Corona Senryu IV

Having lived through wars,
Old man with no mask shopping:
Unafraid to die.

Corona Senryu I

Morning mirror grin:
Which friend will I lose today?
The old cynic asked.

Corona Haiku XI

Calling hospitals
Until she found him and talked:
Agonizing farewell.

Corona Haiku VIII

Hell is The Others.
Coughs heard at the house party -
Sartre's words ring true.

Corona Haiku VII

Covered in plastic,
Workers wheel covered bodies -
Morgue as meat locker.

Corona Haiku VI

Worshippers chanting,
The pastor praising God's cure.
From the back pew: coughs.

Corona Haiku V

A nurse, exhausted,
Slouched and holding the cold hand
Of a grandmother.

Corona Haiku II

Pandemic evening,
Signs on restaurant doors: "closed" -
No rats in dumpsters.

Corona Haiku I

Pandemic morning,
Cherry petals in the breeze -
No one there to watch.

Vegas Haiku III

Thundering gunfire,

Fireworks raining from the sky –

Your question cut short.

Vegas Haiku II

Thundering gunfire,

Fireworks raining from the sky –

Her chatter silenced.

Vegas Haiku I

Thundering gunfire,

Fireworks raining from the sky –

Run! He said, then fell. 

Insect

Today
I killed
A cockroach.
A subject we are loathe
To broach:
Is God the sidewalk
Or the shoe?

Is faith in an unseen future
The glue
That binds the suture
Tight,
That joins all things
In futile fight
For survival?

The image, primal,
Of the crushed insect -
I shall remember but soon forget.
We kill the small and worthless
Without regret.

Gilgamesh

Startled in the pre-dawn light
I awoke in time to see
My thoughts, my dreams,
Rush up the bedroom walls,
Leap in the quiet air
Through the windowpane
To God knows where.

The ceiling did not replenish dreams,
Not the closet, not the couch.
But the bookshelf held out hope.
In the gloom was tossed a rope.
To pull me from my bed
That grew or shrank
With the weight of joy, sadness,
Dread and madness.

At the other end of the rope
Gilgamesh stood and spoke:
Do not pine after dreams
Of storms and bulls and
Birds that breathe fire.
You have not lost your Enkidu,
Your innermost desire.
Your wildness sleeps
Without need of rest or dreams.

The good life is not lived
Building walls, fortifications
To keep your beloved safe and true.
Immortality is not given you,
Neither youth nor vitality
Outlast the adventure.
The monster in the mountain
Must be slain, though it bring
The rage of gods, the winds of war.
From unknown lands your dreams will spring.

Morning Mirror

In the gloom of dawn
Before the light of morning,
I am fully awake,
Staring at my face in the mirror,
The water running softly.
It has been running for some time.

I raise my hands to my face,
My fingers linger along and trace
The line of my cheekbones.
This skin will one day fall away,
The cheekbones turn to dust.

One finger runs down my nose,
A line slightly bent
By an experience that rent
My faith with hard cement.
This nose too will vanish.

The hair at my sides a bit grayish,
Showing how fast the days run.
They have been running for some time.
And though we run after our days,
Always we lag behind.

Ours is a fruitless race,
Death already shows on my face.
And my hair will fall into the sink
Sooner than I think.

In the growing light of morning
The birds begin to call,
Their cheerful sounds an invitation
To lay in bed once more
Until the sunlight is too bright
To sleep, perchance to dream.

Hourglass

I grow tired
And the hour is getting late;
The time withers for youthful dreams
I hoped would make life great –

Too late to scale the highest peaks

Or swim the widest channel
Or other wondrous feats;
Too late to take a child in hand,
Raise a fine woman or a man.

If still left to me were one hundred years
I still would not find the courage or time
To conquer my fears -

Still the manuscript would lay in tatters,
Still I’d dwell on what doesn’t matter,
Still the trip to that distant land
Would be just talk with a drink in hand.

And as I drain my glass with somber face
In a clean, well-lighted place,
I know my love tonight will not appear.
Perhaps, if time should still remain,
I will find you here, this time, next year.

Spring Rain

After the rain
Of days and melancholy days,
When the wet sheen on all the world
Reflects a dull spring sky,
Still the swollen green of dripping plants,
With the shiniest indifference,
Demands your full attention.

By the sidewalk, the milky white of dogwood,
In a garden, the tender tone of roses,
And the lilies scatter on a lawn
In speckled yellow splendor:
All seek to draw the eye
From the pensive gray of sky.

To venture out at dawn
And hear the song of sparrows
Hiding in the great, green tops
Of sturdy oak and slender willow,
Branches swaying, dripping rain
Like green low-lying clouds -

Sight and scent and sound that calls -
The bustling of no crowd:
Nature's vigor, soon to die,
Its fleeting moment leaves no doubt,
Our blood is earth, our soul is sky.

Greenwood

Greenwood
Was a cemetery for the colored,
A place where the pale-colored bones
Of black folk
Would not through ages rot
Near the pale-colored bones
Of white folk.

And the spirits of the dead
Linger and lament:
Wealth begets more wealth.
Want begets more want.

These days Greenwood
Is a haunt:
Weeds and ivy choke
The graves among the oak.

And the spirits of the dead
Linger and lament:
Wealth begets more wealth.
Want begets more want.

The white man’s marker taunts,
From its shining grave upon a hill,
That declaration of segregation
That was Greenwood,
Now fallen mute and still.

And the spirits of the dead
Linger and lament:
Wealth begets more wealth.
Want begets more want.

Why care for the plots of the dead
When we can scarcely tend the living?

To right the ancient wrongs
Among the living poor today
Would not undo the lynching.
In the well-kept tombs
Of the martyred dead
Is the silence of forgiving.

Fallout Shelter

The children were asked to hide
In the classroom storage closets.
In the wide open air,
Bullets could fly
Under each desk,
Under each chair,
To hit a student hiding there.

Bullets could fly
Through large plastic boxes
For holding the toys,
Now turned on their side,
To hide little boys.

Bullets could fly
Through yellow fans
And music stands,
Through picture books
And coats on hooks.

Better instead to hide in the closets,
The two large closets,
That made the world dark, and warm,
And fun:

The game of fear had just begun.

Drywall could not simply stifle
The startling sound of angry rifles.
Drywall could not simply stop
The bullet of a madman’s glock.
Drywall could not soak up tears
Of children in the grip of fears.

When lunatics are hunting sinners,
Children’s lives can hold no meaning.
The game of fear has no real winners;
The teacher draws fire with her screaming.

Ceiling

Another night

Staring at the ceiling.

Wondering -

There is a world on the other side. 

Footsteps I don't hear but sense.

In silence, on the other side, words.

In silence moans, whimpers.

In silence stares out the window.

Nervous looks I don't see.

Private victories and silent defeats.

People live and die

On the ceiling.

At night, they stare at the ceiling

And wonder -

There is a world on the other side‎.