Blocked in the Time of Pandemc

Pandemic makes lives desolate
For those who cannot concentrate
Reading friends perseverate
Writing friends ruminate
Unable to participate
Creative process cannot liquidate

Unlike me who can articulate
Some of my writing is immaculate
Pouring out to punctuate
Habits that can postulate
Stay busy and all will be inviolate



Guilty Pleasures

The world is changed but I’m so fortunate.
My bank account automatically grows each month.
I live in a relatively safe location
where I can control my exposure to infection.
I have everything I really need.

But there is one thing I’ve been unable to procure.
A roll of paper towels,
a single roll of the select-a-size type with a pattern
of flowers or artful swirls and colors.
Green to match my kitchen décor.

Stores are again stocking towels.
But only the white and full-size type
in six, eight or ten rolls
all in one package.
That would last the rest of my life.

I feel foolish and guilty in this time of trouble
that this is my biggest grumble.
Maslow would understand my kerfuffle.
Maybe this activity is a way to feign control
and focus on something else, anything else.





In these uncertain times
A new vocabulary has arrived
Social distancing
Gatherings limited by number

Obsessive hand washing and hygiene
Stay home and get by with less
Stop the spread
Flatten the curve

No lunch in a restaurant
No after-work happy hour
No coffee shop comradery
Trips out only for essentials

But what might those essentials be
Life’s rations seem so dear
Stock up to see us through
A furious frenzy ensues

What’s on the news
What most are worried about
And what it says about us
Toilet paper and guns



Last Snow 2018

Last night’s snow shocks early morning senses.
Branches lined white covers the tree tops.
Blue sky and sun shine out above the trees.
Pure white is a remnant of winter wonderland days.

Out my window, soccer field Is hidden beneath the covers.
Port-a-john used just last week during a spring practice
sports a white mountain-peaked top.
Soccer goals peek out, breaking up the smooth terrain.

But this is April 19th.
What to make of it!
How to think good thoughts.
How not to get discouraged.

Mid-afternoon, children’s chatter in the air.
Playful romping around the soccer goal.
Pushing, shoving, squealing, shrieking.
Making the most of today.



Nowhere I have to be
No one waiting for me
No need to do anything I don’t want to
No need to talk to anyone I don’t want to
No rising until I want to
No getting dressed on a stormy day
No cooking unless the mood hits
No deadlines
No requirements
No expectations
No pressure

More time for
Mid-day napping….Lunches…


Pictures on the Wall

Pictures on the wall make it comfy.
But change approaches
with a sense of uncertainty.

Once the pictures are off the wall
packing becomes easier.
Coziness departs.

A barrage of boxes in
a strange new place.
Unpack a little each day.

Last thing,
put the pictures on the wall.
Warmth returns

Poetry Breakfast Gypsies

Poetry breakfast.
That sounds so simple.
Our search for that perfect place,
to have a nice breakfast
then read and critique our newest poems.

All we need is a semi-quiet,
semi-private setting.
George Webb worked until it didn’t.
Too much noise,
too many kids.

Then a coffee shop in Elm Grove
where we had to beg for a fork
and were scolded for
not ordering enough muffins.
It’s deservedly now closed.

Next, we tried a coffee shop
whose name is lost through time;
that’s now morphed into a specialty cake shop.
Too small and too long a wait,
overwhelmed by our group six or eight.

Then the Crown Plaza Hotel.
A nice round table,
they had a buffet.
More than we wanted to eat.
So expensive.

Finally, Baker’s Square.
Pat’s figured how to get around
their no reservation policy.
Always say seven though it might be less.
We have a little nook in the back room.

But we often muse of other places.
Wherever we go, we look around.
What about this place or that?
Perhaps we’ll always be searching.
Our bohemian spirit reigns.


Fifty Days of Gray

Mass of cumulus clouds
Blocks the brightness of the sun
Dreary thoughts
Nothing’s fun

It’s that time of year
We all say
That doesn’t help
Even if we pray

Frigid weather brings out the sun
It’s the price we have to pay
If we didn’t have those clouds around
We’d never appreciate that sunny day



A Walk Interrupted

We are walking each other home.

Ram Dass

Together and alone
We had a comradery once
Now so different
The past is gone
The future is uncertain
Your path is turning
Where I cannot follow


Thank you, Mr. Occupant

I have learned silence from the talkative; tolerance from the intolerant and kindness from the unkind. I should not be ungrateful to those teachers.
                                                                                    —-Kahlil Gibran                                           

Mr. Occupant (of the White House)
You’ve taught me so much:

From breaking the record of telling the most lies ever,
I’ve learned the importance of truth.

From your use of bullying, mafia talk and cruel nick names,
I’ve learned the value of an all-inclusive environment.

From incessant twitter mis-spelling, made up words, normalization of ALL CAPS;
I’ve learned the importance of acting presidential.

From your penchant to throw supporters and foes alike under the bus,
I’ve learned the dynamics of building an effective team.

From your insistence to keep digging a hole deeper though that makes things worse,
I’ve learned the wisdom of saving face and moving on when an error has been made.

From your dance of diplomacy in North Korea, China and the middle east,
I’ve learned the complexity of world affairs and the need for strategy.

From your treatment of government work as a business transaction
I’ve learned that government and business can’t be co-mingled.

From your flagrant abuse of power and denigration of the political process
I’ve gained an awe of the Constitution, the separation of powers and rule of law.

Thank you, Mr. Occupant.
Your work is done.

Previous Older Entries

Blog Stats

  • 5,214 hits