From The Editors

Diane Sahms-Guarnieri

https://moonstone-arts-center.square.site/product/sahms-guarnieri-diane-covid-19-2020-a-poetic-journal/294?cs=true&cst=custom

 g emil reutter

 https://www.amazon.com/Thunder-Lightning-Urban-Cowboys-reutter/dp/B09HFXSD2F

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Covid 19 2020 – A Poetic Journal by Diane Sahms-Guarnieri

Moonstone Press has just released Diane Sahms-Guarnieri’s, Covid 19, 2020 – A Poetic Journal. 

The Chapbook is available here: https://moonstone-arts-center.square.site/product/sahms-guarnieri-diane-covid-19-2020-a-poetic-journal/294?cs=true&cst=custom 

What Others Say:

As sobering as Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year, when the Bubonic Plague devasted London, Diane Sahms-Guarnieri’s, Covid-19, 2020 is a grim recounting of the horrible year through which we have just lived.

Starting with the ironically named “March Madness” section, a term that usually refers to the annual NCAA basketball tournament but so succinctly captures the mass disorientation, like “a sci-fi movie, yet real,” as she notes on 3-23-2020, the journal proceeds through April, the cruelest month, mixing death and rebirth in its stew of life, into the horrific summer of 2020 –

185,000 dead in the United States by Labor Day – and into fall/winter with the mounting dead, the glimmer of hope that a vaccine may soon be available. The collection ends on New Year’s Eve, over 350,000 Americans dead under the chaotic leadership of the Trump administration, the most of any nation in the world.  Along the way, as if the pandemic were not bad enough, Sahms-Guarnieri addresses the social turmoil that tore the country apart, the racial injustice that spawned BLM.

Sahms-Guarnieri captures the fear and loneliness so eloquently in the April poem, “Nature & Mothers Weeping,” which begins:

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Horrific scene played on TV—

a mother weeping & wailing

for daughter, dead. COVID-19.

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Last seen alive via FaceTime:

Mom, I can’t breathe.

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I, with thoughts of my only

living daughter, weep

for those whom I don’t know

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The July poem, “Untouchables, for daughter, Mary,” drives the point home :

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We who always embrace every time

we meet & whenever we leave each other,

came no nearer than 6 feet.

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An unmeasurably cruel calculation

for me & daughter, whose hazel irises,

as life protectors, gently glided into

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mine: touching, without touching,

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As Defoe wrote over three centuries ago, “everyone looked on himself and his family as in the utmost danger…London might well be said to be all in tears.”

—Charles Rammelkamp, author of Ugler Lee and Mortal Coil 

You can get the chapbook here: https://moonstone-arts-center.square.site/product/sahms-guarnieri-diane-covid-19-2020-a-poetic-journal/294?cs=true&cst=custom

Sahms at Passager

Diane Sahms narrative poem, May Day, has been published at Passager Pandemic Diaries. You can read the poem and others at this link: https://www.passagerbooks.com/pandemic-diaries/

Coronavirus – A Year In. Pandemic Issue #7

Pandemic Issue #7. Submissions close on April 25^th.

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2021/04/03/call-for-submissions-pandemic-issue-7/

Call For Submissions – Pandemic Issue #7

Coronavirus – A Year In.  Pandemic Issue #7

We are a year into the pandemic since our first issue was published. Issue #7 will be published at the end of this month. Tell your poetic story of coronavirus, your family’s story: your town’s story; your state’s story; your nation’s story; as the pandemic continues. Let us remember the fallen; the suffering; the doctors; nurses; first responders; front line workers; negatives; positives. Tell the story.

Submissions are due no later than April 25^th.

Guidelines are simple: one to five poems in word doc. A bio of no longer than one hundred words. We anticipate a significant amount of submissions and therefore will not be able to respond to individual submissions. Send your submission to sahmsguarnieriandreutter@gmail.com

North of Oxford

Editors Poems up at Poetry and Covid

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Three poems by Diane Sahms  just published at Poetry and Covid : https://poetryandcovid.com/2021/04/02/three-poems-62/

2021 by g emil reutter just published at Poetry and Covid: https://poetryandcovid.com/2021/04/01/2021/

Most Read Poets 2020

This year has offered many challenges to all of us. There has been great change, great loss, a fight against an invisible assailant. As with all things in 2020 the pandemic has dominated. This year’s most read poets includes the six pandemic issues we published. The list begins with Wesley Scott McMasters followed by The Pandemic Issues and rounded out by Ezra Solway, Robbi Nester and Akshaya Pawaskar.

Gypsy Blood by Wesley Scott McMasters

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/03/14/gypsy-blood-by-wesley-scott-mcmasters/

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 #5

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue/

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue-6/

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #1

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

Philadelphia Pulp by Ezra Solway

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/10/14/philadelphia-pulp-by-ezra-solway/

Perspective by Robbi Nester

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/01/15/perspective-by-robbi-nester/

War of Elements by Akshaya Pawaskar

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/01/15/war-of-elements-by-akshaya-pawaskar/

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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

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Henry Crawford

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View From The Refrigerated Truck

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The one below me died last Thursday.

They took him to the ICU the day before.

Put him on a ventilator.

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Next to me a woman I remember

from the waiting room. The steel doors opened

to a blast of sunlight and cold vapor.

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Stacked her in the first

vacant space.

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My wife caught me coughing.

Drove me down in our yellow Honda Civic.

She knew this woman.

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They’d gone to junior high together.

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There’s room for another body

on my left. I saw a technician sneezing

as they were hooking up my drips.

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It might be nice to see her again

but not here.

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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.

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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

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Insane “New” Normal

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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

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devours everything

precious and beautiful

cleaves the life out of the soul

leaves you gasping;

with bated breath and a jarred mind

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you are left alone

in a vacant mind

lying on the death bed

reminiscing the day love embraced you

around a summer bonfire

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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.

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A Condolence Call

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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

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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

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

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

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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

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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.

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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.

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

With sidewalks pitted with the bones of the dead.

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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

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like a failing enjambment from one meaningless conversation

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

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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.

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This City Weeps. This City Wails

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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

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Once lined with laughter

Now pitted with fear

Parks morphing into graves

Dead outgrows the living

Sky shredded with elegy

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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.

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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

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As the infection moves through the

City wailing like a widow

The contagion like grief

Anointing every soul it touches

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Earmarking it for death

The night whimpers

under its own breath.

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This city wails. This city weeps.

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Conjecture

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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

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

Tender sapling breaking open through the moist crumbled earth

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

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

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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

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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.

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

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

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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

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Like a father blackening his elbows on the window sill

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

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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/

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Sheila Allen with Emily Jensen

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Silent Killer

    -For Mark Romutis

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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

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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

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Kerry Trautman

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Introvert Quarantined

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It should be heaven here at home with people I

love and made, bright things I

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chose to line my walls and shelving. Instead

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

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rattling grime and garbagey curbsides.

My children seem to multiply,

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husband a coworker making smalltalk while the

breakroom microwave hums.

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I miss too-loud bar cover bands, guessing stories

of strangers at parties where I only

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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

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crackers, apples we start to reach for then

change our minds. I want a restaurant menu

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with ingredients I need to Google, a wine list

like Morse code I close and ask

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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

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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

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my body out at the cold

air of the world.

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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.

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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.

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M. J. Arcangelini

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Pandemic Ghazal

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pacing the yard just past dawn. Birds chattering,

free to fly wherever they wish.

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Television talking heads spewing numbers,

pointing to charts, somehow translates into lives.

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Mask as fashion statement. Sequined mask. Flag mask.

Mask as political position. Frightened old masked man.

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What are your symptoms this morning? What?

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

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Talking to shadows. The empty guest chair.

The solitary bed. Swapping photos with Onan.

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Even the recluse gets lonely when he’s

denied what he had chosen to forego.

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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.

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Stephen Bochinski

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Us

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Christine Riddle

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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.

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Maria Keane

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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.

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Marko Otten

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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.

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Patricia Carragon

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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.

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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.

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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/

.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Summer Pandemic Issues

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #5

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue/

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/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

 

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/

.

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

.

Howie Good

.

Oh, Mercy

.

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.

.

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

.

2 Poems by Robbie Nester

.

Instruction

.

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.

.

The 52 Hertz Whale

.

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.

.

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.

.

 

J. Joy “Sistah Joy” Matthews Alford

 

My Lilac

.

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.

.

.

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.”

 .

2 Poems by Ray Greenblatt

.

Invisible War

.

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.

.

Going On

.

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 . . .

.

“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!”

.

3 Poems by Dee Allen.

.

Barren 

.

Barren

.

Streets—Oakland’s 74 miles closed

To cars—Mayor Schaaf prioritises

Two-wheeled exercise and safety

For gentrifiers.

.

Barren

.

Subway stations—Social

Distancing maintained

To the extreme. Underground

Solid concrete ghost town.

.

Barren

.

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.

.

Barren

.

Shelves—Inside the supermarket—

The spirit of hoarding

Cleared them of supplies.

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

.

Barren

.

Heart—There’s

Nothing left dwelling in the husk for some.

Nothing left but hostility—Blame for sickness

Lands on descendants of Asia.

.

Barren

.

Describes this reality, re-configured

By rapid infection—Humanity homebound—

There’s no reverting back

To normal after this.

.

I survived

Ten presidents, the residual terror of four

Foreign wars, power outages, outbursts of nature,

A petrol shortage, evictions and homelessness.

.

I will survive this, even as this contaminated air

World quickly goes

.

Barren.

.

Masques Up 

.

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—

.

It’s the Law now

To throw the masques up.

Simple, repurposed

Cloth covering our faces, concealing all

But our eyes. Looking fresh

.

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©—

.

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

.

Robbery of our lives

By a thief so intrusive,

Another murderer unseen,

But far more elusive.

.

Out Front

For Jennifer A. Minotti

.

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

.

Gets me the most love on the street

.

But most of all

.

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

.

All the heroes

Out front

In our service

Seeing to our immediate

Survival needs

.

They could use the praise

.

And you don’t need

Super powers

To be a hero

.

Just be there

Out front

For us—

.

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 ].

.

Dan Brady

.

The personal and impersonal

.

Who denies their chains

Those long-standing claims

From the empires of our past?.

.

Error    driven into fear

Misapprehensions    into enmity

Thence to greed     and onto war

.

Smoky battleground

Corpses strewn … a medallion glints

The long – justice – of silence

.

The parade   crowds cheer

The grim reaper waves …

Supporting    everyone’s troops

.

Midway barkers loud

Angry sky, blusters sweep papers

The Dark comes for its own

.

One thing I know

About this world’s ending …

No one will see it coming

.

We saw them

Titanic muscular clouds

Lightning flashed   there were eyes

.

We need to make calls

End this man now, lest this be how

Civilization falls – – –

. 

Mike Maggio

.

Innominate

.

I

Today, a tulip trembled in the breeze:

an urgent temptation to bloom.

.

II.

When I awoke,

it was to the delusion of dream.

.

III.

Outside, a vicious wind.

Outside, the trees. Fearful.

.

IV.

One moment, seclusion.

One moment, a prickly crown of memory.

.

V.

There’s nothing we can’t touch.

Nothing we can lay a finger on.

.

VI.

Sweet dove, waving from the wilderness,

wherefore this social distancing?

.

VII.

In a moment of delirium,

I journeyed to my mother’s grave.

.

VIII.

Nothing on the horizon.

Not even a ghosting of sun.

.

IX.

2,000,000+ sick.  200,000+ dead.

I cannot count to infinity.

.

X

One dark night, I witness my reflection

taunting the reaper.

.

Michael D. Amitin

.

Mambo’s Blues

.

Sad Spanish strains

Night street

.

All dissent quiet

Church mice sleeping

Humans creeping

Petrified forests

.

Papers run you around

Papers to walk the dog

Police looting city blocks

.

Forgotten masquerade masks soaking in

God forsaken puddles

Gloves, skeleton mud runners

.

Double fried kisses, canned peaches and mist

Stare from

Weathered shelves

Embraces on hold till a

Magic clock-strike twelve

.

Poets creak, Paris pastors reach,

The abandoned plunging

hollow cold-ice streams

.

With great introspection

Masses ponder the great dissection

.

Easter bunnies screw in tournesol sheds

The bum rap meds, no one to touch his hand

.

Lab rats grin as the mother

of all vaccines warms to the

Resounding orchestral death march

.

We stay together Keep our love

Hide in the never heard of

.

Knit our threads, bake our breads

Sing our songs, read Walt all night long

Nurses, doctor helping hands

Stave off the storm with clothespins

.

Nature heals, as the wheels roll off the highway

Rest like tires in a wilted roadside graveyard

.

Shutters flailing viral winds

Mind eye flashing gold

Designs of maladroit wine boats

Rocking ship shake harbors

On my droopy curtains

.

Sweet Suzy muse never forgets my address

Drops off provisions

Flipping bad luck coins

Like hot cakes griddle bound

To the sunrise…

.

Leapfrog fantasies

Kind of blue nights

Late winter Paris

Sunup

.

Mother earth freaking

Miracle balm on our last sundown legs

.

Used to trip on window pane

Now it’s tryptophane

Sleep away this nightmare, nevertheless

Ship ahoy, mates!

.

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..

.

The gothies

the meanest band in town

.

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,

.

The great hereafter filled with brothels

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

He mused

.

Ay ye merry moutons

Line up, don’t ya’ cry

Take a shot, be an astronaut

A fireman to boot

.

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.

 .

Mark J. Mitchell

 .

                                        Mass in Time of Plague

.

                                         (For Interior Choir)

                                    After Haydn, Mass in Time of War

.

1.         Kyrie

.

Let mercy roll like fog through every home.

Show mercy to all that can still see.

Let mercy flow to the known and unknown.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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

Let mercy flow into your sealed home.

Accept this gift: Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

.

2.         Gloria

.

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.

.

3.         Qui tolis peccata mundi

(You who take away the sin of the world)

.

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.

.

4.         Quoniam tu solo Sanctus

(For You alone are holy)

.

Solitude is not holy.

Absence is not holy.

Noise filled voids

Are never holy.

.

If you are holy,

It’s time to climb down.

Don’t make us

Beg for grace.

.

5.          Credo

.

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.

.

6.       Benedictus

.

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.

.

7.   Agnus Dei

.

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.

.

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.

.

2 Poems by Rikki Santer

.

Quarantine Spring

.

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.

.

Landmark

.

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.

.

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.

.

Benjamin Siegan

 .

American Summer, 2020

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

2 Poems by Anne Becker

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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

.

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.

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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.

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Diane Wilbon Parks

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

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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

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/north-of-oxford-the-pandemic-issue/

North of Oxford – The Pandemic Issue #6

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2020/08/11/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