“We don’t know
what we’re doing next,”
they said.
“Just expect
that you’ll catch the virus,
so leave instructions at your desk.
“There may be no one
to cover your job;
sorry about that.
“Don’t let uncertainty (or fear of death)
dull your passion
for the work.
“We so appreciate
everything
you do.
“Don’t worry, just relax;
what doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger.”
.
(This is a triversen poem. Each stanza is three lines that make a complete sentence)
Beneath the rock slide
I lie gasping.
So many stones squashing
the life out of me,
Covid, isolation, tension,
anxiety in others,
illness, recent deaths,
responsibility, each a
pebble piled
until breathing seems
an impossibility.
Where is the safety crew
to clear the debris
so we can be well,
be free of despair,
be who we used
to be.
the internet shows
there is rain elsewhere;
people celebrating
with summer fun.
it is not armaggedon
outside their windows;
no red sun an eery ball
in a tawny coloured sky,
no ashen needles settle
on sunflower leaves.
where they are
no threatening glow over the hill
disturbs their hope of sleep
while smoke kisses the suitcases
and bags stacked at the door,
for when the word comes.
.
.
.
Forest fire season in BC! In the last 5 years the summers have been getting consistently scarier. 4 of the 5 were horrible smokey years. While we’ve always had fires in the summer, generally it was rare to have one near communities and one bad fire summer would be followed by many fine years. I don’t remember my childhood in the Okanagan filled with smoke. But now it is the norm. Climate change sucks. A fire that started with a car accident about 38 hours ago is now a raging 800 hectare (~2000 blaze) only 25 km away from us. Very, very, very scary). Our bags are packed and we’re ready to load up if we are put on alert.
she left the window open
woke to ash on the couch
mountains are obscured
noon light is yellow
armageddon glow
our expressions of worry
furrowed brows
above our masks
(N95 now)
don’t ask about our stress levels
as we check the lightning tracker,
the live stream wildfire map.
After the pandemic
seems we don’t yet have the knack
of acceptance; get the bag
ready to go,
make sure we know where
to rendez-vous, pretend
all this is normal.
What more can we do?
Bless the fire fighters
as the map clicks to fire number
one thousand one hundred thirty two.
Daily countdown
Five days
Four days
Three days (Hump day!)
Two days!
Six hours!
Four hours!
Two hours!
Home at last
Collapse
Sleep ten hours
Twelve hours.
Fourteen hours.
Early to bed.
Sunday- recovery!
Look around
enjoy the sun
deal with chores
Early to bed
Ten hours
’til it starts again.
.
.
.
NaPoWriMo day 24. Has anyone found themselve just completely exhausted over the last year? Between brain injury recovery, three family deaths, and the stress of increase in Covid cases and dangerous variants (and positive cases in kids within the local school system…) I don’t think I’ve ever had as hard a year. How about you?
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.
.
ignore ads following
.
.
.
Outside the window
new green
We walk by in masks
waiting for vaccine
Spring is a time
for hope
Another year on a
slippery slope.
Daffodils bursting
from the soil
Politics and a pandemic
embroiled
Breathe.
Take care.
We’re almost
there.
.
.
NaPoWriMo Day 22 A little contrast between the hope of spring and the stress of rising numbers of infected folks, including a friend.
.
.
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(ignore ads following)
.
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One voice shrill above the babble:
WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING!
Oh girl,
I hear you.
What’s happening, indeed.
How do we hold our pieces together?
*buy string
*wrap a reminder around my finger: “it will be okay”
*send a card: Thinking of you
*put on makeup
*video call
*write a poem
*read a book
*have a nap
*roll in blankets with the dog
*sing loudly to the radio
*hunt for daffodils
*listen to the chickadees
*fill the feeder, black oil sunflowers are their favourite.
*be gentle with myself when I inevitably
*fall apart
.
.
.
Today’s NoPoWriMo prompt is to write a To Do list.
.
.
.
.
.
Once, masks were metaphorical;
pandemics were historical.
Now, cortisol flood makes us
fatter every day.
Isolating’s creating a nation of moles,
nervous of leaving our holes,
as each wave proves more deadly,
We’re wishing consequences on anti-maskers
and anti-vaxxers: be sacrifices for your cause,
carry a card that you’re happy to
leave hospital beds for those who
take this seriously, those
who sacrifice comfort for society.
We’ll try to survive by masking insecurities,
and wait eagerly for our vaccines,
praying variant strains, don’t over-strain us.
Masking anxiety until we can
Breathe easier again.
.
.
.
.
NaPoWriMo Day 6. Another day ignoring the official prompt ’cause I had other stuff in my mind. Weird how often I’m playing with rhyme this week.
This is not the year
for adventurous rambling
for party-down fun
for braving new experiences
for exploring new ideas
This is the year
for settling in
for warming up
for holding close
for safe hidey holes from which
to weather the barrage.
On the outside:
calm, controlled, confident.
Beneath the surface:
quivering, quaking, confused.
How many stress-based illnesses
tension fueled troubles
surface in our bodies and minds?
How hard do we fight
to carry on?
Shawn L. Bird 