Coronavirus

“Coronavirus”
So, China is alert because we say
“The winds of change are coming here to stay.”
Americans are looking for that day
when all of our exchanges are fair-play!

And China contemplates how she will thrive; 
keep thieving and imbalances alive.
She hastens to attack us, inhumane, 
by building in her lab a serious strain:

Coronavirus is her proper name
which forces lock-down measures to contain.
Since capital the lifeline of the free, 
she shuts us down to harm economy.

Our only way to fight her is to gain
a semblance of some balance in our gain.
More carefully we open each school port. 
More careful, yet productive, we go forth!

America’s a beacon to the world
that China’s Communism is more sick
than any human virus she may hurl;
than any Socialism she unfurl.

Americans are problem solvers who
will not allow a lockdown to remain.  
We’ll take a stance for we’re for freedom’s sake
dare China close us down or force a break!

Shadows In a Song

Some Shadows murmur to us from our past;

Some linger, singing in the misty dark.

They’re mournful memories, relentless cast

away with rhythmic beat and loss of heart.

Our song most over now that George is gone.

“He changed the world”_ a daughter’s wistful moan.

A stirring of the light among the leaves

and he has left a sigh. His day has flown.

Oh, deeper than our well of being _ dark!

From deepest depths we hear again his voice.

And we’ve no need to listen to the lark

who hurries through the trees. He has his choice!

I’m here. I hear the sadness in your call:

“I cannot breathe. Oh, Mother, help us all”.

Lullaby For Trees

“Lullaby for Trees”

The glow of silver trees against blue sky;
against that deepest royal blue’s delight.
White blankets meant to beautify each limb
with loving care, how nature covers them.

The trees so loved by nature’s wintry blast
it seems some artist covers to contrast.
Her deepest hue encircles icy trim
with loving care, how nature covers them!

To some, its nature’s deadly, frozen cost;
to others, it’s a message from some host.
Such honor sent to each as holy hymn
with loving care, how nature covers them.

The trees bejeweled now with breathless hue;
their branches blaze against an endless blue.
With adoration for their mother’s hymn.
With loving care, how nature covers them.

 

Kyrielle form: aa; bB; cc; bB; dd; bB; ee; bB (last line in each stanza is repeated) Meter: Iambic Pentameter

Sahara

The setting sun now breaks my drifting dream

and threads that needle to my passion’s flight

resplendent in its dignity, our scene

compels imagination with delight.

The fading sun now cools to lighter air

and calm, our camels rock the dusty swells.

A steamy haze along horizon’s flare

where desert’s dying colors cannot dwell.

Sahara maze, mysterious and stark.

Intrigued, I hasten to his silken tent.

I hurry to my soul in evenings dark.

We coast in caravans of eons spent.

Slow burn and then the quickened, bold desire

as when Sahara sands alight with fire.

Papi and Me

dig
Photo by Carol J. Lee

I like my dog because he looks like me.

He’s patient, kind and has no silly whims.

He is the type we both aspire to be.

I dress myself accommodating him.

His love for me not based upon a selfish yearn.

If I forget to fill his water dish,

he comes to me with silent eyes that burn.

He stares, expectant, with disquiet wish.

His needs are often met with urgent bark

His wagging tail a gracious symphony

Much happiness begins at doggy park 

as both of us are suddenly set free.

He likes to walk; I like to talk.  We find

we’re birds-of-feather with communal mind. 

On Seeing Voyager’s Photos for the First Time

The royal blue of Neptune made me cry

Colossal beauty seen by Voyager

But then Sagan insists we view our world:

(a tiny bit of dust inside a beam).

My needy consciousness now longs for home

reminds me how the human brain reacts

when, in reality, there are no facts

dependent so upon our point of view.

From Neptune’s view we’re but a tiny speck!

We’re nothing but a tiny, lonesome spark

in retrospect no Voyager might mark.

The odds are too profound that we’d be found

so far from home, compared with all the rest.

How glorious is Neptune’s marble breast!voyager_neptune (1)

Veteran Poets

 

Bright, sunlit banners wave as soldiers march.

As Francis Ledwidge, Irishman, parades,

The sight and sound of laughter fill the air:

“To war!” The drumbeat stirs all hearts to share.

 

Bold men are damned yet ready for the dare.

Brave men, for glory, stepping forth as one

as Wilfred Owen’s ‘Artist Rifles’ share;

as Robert Graves, ‘Goodbye To All’, declares.

 

Their family and parents cheer as well.

The goodbye girls wave hankies in the air

as hurried hugs abound, excitement swells

before reality meets deep despair.

 

Oh, ra-ta-tat, the gleeful drums abound

before the sound of bullets split the air.

Sigfried Sassoon of Royal Fusiliers

gives up Owen prior to the Armistice.

 

And, Rosenberg still writes among the dead

before he’s buried with them in a trench.

As Isaac speaks for all, his soul will rest;

his poems on scraps of paper mid the stench.

 

Gray throngs of people slow to ghostly swirl

and float above the fog in fate’s mirage.

The young and hopeful heart, his body hurled

lies stripped of gaiety mid this cortege.

 

The veteran, with courage, harp and fife

survives the battle has the hardest write

for he remembers faces filled with worms

and frozen eyes who’ve lost their warmer light.

 

The poet’s name now writ upon a stone.

The ink, now dry, describes his final line.

Reverse his boots upon a saddled horse;

Slow roll of drums, now distant, heard no more.

The Choice

The best of dancers ruined by a host

of other loves that to the heart may call.

Some choices must be made or not at all.

The dance too brief ; the song may end for most

and fly away from splendor of romance.

Crescendo reached and still the dance she owns.

Life is too short to settle, oh, for less.

Eshoo the heart; don’t make the dreadful choice!

Her soul now hovers.  Grief is like a plow

that pushes every goal to here and now.

 

(Was watching the Movie, “The Red Shoes” when I wrote this.  The agony of being forced to make a choice between two over-whelming loves can drive one mad.)

The Mending

overgrown house

My world abandoned, Nature makes amends.

A wild confusion grows at my front door.

The mutterings of children heard no more.

Beneath her gnarled roots a sallow floor.

 

Vines grab the windows once held curtain’s sway.

With ghostly tread, cold silence roves her halls.

No more the scent of Jasmine blossom calls.

What mystery escapes these stucco walls?

 

What place is this once held such loveliness?

Mad roots now rave and overrun my past.

They strangle wistful longings of the heart

and love’s become a stranger for my part.

 

I hear the moan; that suffocating tease.

My past grows pale; the withered vine my frieze.

Ezra Pound Manifesto

The passion’s free without pentameter.

The word, more than the sum of all its parts.

Oppose the cosmic poet’s well-worn phrase.

Descriptive hue; green, sunlit energy.

Free, open verse: eternity’s white space.

The spirit: forlorn faces in a crowd.

Imagine death: ghost-blossoms on a bough.

MVC-005Sphoto by Jacqueline Casey