“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)
First thought upon waking–
elation.
With consciousness–
crash.
Tuesday.
.
Pandemic tension
daily trauma
viral hide and seek
Trench warfare,
wearing us down.
Dreaming of weekend leave,
Before the return to mud.
We labour in monotonous isolation
Words falling onto pages
magic spells
new worlds
It might be good.
It might be worth sharing.
It might just be,
what it needs to be for us
to set our demons free.
Isolation and monotony,
and then someone
you respect
says
“Such lovely prose!”
or “beautifully wrought characters”
or “Loved it!”
and you think there’s hope
for your imaginary friends
and your imaginary world
and your imaginary dreams.
Labouring becomes inspired
by encouraging analyses.
I’ve fallen into a fog
that fills my head with cotton
and adds sandpaper to my throat.
Bed sounds like such a good idea,
but work requires my presence.
Mentally, I’m home, buried under quilts.
Physically, I supervise workers,
who all wish they were home in bed.
We may lack spirit for spirit week;
but today is pajama day.
How apropos.
Last year,
we met to discuss how we were flourishing,
what made this place so wonderful,
so welcoming,
so special.
This year,
I read your words about us,
and my body weeps at what has become
of our once wonderful
welcoming,
special
place.
Tension in my shoulders.
Stomach churning.
Nails bitten.
Eyes clouded.
Head throbbing.
Make do with less until there is nothing left.
Remake what was precious and original
into tiny boxes that shove our innovation
into boring cookie cutters
and the only flourish is from the arm
cutting us to fit.
For years I’ve been waiting to be in this place
where creativity, exploration, and delight for the job
make every day a fulfillment of what I wanted it to be
Where traces of our joy leak from the doors and windows
Where faces laugh and there is genuine care and knowing,
so going the extra mile feels like walking home,
because each of us belongs.
We are flexible and contented
We dance in the halls and laugh in the staff room
We inspire and challenge, stretch and strive.
We welcome opportunity to grow and improve
with new members to our team.
But.
leadership must embrace our joy. We have a culture of YES.
We ask “how can we…?” Not “Can we?”
Today, we’re afraid.
.
But
we wonder how can we
make this change create even greater opportunities for our kids.
Snow falling
dancing white specks
journeys from heaven
quickly absorbed
in mundane.
.
Plane flying
leaving white trails
journey from you
quickly absorbed
in fast lanes
Over heard in the staff room:
K- Even if I don’t wear any other makeup, I have to wear mascara: my lashes are white!
S- Me, too. I use it on my eyebrows, too.
D- What!? Why don’t you just dye your brows?
S- Meh. That’d take time for an appointment and money. Why bother, my hand’s up there doing my lashes anyway, it’s just an inch further to do a brow.
K- But mascara is so crusty!
S- So? It’s not like I want them billowing in the wind or anything.
🙂
.
.
(At work, they haven’t learned to say, “Don’t put this on your blog!” yet) 😉
Like tepid water
we’re floating in
the faintest current,
flowing toward
a trickling drain
that empties
us into hollow
cavities
in evening.
Shawn L. Bird 