the

breakroom microwave hums.

.

I miss too-loud bar cover bands, guessing stories

of strangers at parties where I only

.

know two people and just want to lure the cat

from under the bed or join it. Windows glass

.

is cold to touch, trees beyond still brittle grey,

my kitchen has only canned beans, tuna and stale

.

crackers, apples we start to reach for then

change our minds. I want a restaurant menu

.

with ingredients I need to Google, a wine list

like Morse code I close and ask

.

for water, waiter judging my shoes other

patrons chatting relaxed with their

.

bulbous wines. Here between my walls everyone

knows me too well, has heard me fart as I hop up

.

the stairs, watched me sew and re-sew

holes in the knees of my pajamas. I know

.

whose footsteps are coming, whose sneeze that was

which cupboard door just

.

opened and didn’t close. Slip me into the queue

for TSA, someone’s Samsonite knocking into

.

my heels, someone’s hummus assailing my

sinuses. Press me between two strangers in airline

.

seats with an inch-wide hard armrest

pretending to separate my belly from theirs. Thrust

.

my body out at the cold

air of the world.

.

Quarantined Together

.

You and I argue the politics on TV—

the paper-shuffling sound bites

like a slipcover slid over

a holey plaid sofa,

and I wish the remote control could

click me views into

other living rooms.

.

Do wives there finish their sentences

without repeated shouts like

linguistic backs of hands?

Do husbands there listen, nod

I see your point?

.

I want to hold

the volume-down button

and TV graph lines dip

downward in a breath of relief

like bicycle coasting

with legs yawned wide

away from pedals.

.

I avoid you, avoid the suit

behind the crested podium

like the oak tree at the park

with a two-foot hornet’s nest.

.

There must be characters somewhere

who are better scripted,

Someone is getting this right.

.

I need clairvoyance like a

glow-in-the-dark telephone

I can pick up to hear

my neighbors cleaning their garage

with harmonious chatter,

or my two poet-couple friends

versing on twin manual typewriters

beside billowing curtains,

or the young couple marrying

in the stone church downtown

with only the priest and their parents

six-feet apart in the pews.

.

I need a TV channel to tell me

who will live to feel

the heat of summer, and who

will have to trust their memory

of waves pulling wet sand

around their toes

in a fever dream while blinking

their last blinks.

.

If I turn the TV off

I am an ostrich.

On mute I could listen

instead to Debussy or Dylan

but maps would still glow there—

reddening circles radiating

from major cities

sprawling by the hour.

.

There must be something to press

to my ear.

I’m willing to hear

all I’ve done wrong

and what could have

switched it right,

willing to beg forgiveness and

burn bridges before

I flush red and burst

on a map of Ohio

but first I need to shout

into something

built to receive my voice.

.

Kerry Trautman’s books are Things That Come in Boxes (King Craft Press 2012,) To Have Hoped (Finishing Line Press 2015,) Artifacts (NightBallet Press 2017,) and To be Nonchalantly Alive (Kelsay Books 2020.) She is a poetry editor for Red Fez. Tired of tiny Zoom faces, she longs for in-person poetry.

.

M. J. Arcangelini

.

Pandemic Ghazal

.

pacing the yard just past dawn. Birds chattering,

free to fly wherever they wish.

.

Television talking heads spewing numbers,

pointing to charts, somehow translates into lives.

.

Mask as fashion statement. Sequined mask. Flag mask.

Mask as political position. Frightened old masked man.

.

What are your symptoms this morning? What?

You don’t have any? Look again. Look again.

.

Talking to shadows. The empty guest chair.

The solitary bed. Swapping photos with Onan.

.

Even the recluse gets lonely when he’s

denied what he had chosen to forego.

.

M.J. Arcangelini has resided in northern California since 1979. He has published in a lot of little magazines, online journals, & over a dozen anthologies.  He has five collections, the most recent of which is “A Quiet Ghost,” Luchador Press 2020. Arcangelini has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

.

Stephen Bochinski

.

Us

.

The thing is it is dark

bringing a flashlight won’t help

it is too artificial for places like this

besides you must perceive

with senses other than sight

when darkness descends

eclipsing even the rays of the sun

and you find yourself alone

the only source of illumination

your dream seen with liminal eyes

and the subconscious self a sensory organ

with which it is possible to perceive

the vast beauty of our collective soul.

.

Rooted

.

It is impossible to flee

to some other country

the borders are all closed

as are the locked doors

of our individual abodes.

There is no escape

in climbing out the window

out the screens of televisions

or the glow of our devices

no more hiding in the attic

with our memories and our memes

or the darkness of our basement

to sit out the great depression

of our anxieties and despair.

It is the return to somewhere ancient

over the threshold of a primal door

to weep the tears for all those years

that separation wrought

to tend to the tender places

we all were cut to our psyche’s bone

where the ancient healing rituals

forgotten by our elevated selves

are remembered in our beloved earth

where the tree of our nature is rooted

where together we withstand the storm.

.

Stephen Bochinski has been writing since taking an evening creative writing course at a local community college in the mid-nineties while working construction during the day. He has since retired from construction and continues to write while living in Oceanside Ca. and walking on the beach.

.

Christine Riddle

.

Sheltering in Place: Week 5

.

In the pre-dawn stillness I imagine I can hear the Earth’s heartbeat

pulsing in harmony with the cosmos, reliably in orbit,

unfazed by this pandemonium. Meanwhile, I’ve been flung off course,

diverted onto a foreign trajectory, destination uncertain.

I mask, I distance, but mostly I shelter in place

and wonder what’s to become of us.

.

Other crises arrive in a spectacle: tsunamis, wildfires, Twin Towers.

But this time there was no seismic shift, no arsonist, no terrorists.

This one crept in quietly and scattered like mercury uncontained.

Like fog at sea it knows no bounds, its reach is limitless.

Its victims transformed into weapons.

.

Whether human creation or Nature’s spawn it lives among us now.

And I must accept that the unthinkable is reality,

that we were so smugly unprepared,

that we are all vulnerable.

.

In the pre-dawn stillness, birds still sing.

.

Christine Riddle’s poetry has appeared in Moments of the Soul, Ink to Paper, Prize Poems 2020, and will soon be published in Tennessee Voices an Anthology. An essay appears in Far Villages.

.

Maria Keane

.

Containment

.

Blackened flowers

tangle in weeds.

Crimes become catacombs of amnesia.

.

Time lapses, behavior struggles for the

flavor of freedom, the right to claim

air to breathe, enduring the

struggle to stay alive.

.

Scarred wings of memory

struggle for liberty, all movement

shocked by a third rail of dying.

.

Keane’s published poetry, has been the recipient of several literary grant residency awards by the Delaware Division of Arts.  Her poetry has received national honors by the National League of American Pen Women. A book of poetry, Being There (includes illustrations by the author) was published in October, 2018.  It was awarded a First in the Creative verse/ book award by the Delaware Press Women Her visual art was awarded a Professional Fellowship in Works on Paper in 1997 by the DDOA and the NEA.

.

Marko Otten

.

rainforest lockdown

.

we have known rainforests

visiting them partly for our pleasure

we penetrated them deeply keen on their mysteries

.

every time I thought I’d come out a better person

returning home wiser like mister natural

.

a week after reinstated lockdown

we tried to venture into the inner city

to skulk around at night

the only people under blue towers and

most silent raining

.

streets glistening under lampposts and neon lights

suddenly plain to see: a wilderness exposed midtown

wilder than what we’d seen anywhere ever before

retreat

confused guessing

wait a minute: wasn’t that a cab few blocks down?

yes we did see one

maybe not

something was moving

or driving around

or did you

for a moment I just…

.

retreat

no better person to return home

unexplored wild calling

.

Marko Otten is a Dutch poet who reads and writes poetry in English. The expressive powers of the language got him hooked. Marko Otten is a published historian and a supervisor in education. He graduated at Groningen University (1982 with honors) and took classes at New York University and at Yad Vashem, Jerusalem. He is married to Anne. Their children Judith and Martijn married and settled in Zutphen and Barcelona respectively.

.

Patricia Carragon

.

send me an angel

(inspired by Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker of the Scorpions)

.

wisdom comes with maturity   but it’s hard to be wise

when your nation caters to avarice and ignorance

.

you never saw the storm seize the new year

& like the government   life shuts down for struggle to thrive

.

anxiety doesn’t believe in social distancing

sends cryptic messages between you and your mask

.

you did your best   prayed for that miracle

that fell prey to lies & deceit

.

open your eyes   your angel left for another zoom call

.

stay locked in your quarantine

watch gray feathers   etched in red   blow off the fire escape

.

the trapper & the furrier

            (inspired by regina spektor)

.

2020   a strange   strange year

like a time bomb   waiting   for breaking news to strike

.

beasts in filthy cages

pellets and food   pets from puppy mills

.

children sleep in soiled cages

family separation   asylum still out of reach

.

dystopian predictions   dystopian facts

.

big business declares war on its workers

unions   wages   healthcare   live at triage

.

newspeak from the white house

twists failure into praise   fiction into history

.

our self-proclaimed leader plays mobster roulette

the press   elections   & laws face execution

he gives carte blanche to an alien dressed as the flu

.

& the sick keep getting sicker

with too many fevers   chills   coughs    & losses of smell & taste

.

death toll rising   ghost towns replace cities

bodies overflow morgues   the homeless live underground

.

tests & cures not fast enough

business as usual for corporate generals

.

2020   a strange   strange year

people shut indoors   waiting   not knowing what to believe

their time bombs   not knowing when to explode

.

Patricia Carragon latest books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku and The Cupcake Chronicles, and Innocence from Finishing Line Press. Ms. Carragon hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology and is an executive editor for Home Planet News Online. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

.

Jonel Abellanosa

.

Dirge in the Time of the Pandemic

.

The dark is mastering me, peace of mind

a measure it plays as if it desires personhood.

I give the twelfth hour a simple name –

.

“Midnight.”

.

Curtains hiding glass panes hint blue,

place in my mind where time doesn’t pass,

no need for anything to be done, no need for

.

accomplishments.

.

Light flashes outside, and I know the sky

over my heart speaks no thunder.

When the moon leaves, I resume my part

.

in the world.

.

Living has become so hard, loved ones

families lose like notes a mournful song

leaves to silence. It doesn’t have to be

.

this way

.

but in the world that holds echoes

“Greed” is more powerful than the powerto end the music that keeps repeating.

.

Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, the Philippines. He is a nature lover, an environmental advocate, and loves all animals particularly dogs. His poetry and fiction have appeared in hundreds of literary journals and anthologies, including Windhover, The Lyric, Star*Line, Fox Chase Review, Poetry Kanto, Marsh Hawk Review, That Literary Review, Bosphorous Review of Books and The Anglican Theological Review. His poetry collections include, “Meditations” (Alien Buddha Press), “Songs from My Mind’s Tree” and “Multiverse” (Clare Songbirds Publishing House), “50 Acrostic Poems,” (Cyberwit, India), “In the Donald’s Time” (Poetic Justice Books and Art), and his speculative poetry collection, “Pan’s Saxophone” (Weasel Press). He loves to self-study the sciences.

.

Reizel Polak

.

Delivery during Quarantine 

.

This unexpected sight the sad

park benches unfriendly to elderly

to pause take pleasure in the shrubbery

the whistling birds yellow tape crossed over

armrest to armrest defends against

a tranquil freedom to sit in the company

of others to talk tell a joke and yet

every one has begun to know

to stay apart cover-up one’s mouth

one’s nose still the eyes can speak

I see another pedestrian walking this way

your face I think looks gloomy your glance

far away I nod I smile with my eyes

in this square I pass through and out of

an eerie-quiet air the hedgerow birds

sing out of sight double whistles

I wish I knew to name these voices

such comfort I admit to love deeply

the sound of the birds calling to each other

the sound of creation every new day

and here what comes along ahead tugging

on a leash a little dog turning back

to glance at me where I follow its owner

at a distance along this path descending

to the grounds of willow trees what odd

connection this dog wagging its tail

seems to awaken between my human element

& animal life another pedestrian this way

you nod I nod as we slip past

each other to my errand on nearly-

abandoned streets residents as separate

distinct unique on this extraordinary ride

on Earth bound-up in the presence

of the Unknowable to see best we can

entering the written pages of history to come

.

I am a member of The Academy of American Poets. My poems have been published in Midstream, Ibbetson Street Press, Greville Press Pamphlets U.K, others, and one pending publication in Annals of Internal Medicine.

.

Lois Perch Villemaire

.

Peanut Butter

.

I have a mild sore throat and feel lightheaded.

Tightness in my chest and congestion.

Back of my hand to forehead.

Feverish?

Oh please.

I can’t have the virus.

I could develop respiratory issues,

Have to be hospitalized,

And need to go on a ventilator.

They say only 20% survive

being on a ventilator.

They say a symptom of the virus is

losing sense of smell.

I march to the kitchen pantry,

Pull out a jar of peanut butter,

Unscrew the top,

inhale deeply through my nose.

Ah, yes, I definitely smell peanut butter.

Thank goodness.

.

Lois Perch Villemaire lives in Annapolis, MD. She is inspired by life experiences and enjoys writing poetry, flash fiction, and memoir. Her work has appeared in Potato Soup Journal, The Drabble, FewerThan500, Pen-in-Hand, MWA Journal, and Global Poemic. She blogs for annapolisdiscovered.com and annapoliswellnesshouse.org

.

Stephen Page

.

Grocery Shopping

.

I am sitting in our dull-gray

Pathetically petite rental car

With the cracked windshield and tiny

Unhubcapped tires,

(Last Friday Teresa smashed our sleek

White SUV that drives like a yacht

Gliding over calm waters)

Alone, my mask around my neck,

Waiting for my her

To finish grocery shopping

(Only one family member

Is allowed entrance at any time).

.

When will I ever learn?

I have been here before,

I have been here before,

I have been here before,

Thousands of times

(Though mostly before the mask),

Hungry, thirsty, hours

                                    Passing by,

Worrying if maybe she had fallen,

And medics are attending to her,

(I don’t have my phone, and she left hers

For me to hold onto)

But knowing that most likely

She was wandering inside the clothing stores

Inside the shopping mall

That just reopened,

Only to know, that as I don my mask and enter

A hunting/fishing gear store that opens

From the parking lot, that she will

Reappear outside as soon as I enter,

Looking for me,

Searching the parking lot

For me and our ugly rental car.

.

I purchase a camouflage backpack,

A 9 mm pistol, a hunting knife,

and a hand-size stun device.

I stuff the three defense/attack components into

The outside pocket of the pack,

And as I exit the store,

There she is, wandering the lot,

Her arms stretched, her shoulders hunched, holding

Bags filled with things

Only she thinks we need,

Having no idea that she is late

For an appointment with our lawyer

Concerning the accident, or that I

Had been waiting for hours.

.

I am past starvation and dehydration,

But I smile behind my mask

As I walk toward her.

I gently lift the packages from her surgical gloved

Hands.

.

Stephen Page is part Native American. He was born in Detroit. He holds degrees from Palomar College, Columbia University, and Bennington College and is a rancher in Argentina . He wears a mask whenever he ventures outside and socially distances.  He loves his wife, spontaneous road trips, long walks through woodlands, and making noise with his electric bass.

.

John Stickney

.

 Somewhere Among  Us a Virus is Taking Notes

        (after C. Simic and Z. Herbert)

.

This virus

is the perfect

student

.

Unlike you

it is careful

of boundaries

.

Exact marks

entered

in the margins

.

It sees you

eyes

calm and clear

.

And

at the end

of term?

.

A report card

filled with the

“Highest” marks

.

(inspired by the push to open US Schools)

.

My Bookshelf Background

.

Broadcasting here

From within

A definite space

Of relatively

Small intent –

.

Oh, ain’t we

Just all

So well read

.

(inspired by the backgrounds of experts featured on TV through the magic of Zoom)

.

Look To The Sky

.

Because the mice escaped the lab

with the ability to control similar sized minds,

they have roped themselves to the backs of ravens

and plan an aerial assault

on your cupboard filled with

Cheetos,

Cheese Curls,

Cheez-Its,

Cheese Nips,

Cheddar Bunnies,

Cheez Wiz

and those delicious,

cheesy

Goldfish.

 .

(inspired by the Pandemic Fifteen caused by snacking)

.

John Stickney is a poet/writer originally from Cleveland, OH, currently living in the coastal area of Wilmington, NC.)

.

Ethel Gofen

.

If the symptoms of Covid-19 you feel

Here’s a doctor’s plan to help you, I’ll reveal:

Inhale, hold your breath five seconds, then exhale.

Do this five times in a row and do not fail.

On the sixth breath end it with a cough galore.

Then repeat this whole breathing routine once more.

Next lie on your stomach, pillow at your head.

Don’t lie on your back but on your front instead.

Spend ten minutes taking breaths slightly deeper

Than normal.  (Later you can be a sleeper).

This allows your smallest airways to get air.

J. K. Rowling claims this method gave her care

When she had the symptoms though never a test

For Coronavirus this plan is the best.

.

Ethel Gofen is a retired freelance writer, author of two books as part of a series, Cultures of the World, for which I wrote the volumes on France and Argentina in 1990 and 1992. Ethel and her  husband and both had Covid-19 in May although I had no symptoms.

.

Nan Ottenritter

.

street garden

.

cathedral-like canopy above

black asphalt below

kids in the street

chalked glorious flowers

blooming where they are planted

.

as a child

.

in the garden,

nowhere to go,

on my own for

what-to-do,

i remember possibility.

.

quarantined today

in the garden,

nowhere to go,

some to-dos,

i sing the purple iris,

.

the bird rejecting thistle,

downing suet.

a sense of possibility

flirts, hovers.

i await its landing.

.

The beforetime

.

is over, she said.

I knew what

she meant, having

stopped imagining

a going- back,

a return to normal.

.

In the beforetime,

stock portfolios and

stocked kitchen shelves

shielded me.

The presence of others

was mostly a comfort,

working invisible magic

in my heart.

.

In this middletime,

I hunker down,

grow a garden,

grow myself,

with only a wire to the world,

a good book.

I am finally

in and of place.

.

Nan Ottenritter is a poet and musician living in Richmond, VA. Her works have appeared in the Artemis Journals: Women hold up half the sky, TheNewVerseNews, Poets Reading the News, Life in 10 Minutes, the 2019 Poetry Society of Virginia Anthology, and As You Were: The Military Review.

.

Larry C. Tolbert

.

To Accept Once and For All

.

I open with praise for

Our dark-skinned

Brothers and sisters

Your dogged

Determination

To be free,

Watching family

And friends

Strange fruit indeed

One by one cut down

From trees,

.

Snarling dogs

Water cannons

Never good news in

Police rifle reports

.

Rest in peace

Silenced freedom’s friends

You, not Jesus, died for our

Original sins

.

I praise the

One in six people

Our founding fathers

Labeled dark-skinned

Alienable exceptions

Within a

White constitution

At our country’s

Inception

.

I praise your

Black constitution

For enduring the

Resulting

Unimaginable

Abuse

.

Your free labor fueled

An economy to

Unholy heights

Drove a nation’s soul

Along sharp saber’s edge,

Unfathomable

Pools of blood,

Unmeasured

Depths of shame

.

Your road to hell paved

With such good intentions

Of ill-bestowed certain

Self-evident truths

—All men created equal

With unalienable rights,

Among those

Life,

Liberty, the

Pursuit of happiness—

.

I close with this prayer,

May we all awake

Sooner and better from

This 2020 nightmare of

Worldwide disease,

Economic collapse,

Inept, venal leaders and

Social unrest to

Unite and achieve at

Long last call

Long-sought

Justice on race in

A world

That works

For all

.

To accept once and for all

What has always been true

That—

Unalienable rights

Denied

Become wrongs

To accept once and for all

What has always been true

That—

We are “E Pluribus Unum”

“One from many”

 Black, brown, yellow

 Red, white, and blue

To accept once and for all

What has always been true

That—

We are all one race

The Human Race

Me     And     You

.

Larry C. Tolbert is a writer and poet with master’s degrees from the University of Illinois and San Francisco State University. Raised by grandparents on a Southern Illinois farm, he has lived in Northern California his entire adult life. His work has been published in Birdland Journal and ESCOM Journal (College of Marin).

.

Kirsty A. Niven

.

Setting

.

Pink clouds brush the slates of tenements,

a sugary blush, candy floss breath –

the world is a bleary-eyed painting,

the street a Dundonian Hopper.

.

The only eye that sees me here,

a glass square with lace eyelashes.

Tear stain speckles mark the glass,

machine gun sputters in a speakeasy.

.

Dust fills my lungs like an hourglass.

My plaster skin dries in the heavy air,

the steady descent to forgotten stone.

The centre remains a hollow.

.

A cavern with an echoing scream –

dropping downwards into an infinite abyss

judged by stabbing stalactites

for another isolation infused ramble.

.

Finality falls over the chimneys.

.

Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland. Her writing has appeared in anthologies such as Landfall, Nocturne and Of Burgers and Barrooms. She has also featured in several journals and magazines, including The Dawntreader, Cicada Magazine, Dundee Writes and Causeway/Cabhsair. Kirsty’s work can also be found online on sites such as 45 Magazine, Ponder Savant and Nine Muses Poetry.

.

Roderick Deacey

.

A Virus Among Us     

.

These days, we live in hope – we can’t be sure –

the damage is extensive, I’m afraid!

Things won’t return to how they were before

.

So, must we wear these masks for evermore

like characters in some bizarre charade?

We hope not, but we really can’t be sure.

.

We dine well-spaced outside the café door

and pray no-one is sick where the meal’s made.

Is their home-made bread as good as before?

.

Shall we drink till we can think no more?

Turn back the clock and let our worst fears fade?

Hopes can come true, can’t they? We’re not so sure.

.

Each day we count our dead and keep the score;

this cruel curse is like a deadly blade!

Things can’t go back to how they were before.

.

The mighty plague has dragged us to the floor!

So shall we rise up once more, undismayed?

That’s our hope, but we know one thing for sure –

we won’t go back to who we were before.

.

Roderick Deacey is a performing poet based in Frederick, MD, appearing regularly in the DC area with his bass-player and drummer. His book of beat poems, “neo-beatery ballads” was published in 2019. Deacey won the Frederick Arts Council Carl R. Butler Award for Literature in 2019.

.

Gwil James Thomas

.

Now That The World Has Changed.

.

If there’s one thing that the world

isn’t short of at the moment

it’s Coronavirus poems –

but now that the world has changed,

that’s not hardly fucking surprising either.

.

I remember one wild and lost year

constantly finding fresh trouble,

whilst clinging to my past –

until one day I finally

opened my eyes to the world

around me and decided that

it was time to move on,

but as I did I also found the world

had moved faster than I’d remembered

and I’d wanted it to somehow

slow down for a little while

so that I could catch back up with it –

then recently it did and now

everyone’s wearing hazmat suits,

turning on one another

and slowly going bat shit crazy.

.

Meanwhile, I sit here counting pennies,

whilst waiting to pen the next poem –

telling myself that this shit storm

simply is what it is until somehow,

someday it’ll be no more.

.

Some Things.

.

Back home again,

I saw an old

hometown hero

pull up to the lights –

he’d been another

regular in the

local pub

and to be blunt

I was surprised that

he was still alive –

but he’d lived more

lives than most

had anyway

and he leaned out

of the window,

complaining to me

about the crazy tenant

in the bedsit below his,

before then telling me

that he was off

to buy some booze

and I realised he’d

told me the exact

same things

before I’d left town

two years ago

and I watched as

he pulled off

with Free Bird

playing through

the same broken

car stereo –

glad that some things

since this virus arrived,

had stayed the same.

.

Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician. Originally from Bristol, England he’s also lived in Brighton, London and Spain. He’s a Best of The Net and Pushcart nominee whose written work can be found in numerous publications. His most recent chapbook’s here: www.analogsubmission.com/chapbooks/gwiljamesthomas-cocoontransitions

.

JeanMarie Olivieri

.

Grocery Shopping

.

Trapped

in the car

waiting for the parking lot

to empty just a bit

.

My local grocery store

is an older, smaller model

than her suburban sister-stores

yet it seems now to hold

the entire neighborhood  ̶

a potentially lethal block party.

.

I will not be trapped

by fear.

I mask up and enter.

.

Looking Forward

.

Crowd surfing at Burning Man

New Year’s Eve in Time Square

Championship playoffs

.

Too much time alone

I’m dreaming of places

I never wanted to be

.

Standing in this desert

hope like water in my canteen

I am squinting into the future

looking at life beyond six feet

All I see is you

.

Molt

.

Weeks turn to months.

I have been confined too long.

Seeking solace in the night

I molt my skin

don a discarded shell

and dig a home into wet sand

careful to escape the boiling pot.

Sometimes my skin thickens

my feet harden into hooves

and I race the veld with my herd.

On clear nights with a full moon

I spread my wings and soar

a sleek predator

bringing fast death to small animals

before roosting in my nest

to awaken with feathers by my bed.

.

JeanMarie Olivieri is a mostly retired business writer who mostly writes poetry. She has been published in online journals and several anthologies. She is a co-organizer for the Living Poetry Meetup group, and an editor for the Heron Clan Poetry Anthology series. Follow her at https://jeanmarieolivieri.wordpress.com/

.

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Summer Pandemic Issues

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #5

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #5

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

 

Spring Pandemic Issues 

North of Oxford presents The Pandemic Issues.

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #1

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/04/19/__trashed-2/

North of Oxford- The Pandemic Issue #2

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/04/25/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue-2/

North of Oxford- The Pandemic Issue #3

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/04/25/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue-3/

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #4

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/04/27/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue-4/

.

Stay Calm – Stay Safe – Stay Home and When Out and About Wear a Mask

Diane Sahms and g emil reutter