Plague Poems: Business as Usual

It’s business as usual

in the natural world.

Spring has brought

profusions of blossoms.

Deciduous trees have

leafed out beautifully,

and the birds sing

in the dawn light.

The very normalcy of it all

presents a stark contrast

to what is happening

in the human world

that sits atop this one.

We have reached

a tipping point, our

collective actions not only

crushing the planet’s resilience,

but our sheer numbers and

dumb unwillingness to own

our folly have made life

frightening and untenable.

A plague of biblical proportions

runs amok through our cities

and over the countrysides

of all nations.

We have no business as usual now,

but nature goes on in its

ordinary, relentless fashion –

tides rising and falling,

seasons turning,

days dawning and subsiding.

These are the times we knew

would come.

These are the times we hoped

we would never see.

These are our times.

What is our business now?

Two new plague poems.

My daily plague poems are mounting up, so I thought I'd share a few.  The first one was largely in response to waiting to hear from a doctor I'd been trying to contact for a week.  Stay healthy!  Not only from the coronavirus, but from more common ailments because it's challenging to deal with the overwhelmed medical establishment at all.  (Yes, I did hear from him finally, and it was very helpful.)

Waiting

  

Waiting for the doctor to call.

Waiting for the fear to subside.

Waiting for the pain to stop.

Waiting for the trees to speak.

Waiting for the flowers to rise up.

Waiting for tears to fall.

Waiting for the heart to open.

Waiting for consolation.

Waiting for restoration.

Waiting for grief to end.

Waiting for grief to begin.

Waiting for the exhalation.

Waiting for a new story.

Waiting for words from the ancestors.

Waiting.

And then I did hear from the trees.

Listening

In the dark

pre-dawn mornings,

I listen to the trees.

Sometimes I hear nothing,

but feel their reassuring presence.

Sometimes words sail

into my head,

like the goldfinches

landing on my bird feeder.

Today they told me:

Ground!  Ground deeply.

You will know people

who get ill.

You may know some who

will die.

You could even be

one of them.

Your task today

is to ground and be

a solid presence

on this patch of earth.

Watch us

and follow suit.

Persephone Returns to Find a Pandemic

I have been writing daily (or almost) poems - what I'm calling plague poems, in this time when we are sheltering in place.  Most of them I've not thought much of, but today I thought about the beginning of spring, and Persephone's return.  This is what came. I can't say it's one of the deep and inspiring poems I've been reading on Facebook.  But it's certainly a different perspective!

Persephone returns

and finds her mother

busily commanding the revival

of spring flowers, the blossoms that will

turn to fruit, and the tiny

new green seedling heads,

primed for planting.

But the streets are so quiet,

the air surprisingly clear,

and there is a striking absence

of hustle and bustle.

Below, she had noticed

the large parade of arriving souls,

confused and stunned

by their fate.

But she had

paid that no mind.

There are always reasons

for mobs of souls to appear

in the underworld –

war, famine, floods –

all the disasters.

She looks around now

and sees no injury to

the earth itself.

Demeter looks up and

dusts off her hands.

“Pandemic,” she says

in answer to her daughter’s

wordless query.

Demeter points out her

jasmine, azalea, daffodils, freesia,

the flowering plums and leafed-out

pomegranate trees.

“Beautiful as always, isn’t it?”

She draws her daughter to her

in a welcoming hug.

“It is,” Persephone nods.

“Quiet.  But a little sad.”

“Humans!” Demeter replies,

shaking her head.

“Always getting into

one mess or another.

Maybe this time they

will learn something.”

“What can we do to help them?”

Persephone asks.

“I am helping them!”

her mother retorts.

“I am giving them beauty

and sustenance.

They must do the rest themselves.

They blame us or some other god

for their foibles, and sometimes

our wills do overcome them,

but this is not our doing.”

Shrugging their shoulders,

the two wander off, arm in arm,

to admire the mother’s

handiwork.