North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #5

The Great Falls of the Lehigh River and Stoddart Mills Ruins By Mary M. Michaels  https://marymmichaels.weebly.com/

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Thanks to the poets for contributing to The Pandemic Issue #5 from North of Oxford and Mary M. Michaels for graciously providing her art .  In order of appearance we present: Howie Good, Robbie Nester, J. Joy “Sistah Joy” Matthews Alford, Ray Greenblatt, Dee Allen. , Dan Brady, Mike Maggio, Michael D. Amitin, Mark J. Mitchell, Rikki Santer, Benjamin Siegan, Anne Becker, Akshaya Pawaskar, Amy Barone, Judy DeCroce and Antoni Ooto, Ben Nardolilli, Jane ‘SpokenWord’ Grenier, Barbara Crooker, Tim Suermondt, Michele Riedel and Diane Wilbon Parks

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Howie Good

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Oh, Mercy

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I board the subway at 72nd Street carrying a metal briefcase like the one that contains secret nuclear launch codes. A busker playing guitar at the far end of the car is trying to make up in enthusiasm what he lacks in formal training. He apparently adheres to Lou Reed’s dictum: anything with more than three chords is jazz. The passengers ignore his musical pleas for attention. They nap. They text. They shed virus. When the train emerges for a moment above ground, the sky looks as if it’s been digitally erased. There are colors in nature that birds can see, but humans can’t.

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Howie Good is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

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2 Poems by Robbie Nester

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Instruction

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When fear takes you by the throat and

shakes you, breathe slowly. Remember

the feeling of hanging, a leaf on the end

of a branch, in headstand at the yoga studio.

Imagine the weight of an heirloom tomato

the precise shape of a geranium in your palm.

Fear cannot abide such sensations. Shove it

to the back of your closet with your oldest shoes.

Throw open the shades and listen to the rain

finding its way into the soft earth, waking

seeds that have slept in the ground

for months, so they open their mouths

and drink, tasting the air at last.

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The 52 Hertz Whale

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was the world’s loneliest because no other

whales would swim with him. His song

sounded awkward, maybe too shrill,

out of kilter. He was just plain odd.

Originality doesn’t count for much

among cetaceans. But we humans

are less discriminating, at least about

whale songs. We are listening,

sitting at our windows, staring out

at the empty streets, sure that we

are the whale, or that he is us.

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Robbi Nester is the author of 4 books of poetry, including a chapbook, Balance (White Violet, 2012) and three collections, the most recent being Narrow Bridge (Main Street Rag, 2019).  She is also the editor of three anthologies. Her poems, reviews, articles, and essays have appeared widely in journals and anthologies.

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J. Joy “Sistah Joy” Matthews Alford

 

My Lilac

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There can be no balance,

But amid all the desolation and pain

Lilacs still lift and elate me beyond measure.

Her sweet fragrance wafts across my lawn

As though divinely assigned for such a time.

It is she who still calms, settles, stills my soul,

Slays today’s reality if only for a moment

Taking me back in reverie to childhood

Backyard games and daydreams

Where possibilities danced

Among calming lavender blossoms

Unfettered and unhindered by masks.

.

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J. Joy “Sistah Joy” Matthews Alford is the inaugural Poet Laureate of Prince George’s County, Maryland, U.S.A.  She has authored 3 collections of poems, “Lord I’m Dancin’ As Fast As I Can,” “This Garden Called Life” and “From Pain to Empowerment, The Fabric of My Being.”  For the past 15 years she has produced and hosted the nationally-recognized cable television show, Sojourn with Words, which has received two Telly Awards for “Excellence in Cultural Programming.”

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2 Poems by Ray Greenblatt

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Invisible War

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We do not wear gas masks

but Halloween masks

bizarrely decorated,

nor carry rifles

instead washing hands

anxiously raw,

and stand at a distance

like slightly neurotic

very polite children,

while people fall dead

all around us;

.

at least when the V-2’s

stopped ticking we knew

we were in trouble

and could run for it,

but this invisible

silent  monster can clasp us

like any innocent clown

at any  time on any corner

or tucked in our beds

saying last prayers.

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Going On

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oh yes

we’ve all been away

from each other

been away

on inner trips

and oh yes

we have all changed

because now we see each other

differently

we see each other

as we never have before

we have all aged

for questions of life and death

have been whirling all around us

so close around us

some will never return

and we wonder why

we wonder why we have survived

we wonder how we have survived

exhausted

fearful

touching places to see

if we are really here

and all we can do

is blindly

hopefully

go on . . .

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“Ray & Sue Greenblatt were vacationing with family in Delray Beach, Florida in February. All seemed very normal, but when they returned, everything hit the fan! They will always be very thankful that they got home in time!”

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3 Poems by Dee Allen.

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Barren 

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Barren

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Streets—Oakland’s 74 miles closed

To cars—Mayor Schaaf prioritises

Two-wheeled exercise and safety

For gentrifiers.

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Barren

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Subway stations—Social

Distancing maintained

To the extreme. Underground

Solid concrete ghost town.

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Barren

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Hotel rooms—They’d make better

Shelter in place for the homeless than being

Warehoused in close quarters on mats. Existing method:

Good way to get infected.

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Barren

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Shelves—Inside the supermarket—

The spirit of hoarding

Cleared them of supplies.

Long line of humanity outside are in for a nasty surprise.

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Barren

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Heart—There’s

Nothing left dwelling in the husk for some.

Nothing left but hostility—Blame for sickness

Lands on descendants of Asia.

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Barren

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Describes this reality, re-configured

By rapid infection—Humanity homebound—

There’s no reverting back

To normal after this.

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I survived

Ten presidents, the residual terror of four

Foreign wars, power outages, outbursts of nature,

A petrol shortage, evictions and homelessness.

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I will survive this, even as this contaminated air

World quickly goes

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Barren.

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Masques Up 

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There was a time

When wearing a masque

In public was equated w/ anti-system

Protests in the streets, attending the

Most extravagant, fun balloon

& paper streamer-strewn

Costume ball @ best

& crime @ worst—

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It’s the Law now

To throw the masques up.

Simple, repurposed

Cloth covering our faces, concealing all

But our eyes. Looking fresh

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From a steam train

Robbery Old West style

Or a Black Bloc

Putting some smash on the blue block

That redlines & forecloses

& holds money simultaneously

Chase Bank©—

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To throw the masques up

Is an exercise of

Good judgement now. Invasion of our persons

Held back w/ a new school

Protection spell. Just add cloth

Firmly over nose & mouth.

Continued being assured against

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Robbery of our lives

By a thief so intrusive,

Another murderer unseen,

But far more elusive.

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Out Front

For Jennifer A. Minotti

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I am grateful for…

.

The arched roof above my head

The twin rafters with

The twin lights, holding it in place

The four walls surrounding me

The two windows with

The two Venetian blinds, down & shut at all times

The red brick floor below my feet

The wooden shelves full of books & movies

The VHS by themselves & DVDs in clear totes

The Keetsa© mattress I sleep on

The melatonin that helps me sleep

The vegan food in my fridge, a meat-free zone

The fruit & vegetable juices I savour

The filtered water I drink more than tap shit

The hardcover journal notebooks and

The rollerpoint pens I use to express myself

The shower I use, even though I’m a bathtub man

The Hewlett Packard laptop computer aiding creation of

The once and future poetry volumes

The Samsung© TV & VCR/DVD player combo

The little house in East Oakland I call home

The vast collection of political slogan t-shirts

SOMETIMES ANTI-SOCIAL ALWAYS ANTI-RACIST

Remains a personal favourite but

BEING BLACK IS NOT A CRIME

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Gets me the most love on the street

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But most of all

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I am grateful for…

.

The bus drivers

The firefighters

The restaurant

Deliver drivers

The subway train conductors

The launderette clerks

The grocery store workers

The farmer’s market workers

Which I happen to be one

The doctors

The nurses

The paramedics

The pharmacy workers

The protestors for the rights of all Black lives

The dead and the living

The mutual aid collectives

Giving food, water, medicine and household

Items to the people living hand to mouth

During this goddamn pandemic

And long before

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All the heroes

Out front

In our service

Seeing to our immediate

Survival needs

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They could use the praise

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And you don’t need

Super powers

To be a hero

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Just be there

Out front

For us—

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Dee Allen. An African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Active on the creative writing & Spoken Word tips since the early 1990s. Author of 5 books [Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater and Skeletal Black, all from POOR Press, and his newest from Conviction 2 Change Publishing, Elohi Unitsi ].

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Dan Brady

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The personal and impersonal

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Who denies their chains

Those long-standing claims

From the empires of our past?.

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Error    driven into fear

Misapprehensions    into enmity

Thence to greed     and onto war

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Smoky battleground

Corpses strewn … a medallion glints

The long – justice – of silence

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The parade   crowds cheer

The grim reaper waves …

Supporting    everyone’s troops

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Midway barkers loud

Angry sky, blusters sweep papers

The Dark comes for its own

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One thing I know

About this world’s ending …

No one will see it coming

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We saw them

Titanic muscular clouds

Lightning flashed   there were eyes

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We need to make calls

End this man now, lest this be how

Civilization falls – – –

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Mike Maggio

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Innominate

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I

Today, a tulip trembled in the breeze:

an urgent temptation to bloom.

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II.

When I awoke,

it was to the delusion of dream.

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III.

Outside, a vicious wind.

Outside, the trees. Fearful.

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IV.

One moment, seclusion.

One moment, a prickly crown of memory.

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V.

There’s nothing we can’t touch.

Nothing we can lay a finger on.

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VI.

Sweet dove, waving from the wilderness,

wherefore this social distancing?

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VII.

In a moment of delirium,

I journeyed to my mother’s grave.

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VIII.

Nothing on the horizon.

Not even a ghosting of sun.

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IX.

2,000,000+ sick.  200,000+ dead.

I cannot count to infinity.

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X

One dark night, I witness my reflection

taunting the reaper.

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Michael D. Amitin

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Mambo’s Blues

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Sad Spanish strains

Night street

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All dissent quiet

Church mice sleeping

Humans creeping

Petrified forests

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Papers run you around

Papers to walk the dog

Police looting city blocks

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Forgotten masquerade masks soaking in

God forsaken puddles

Gloves, skeleton mud runners

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Double fried kisses, canned peaches and mist

Stare from

Weathered shelves

Embraces on hold till a

Magic clock-strike twelve

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Poets creak, Paris pastors reach,

The abandoned plunging

hollow cold-ice streams

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With great introspection

Masses ponder the great dissection

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Easter bunnies screw in tournesol sheds

The bum rap meds, no one to touch his hand

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Lab rats grin as the mother

of all vaccines warms to the

Resounding orchestral death march

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We stay together Keep our love

Hide in the never heard of

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Knit our threads, bake our breads

Sing our songs, read Walt all night long

Nurses, doctor helping hands

Stave off the storm with clothespins

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Nature heals, as the wheels roll off the highway

Rest like tires in a wilted roadside graveyard

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Shutters flailing viral winds

Mind eye flashing gold

Designs of maladroit wine boats

Rocking ship shake harbors

On my droopy curtains

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Sweet Suzy muse never forgets my address

Drops off provisions

Flipping bad luck coins

Like hot cakes griddle bound

To the sunrise…

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Leapfrog fantasies

Kind of blue nights

Late winter Paris

Sunup

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Mother earth freaking

Miracle balm on our last sundown legs

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Used to trip on window pane

Now it’s tryptophane

Sleep away this nightmare, nevertheless

Ship ahoy, mates!

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Jesus came down in a chariot

2nd coming time

Walls shaking, the frame was hot

big cigar chief told him

cool it with that riff of peace

we’re the visigoths..

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The gothies

the meanest band in town

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We’ve chucked the wafers for the great vaccine

Dissolves on your palate- a king’s tongue in his queen

wail in the water

and cream,

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The great hereafter filled with brothels

n’ laughter, Louis playin’ the West End Blues,

He mused

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Ay ye merry moutons

Line up, don’t ya’ cry

Take a shot, be an astronaut

A fireman to boot

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Poet and musician, Michael D. Amitin travelled the roads of the American West before moving to Paris. Recently named International Beat Poet Laureate 2020-2021, Amitin’s poems have been published in California Quarterly, Poetry Pacific, Cajun Mutt Press, and others. A current collaboration with Parisian photographer Julie Peiffer has given rise to the “Riverlights” project.

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Mark J. Mitchell

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                                        Mass in Time of Plague

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                                         (For Interior Choir)

                                    After Haydn, Mass in Time of War

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1.         Kyrie

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Let mercy roll like fog through every home.

Show mercy to all that can still see.

Let mercy flow to the known and unknown.

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A slow silence drips from each untrimmed tree

And that gray chill touches each of your bones.

Show small mercy to all that you still see.

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This morning love flows from a telephone.

Take that for now. Birdsongs and humming bees

Fly like mercy you’ve shown the known and unknown.

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There’s more mercy than you’ll hope to see.

Let mercy flow into your sealed home.

Accept this gift: Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

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2.         Gloria

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All your glory’s hidden by folded masks.

Pay no attention to the broken sky.

Count steps to the sidewalk. Savor the climb.

You must rise and converge. Everyone stand.

All that glory’s hidden by hand-made masks.

Soft fingers are unused to homely tasks.

Fold your sorrows now. No reason to cry.

Taste glory’s salt on your tongue. That scoundrel time

Must fall. Cover your face. Cover your hands.

Pay no attention to that broken sky.

Every word—even this—is a lie

And your glory’s hidden by fragile masks.

Those small slips, tiny errors—they are not crimes.

Cool morning sun cleans you. No, soft winds fan

Low clouds to the ocean. There’s nothing you lack.

Pay no attention to our broken sky.

Count the steps pavement asks you to climb.

So now—rise and converge. Now! Learn to stand.

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3.         Qui tolis peccata mundi

(You who take away the sin of the world)

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If you can replace the half-missed good-bye,

Then carry this prayer.

If you can separate the masked from the wounded

Then spill us some mercy.

If you can change boredom to devotion

You’re welcome to these prayers.

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4.         Quoniam tu solo Sanctus

(For You alone are holy)

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Solitude is not holy.

Absence is not holy.

Noise filled voids

Are never holy.

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If you are holy,

It’s time to climb down.

Don’t make us

Beg for grace.

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5.          Credo

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Now—believe that dry cough’s perfect. Your last.

You’ll be sent away—now—we all believe—

To die alone. There’s nothing worse. We’ve learned

That breeze can kill. A stranger’s naked face

Means an end of time, but a cheap cloth sieve

Means hope. We believe this is what we’ve earned.

.

On empty streets—each and each—hides a face

That bears harm. We walk through an open sieve

Of foot traffic. We dance, slide, duck, we weave

Away from touch, sure it would be our last.

We don’t know why. But it’s time to believe

In threats we don’t see. We believe that a turn

Is coming. Even end times have an end.

.

We watch for sweat. That ill-omen of heat

Will find us—even believers. There’s no sieve

Fine enough for health. We believe retreat

Is carrying a battle forward. Terms

Enter our speech—spells and charms we believe

Almost true. We believe this cannot last.

We believe love, but we’ve forgotten her face.

The end, we believe, in the end, we burn.

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6.       Benedictus

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Bless silence, bless absence, bless our closed doors.

No exit is not a cell. We’ll learn to pray.

We’re intimate with windows, acquainted with floors,

blessed by silence, broken absence, stiff doors

with loud hinges. Now’s not a time for more

anything. Sit still, let ghost priests say,

Bells silent. Bless absence. Close doors.

This exitless cell is yours. Pace and pray.

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7.   Agnus Dei

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Bored lambs in a pen, we pray,

Take away sins we desire.

Softly enclosed, old lambs we ask,

Save us from desires we fear

We are, all of us, lambs of time:

Grant us peace.

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Mark J. Mitchell’s novel, The Magic War appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied at Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work appeared in several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. He lives with his wife, Joan Juster making his living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco until the pandemic hit.

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2 Poems by Rikki Santer

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Quarantine Spring

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Coldest nights on record

tucking in the impatiens

with tattered thermal blankets

& days with a bad taste that rattles

.

like cod loins freezer-burned.

Brylcreemed ideas from a dangerous

podium, viscid shipping & handling

my emotions to the front door

.

landing me in moods for reduction.

The granular seepage of time,

my mind too near to itself.

I am a tiny balloon chasing

.

its string, dandelions shake their

heads, toss seeds to the squalls.

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Landmark

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The train, a wailing pronoun in the dark breath of night

when quarantine responds to quarantine and I ask myself

how do I get from here to the rest of the world

or scale a kinder incline beyond the noise

above this jittery, jumbled ground

my eyes rheumy with incessant news, lips dry

from the briny kiss of pundits.

Words gather to call upon landscape,

sleep a foreigner who keeps me up under a swollen moon

and I am weary of suggestions for further study

pregnant glossary of regrets,

and I am wedded

to my weary couch denuded in its binocular view.

The braying train again in periphery

its skein of myth and fable trails behind

spectral thresholds blinded by the winds,

a wolverine in my lap,

skulls dangle from trees

this tasseled place dead air

of press conference somewhere between scorched earth

and uncharted territory.

Train cars stuffed with under-songs of tarnished narratives,

clouds pinched across the much midnight sky.

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Publications including Ms. Magazine, Poetry East, Slab, Crab Orchard Review, RHINO, Grimm, Hotel Amerika and The Main Street Rag. Santer was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities. Santer’s eighth collection,  Drop Jaw, was published this spring by NightBallet Press.

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Benjamin Siegan

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American Summer, 2020

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More record-breaking heat. With it comes assailing storms—sable skies peppered with bursts and cracks of bluish-white along with a torrent of rain and swells of harrowing wind. God help us when hurricane season hits. The downpour subsides as I prepare for my trek to work. More violent precipitation is predicted at day’s end, but for now, sultry air and ashen clouds prevail.

.

I check the traffic report. Another Black Lives Matter protest in midtown—collective calls for dignity, equality, compassion, and justice. Although traversing the assemblage will add time to my commute, I’m nothing but supportive of their efforts. I marched with them during the strife-ridden spring. But despite the need for systemic change coalescing with a looming, unmitigated plague, the job beckons—reopen in service of the plunging economy as sickness spreads.

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News radio provides updates during my labor-bound drive. The President offers misinformation, contradictions, and snide, racist remarks. The Governor has nothing but empty platitudes and prepared sound bites. The Mayor conveys desperation, urging those who can to stay at home. But rent needs to be paid; money is required for food. Electricity, water, phone, car, and internet—their fees are indifferent to the virus. I also need to keep the digital distractions funded. I’m not too proud to admit that I might go mad without them.

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Close to my destination, another obstacle—an angry throng making their way to City Hall. They wave Confederate flags. One banner features a crudely-drawn swastika. Some brandish pistols and assault rifles. They elevate signs with an amalgam of messages: All Lives Matter, Jesus Supports the 2nd Amendment, Open the Bars, Hilary and Obama—Partners in Treason, Quarantine=Socialism, Destroy the Deep State, I Need a Haircut, Re-elect Trump—Keep America Great, Protect White Heritage, COVID is a Democrat Hoax, Save the Aryan Race. Quite the pack of dangerous, hateful, morons, spreading ignorance and disease—a source of figurative and literal pollution. No doubt a few members of this despicable mob will venture into my place of business, requiring me to hold my tongue to continue employment and hold my breath to stave off illness.

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Upon arrival at work, I put on my mask—a thick, garnet-colored cloth shield that spans the entire lower half of my face. The supervisor is required to provide a flimsy, disposal covering to those without. They fit poorly and frequently slip below the nose when speaking. I’m thankful I was able to procure my own washable, protective gear during the early phases of the pandemic. For once, being a paranoid germaphobe proved beneficial. My temperature is taken in the back room, out of public view, to confirm it is within normal parameters. I’m asked if any recognized symptoms are being experienced and affirm my healthy status. Industrial, indigo latex gloves are issued before I’m sent to the floor.

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My assigned tasks have increased greatly from the Pre-Coronavirus era. In addition to my regular responsibilities, I must also enforce the company’s safety policies. Statutes are fluid, shifting from week to week. As of today, no one may enter without some form of mask, patrons must remain more than 6 feet apart from each other at all times, and the moving of tables and chairs is prohibited. Most are compliant, but there are always a handful who argue—labeling me a fascist, an oppressor, a violator of their rights and freedoms, with occasional bouts of screaming and swearing. Some acquiesce. Others make a scene before leaving and vowing never to return. My skin has grown thick. The insults and accusations fail to garner a reaction. I just repeat the stipulations in a detached, neutral tone and carry on.

.

The verbal abuse is much more tolerable than the cleaning mandates. After each customer has left, I must scrub down any surfaces they’ve touch with a pungent bleach solution. Bathrooms are scoured with disinfectant every hour. The chemicals sting my eyes. Sweat constantly pours from the brow. The perspiration bleeds into my pupils, making them constantly burn. I’ve taken to wearing bulky, lab goggles during sanitation duties. My peers mock me, but their ridicule pales in comparison to the harsh bite of noxious fumes.

.

The evening delivers its promised deluge. Drops of water spatter against the window with frenetic intensity. Physical and emotional exhaustion sets in. A final cleansing is administered, a complete sterilization from top to bottom. The tip jars are divided equally— a little, well-earned financial boost until my next paycheck is deposited.

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I press through the turbulent weather that veils the moon and stars and casts night in its darkest incarnation. I opt for music on the return trip, drowning out detonations of thunder with the roar of guitars. A late, microwaveable dinner, one episode of a mindless television show, and I’m drifting into sleep—knowing I’ve done my part, made my contribution, to this horribly aberrant version of reality. I may not be saving lives, but I’m keeping people caffeinated. Such is the vital role of a barista in the summer of 2020.

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Originally from Chicago, Ben Siegan had the good fortune of being influenced by the expansive literary and theater culture the city provided. While his career is that of an elementary educator, he has always dedicated his limited free time to the craft of writing. Siegan’s works have included collections of poetry, prose, material for the stage, and even a full-length rock opera. Now having settled in Virginia for the last decade, it is his hope to continue increasing efforts toward professional writing aspirations.

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2 Poems by Anne Becker

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Lockdown

.

Depression era glass

words cocked up

spill over the damn

in quarantine: fear our

human fellows, hope

to thread the labyrinth of

viral particulates hang

suspended, cling to

surfaces—how long—how

long—how long—left to our

own devices our fingers

strike—snake bites—our

hands full of lattice-like

molecules, traffic streams by

birds crazy at first light stake

their claims to the over story,

each house of bark, of leaves,

web of terrible green pollen

germ cell, extravagant

procreation, snore and

beep of nuthatch, happy

jeer of jay, flash of red—

of blue—gold finch cry

their desire for potato

chip, for chicory, the rust

wren for tea, little brown

jobs we strain to identify

all the egg blue shells

break before we cross

the path, deer stands at

my shoulder—awkward

tender smile—watches—

 you reborn—know I’m safe—

bounds past, in the air we

breathe, frightened and angry

there’s nothing we need do

queue of bright images—blink—

blink blink—blink—cry wolf,

cry whale, all the animals we

care for, foxes domesticate

themselves—same old traffic

sounds, sad coo of the train

clacks in the distance

eats us, breaks our

bread, its leathery crust,

slip crumbs beneath

dreadless masks, dust settles

old scores, dishes left

undone.

.

Social Distance

.

As when my son, first extruded

from the tissue that formed him,

head reluctant to quit the muscular

membrane that kept him safe,

unsure of the emptiness into which

he might fall, he and I are all about

food, and sleeping and waking—

but now no protest cry when we’re

hungry or desire sleep so much

we can taste it under our eyelids.

Now we cross town on asphalt

pathways to reach each other—

young bucks, their small rack

of antlers smothered in velvet,

step from the sheltering woods

to watch us pass—his beard

scraped away, his chin raw.

And I want so badly to swab A & D

ointment—the cure-all of childhood—

on the redden and blistered skin

of my son.  Although the chin is not

plush and inviting like the silken

round of the bottom, and I’m not

allowed to claim his body with

comforting, probing hands the way

I once did when I didn’t have to admit

our distance: my one cell, divided

and divided again and again, had

become him—not me. And, anyway,

in this time of deadly virus, we don’t

hug, we don’t kiss—although

because of his neuroatypical sense

of touch he has never liked the light

feathering of fingers on his flesh, he

doesn’t embrace often—like his

father—and his grandfather, my

father, before him—and when he

does, it’s a quick, hard press.

.

Anne Becker, poet and paper artist, leads a workshop, Writing the Body, for those who have experienced life-threatening or chronic illness. Her poems printed on her own handmade paper have been exhibited in the US and in Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada. She is a poetry editor of Burgeon, an arts journal based in Washington, DC.

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Akshaya Pawaskar

.

Politics of nature

.

River by the city

is finally breathing

unmasked and sheer

free of the murky veneer.

The peacock flower

has shed its flames.

It stains the tarmac

with colors of a once

happier world.

On driving down

these concrete woods

a Sign post

reads -go slow

Wildlife crossing.

And even the pigeons

teeter on their

twiggy feet

like toddlers

learning to walk

their wings tired,

of being chased

empty roads inviting.

We sit at home

connected by wires,

cables and Ethernet

afraid of being tangible,

while the dogs continue

to lick their paws clean

and each other dry.

The buffaloes walk

in herds less than

a meter apart,

unsanitizied, carefree.

Six feet are for

humans, single files

are for the convicted.

When the tables turn

the entitled animals

become caged and

the caged ones

find an amnesty

a freedom though

of numbered days.

.

Akshaya Pawaskar is a doctor practicing in India and poetry is her passion. Her poems have been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Indian Ruminations, The Blue Nib, North of Oxford, Rock and Sling, Shards and Red Fez.

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Amy Barone

.

A Dawning

.

Orange-yellow flare on the horizon.

Trees still shrouded in night.

Relief at the gift of more hours.

Summoning angels to flex their might.

From towers of closed churches, bells chime.

.

 Amy Barone’s poetry collection, We Became Summer, from New York Quarterly Books, was released in early 2018. She wrote chapbooks Kamikaze Dance (Finishing Line Press) and Views from the Driveway (Foothills Publishing.) Barone’s poetry appears in Local Knowledge, Paterson Literary Review, Sensitive Skin, and Standpoint (UK.) She lives in NYC.

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Judy DeCroce and Antoni Ooto

.

Open Window

.

invisible nemesis

coyote wind sighing

over the sill—

.

what is not done, wastes,

as every hour stalls scattering

in time, in place

.

a foreign breeze,

hitching a way in

.

messenger in a gale,

seemingly empty yesterday

yet rock-solid—leaning forward

.

Passing

.

A time of extremes; late and clearer,

sharp shadows of loss.

.

Indecision and reflection, as night

rests on other ages.

.

Fate holds all the cards

shuffles with slight-of-hand

and deals out lives

into unknown places.

.

While few small moments remain.

.

Internationally published writers, storyteller and educator Judy DeCroce, and poet/artist Antoni Ooto are based in Upstate New York. Married and sharing a love of poetry, they gather inspiration during their morning poetry sessions.  Over a pot of coffee, they listen, critique, and revise their work.

.

Ben Nardolilli

.

Knowing the Vine

.

Trying to bring the outside inside, and what better way

than to become a primitive agriculturist?

some plants on the balcony, some flowers in the kitchen,

maybe a tree will grow rootless in a bucket

in the middle of my room in the middle of Brooklyn

.

Forgive the changes in spaces, and alterations in spirit,

my body’s not a temple anymore and palms

won’t give me the future, whether they hold cards or not.

Time to get working on a fertility cult, right now

it’s not clear if this God is shaped like a man, or a bull

.

What flourishing! I can already smell the succulents,

and yes, some crops are for my consumption,

smoke and sauce, I make them both thanks to my growth,

it’s a wonderful way to recycle when the street

is too sick to walk on, and only good for running away

.

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.

.

Jane ‘SpokenWord’ Grenier

.

My f*cking Virus poem #1

.

in the city of the undead

6 ft apart

your cough I dread

your breath

where’s your mask

get the fuck away from me

I’m busy not touching groceries

locked down in my room

as the heroes’ work through doom and gloom

in the city of the undead

6ft apart

we wait instead

don’t touch

there are corpses

death by viral sources

nurses underdressed

doctors depressed

workers

drivers

all looking for protection

orange man boasting perfection

death from oblivious discombobulation

.

Jane ‘SpokenWord’ Grenier’s performances range from the Whitney Museum w/Cecil Taylor, to festivals, libraries, slam lounges, galleries, clubs, busking street corners and living rooms everywhere. Publications: 2 books of poetry w/art and audio – Word Against the Machine & Tragically Hip; Good Housekeeping, Boston Magazine, Boston Globe; anthologies: Rogue Scholars Express, Bonsia Publications, Oh-Wow Publications, and the National Beat Poetry Anthology’ 2019.

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3 Poems Barbara Crooker

.

Worry Beads

.

I wish I could quiet the voices

in my head, the ones with the projected

infection rate, the viral spread, the body

count.  It’s been three months

since I’ve seen my grandkids,

except on a screen.  My county

is still under lockdown, and there’s

a curfew, which really doesn’t matter,

as there’s no place to go.  This is not

like a blizzard or hurricane, some

outages, then the storm passes.

This is the season of subtraction,

as faces of friends disappear.

What items will be gone

from the grocery store this week?

Popcorn, flour, hand sanitizer, yeast?

But spring has returned,

and bare sticks break out into blossoms:

azaleas, rhododendrons, mountain laurel.

The grass has spread a plush carpet,

and orioles gorge on sweet orange slices.

Maybe these are the good times,

with darkness to follow?  My skin sings

whenever you touch me.   Hold me,

my darling, as long as you can.

.

Daily News

.

And so this day is like every other,

beginning with coffee and ending

with wine.  But with nowhere

to go, and nothing to do, I’m

going to take my time, sit

in the morning sun and savor

the darkness, black and bitter

In the larger world, terrible

things continue to happen.

Here, the only action

is the hummingbird zipping

and sipping sugar water,

jazzed on sweetness, in love

with the sun.  In the herb

garden, lavender, rosemary,

sage, thyme release their scents

as the heat rises.  The implacable

sky is laid down with a paint roller.

Schedules and deadlines no longer

matter.  If a small chore needs

to be done, we do it; there is

no later, only now.  We miss

our friends, see our neighbors

only at a distance.  There isn’t

any news to share.  The sun

traverses the sky, the day

passes, just like the one before.

Soon, shadows will lengthen,

and the stars will print

their reports in the dark,

which echoes the consolation

of wine filling my glass.  I

remember to thank the grapes,

crushed on my behalf.

Tomorrow, we’ll do this

all over again.

.

NOVEMBER 18, 2019

.

I didn’t know it then, but this was the last good day.

I was in the glittering city, visiting an old friend.

We walked on a busy street to the 9-11 Memorial,

the gold of late November reflected in the glass

windows, the water’s mirror.  Ate dinner

in a crowded restaurant, so close to the next table,

we could have joined their conversation.  Traded

bites of pumpkin tortellini, scallops in wine,

shared a crême brulée.  Sipped a bit of wine

from each other’s glass.  Rode the subway.

Grabbed the last two seats for a sold-out show,

then strolled Times Square, bathed in the neon

glow. We didn’t realize then that these were things

we would not do again.  That life would become:

An Emergency Room, An Isolation Ward,

An Abandoned Mall, A Shuttered School.

That this was as good as it would ever get,

and that the rest was silence.

.

Barbara Crooker is the author of nine books of poetry; Some Glad Morning (Pitt Poetry Series) is her latest.  Her work has appeared in many anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature, Commonwealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, The Poetry of Presence, and Healing the Divide: Poems of Kinship and Compassion

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2 Poems by Tim Suermondt

.

  Counting the Beautiful Days

.

And there are a lot of them,

hanging on despite the discontent

and absolute horrors of the long

months we’ve had to deal with.

I walk the quieter city streets,

keeping my distance only because

I have to, but I feel the ghosts

of thousands in the very air, readying

for their moment to create

a crowd, become flesh and bone

again, surprising themselves at how

crowded, often dirty subway cars

hold a sparkle, a small beauty after all.

.

  Left to the Sailboats

.

The birds follow me until

they realize: he plumb forgot the bread.

.

I go left to the sailboats, just a few

bobbing around on the water, more boring

.

than inspiring, how I miss the great ships.

Where did they go? I ask America—

.

I know she’s here, somewhere.

.

Tim Suermondt is the author of five full-length collections of poems, the latest Josephine Baker Swimming Pool from MadHat Press, 2019. He has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, North of Oxford, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine, december magazine, On the Seawall, Poet Lore and Plume, among many others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.

.

2 Poems by Michele Riedel

.

Covid protest

.

“The caged bird wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he open his throat to sing”

Maya Angelou

.

Flat on my back,

feverish and faint, I dissolve

into the dark corners of tallying symptoms-

splintered lungs, lost breath.

.

Cell phone buzzes—

George Floyd, George Floyd!

I want to shout out in solidarity

across this broken land

.

but the scratch of bent birds

in their cages

press into my chest with every

clawing cough. My pillow

Is hard pavement.

.

I push into the tarred fear,

the sear of every swallow,

try to hold breath 8 minutes—

the pulse pounding torment

of no reply.

.

Basketball in hand,

a scared teen

chances to cross a street

disappears into the night

of no reply.

.

Someone’s mom in ICU

another alone in ER,

a nurse without PPE

all cry in the dark night

of no reply.

.

A man shelters

in place under park bench

in the dark night

of no reply.

.

I black out my screen,

take a picture of the night

starless and shadowed,

wait for morning light—

.

think about how a cloud

shifts and a piercing light

appears,

how wings touch in flight,

silvered and soaring

.

and scarred throats find

their songs.

.

Zoom yoga

.

You are eating chips in your

undershorts.

I lie that they can see.

You belch, knees and ankle poppig

as you land on your mat;

phone blinking like emergency flashers.

.

A moan as your shoulder bends

stiffly in cobra pose.

You finally ignore message alerts

as we move into bridge pose

while Abbycat brushes our legs extra

slowly with her whiskers.

.

The instructor reminds us to breathe deeply.

I razzle my exhale

trying to sound like Lauren Bacall.

.

We windmill into three legged dog.

only legs and feet viewable—

look lost in each little meet up box.

.

I marvel how she manages, re-images

moves us from space to connection.

.

Put your head on straight!

I adjust my neck.

She says it again and I laugh—

you tell me to be quiet

.

Soon, our minds are lost somewhere

between couch and ottoman.

Two minutes into deep relaxaton

you’re snoring.

.

Sunlight falls through skylight

softening shadows, muting your edges

In this moment, you are illumine,

an angel.

.

Michele has been published in Streetlight Magazine, MCV Literary Messenger, River City Poets Anthology, versewrights.com, thebezine.com and has a poetry blog at www.wordpalettes.wordpress.com. She loves to attend critiques, workshops and open mike events and has found a supportive community with River City Poets. She taught Reading and ESL (English as a second language) in elementary schools and loves the written word.

.

Diane Wilbon Parks

.

What If There is Light at the End of this Pandemic?

.

the air splinters and bleeds into a hush

that   swallows   whole –    its  prey,

that spits out a rosebud of bones  and broken wings.

we    attempt  miniature flights,

but   fall back to weightlessness

into silk strands of  what   was,

 into January’s cold white winter

 when fingers were allowed touch,

when breathing was not caged.

what if,    what was,  could   be  again,

 and  if,   hope could stay, longer?

.

The air’s staggard breathing

opens  up crowded rooms,

Covid’s pale white ghost

 drifts  indiscriminately,

blows into consenting lungs

that are born to breathe,   to carry,

this haunting pandemic

 crouches in waiting rooms

searches for light

to dim its flicker

 to darkened,

and sinks deep

 in the earth at dawn.

what if we could loom

 into what was

and open its silence,

wipe clean this virus,

this pandemic,

 this racial divide?

What if   prisoned by this glass,

this mask, this door, this lock,

 this isolation

deletes this dry cough

and its toxic fingerprints,

removes this virus,

enlighten our perspective

for inclusion,    our

hopes of

 unity?

.

Diane Wilbon Parks is a visual poet and artist. Diane has written two poetry collections. Diane’s been recognized as a Prince George’s County, Poet of Excellence. She is an U. S. Air Force Veteran and resides in Maryland.

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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/

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

Diane Sahms and g emil reutter