a bitter pill is neither red nor blue – Just hard to swallow When you know its taste Might not agree with What you know is true, Or think you know, or wish you never knew.
A spirit quest That will not be contained – It calls us gently From sleep’s dormant state. We rise embued with purpose And a mission preordained And leave a life constrained Before by darkened memories.
There’s music hiding In between the lines and spaces of the words the pages hold. A secret message unwinds The latent magic And the sacred music that resides deep within.
We have entered the mid-month long slog, The third week when all bets are off And anything may present itself As poetry of crisis. Let the giants Fall and die a fitting death. Let big banks Fail. What do we care? A few billionaires Become millionaires. How about the poor, who lose jobs, and houses, and life savings? How about a plan to bail out Main Street? You shared your time with me for free. I took it, stole it like a thief in the night. We were two ships sailing, two starts crossing In the distant night sky, passing port to port, trading resilience for efficiency.
Connected by only the thinnest of threads to this poem . . .But man, what a video!
It is so hard to separate facts From lies, to know what’s concrete When surrounded by so many abstracts. It is so hard to separate facts. When it’s always a lie that attracts, The plain truth can barely compete. It is so hard to separate facts From the garbage and all the deceit.
African marigolds are beautiful. Google just gave me a screen full of images, Which is good since DC regulations Only allow us essential travel During this lockdown. Thank God for Google – We can view assorted images of beauty In Retina display on our iMacs In the comfort of our living rooms.
Some folks say Jesus died on Friday night. I mean no disrespect, but I’m not buying it – the whole cross story just doesn’t add up. Let’s work backwards. If Jesus rose the third day, Wouldn’t that be Monday? Three days later? But isn’t Easter Sunday, the second day?
A new fountain pen arrived. Nice feel, heft. German import. Overstock. Priced to sell. A bit slow on capillary action At first, as new pens often are. An ink drop Spilled on my hand and down to the floor. Should have done this in the kitchen. Trouble. In paradise. Wife will be enraged. No refuge will there be from her scorn.
We are both going crazy trying to predict the unknown unknown. When will it all end? Meanwhile, I’m preparing a short talk About how the Portuguese invented The plantation system memorialized In the Cape Verdean art form: Morna.
See the line at Trader Joes this morning? Wrapped down the block and around the corner – Each shopper six feet apart from the next? Whole Foods is still out of Vitamin C And limiting frozen pizza to four Per shopper. Good prices on naval oranges – Stocking up to stave off scurvy, rickets.
Press conference on standby – gotta get Latest developments on the crisis. Never mind the moral imbecility Of the press corps – the message seeps through Their banterings and raillery (And that’s being charitable. My goodness!) The time to learn the news is nigh.
Work meetings on Zoom today – Two confirmed cases on campus Mean shutdown until further notice. But the library can never completely close So there’s telework for all library staff – Eight hours per week on site. This ain’t a poem, it’s a list, too much Is happening to restrict it to 14 lines.
Taxes postponed. What if it’s all a fraud? Read some good Angolan history today – Precolonial stuff, and an Amilcar Cabral Essay: History is a weapon – all for my Docent course, even though this week’s Walk-through at the museum is cancelled.