written somewhere with invisible ink
Shih T'ao
A note:
While the pandemic was horrible, I confess that I enjoyed the isolation. Of course, I had my wife so it wasn't total isolation, but still, as things returned to 'normal' I found myself reluctant to to rejoin my previous life. I didn't want to go out. Not out of fear, I just really like it in here. I could easily be a hermit, given the proper bandwidth. And I wrote a helluva lot of COVID poems. Here's a small sample.
-james
PS: I had COVID twice, my wife once.
--
In the time of COVID we washed our hands with the spittle in the air and prayed for death. We touched our eyes and waited for death or a ventilator, whichever came first. We counted the number of deaths but not the names of those who died.
The names of the dead were written somewhere with invisible ink, but no one knows where. If someone does have that knowledge, they have never admitted to it, and who could read invisible ink anyway?
In truth, a few people prayed for life, but we also failed to record their names, and there was no god to answer such prayers. Death was everywhere.
In the time of COVID the televisions worked just fine, and computers streamed concerts and videos. You could get anything delivered to your home except cheer. We ate pizza and cut our own hair and stared at social media until it invaded our dreams.
Many of us now distrust social media as much as we distrust the spittle for its infection, as much as we distrust the fools who lead us. Indeed, is there any leader worthy of trust? Spit for me and I will wash my hands again.
In the time of COVID we shaved off our body hair and covered ourselves with oil. Naked, we rubbed against each other until we screamed and our house pets screamed along with us, not understanding.
Or perhaps I am wrong, and house pets understand more than they let on. Perhaps they find the sounds of human orgasm to be funny.
In the time of COVID the police continued to murder Blacks until riots overtook our cities and dumpster fires lit the night, the sound of police sirens was a symphony of horror, a symphony of fear.
Even now we can hear the music starting all over again. Even now it is the time of COVID.
--
The dead of COVID-19, all in one teardrop. Grief this morning with my coffee. Both are bitter, and I cannot put either one down.
--
Hundreds die everyday.
Everyday. COVID-19.
The wave of grief
Building up
Will be a tsunami.
To wash us all away.
Tears like a raging ocean.
And now? It’s afternoon
And a frail sun breaks through The heavy clouds.
--
The ghosts of COVID-19 are asking for new names and new faces. They come to me in the night and whisper their absurd requests in my ear. I am never frightened, but I also never oblige them; I offer them poems instead. So far not one ghost has accepted.
--
james lee jobe
Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.
-James Baldwin
--
To learn something is to know yourself; to study Buddhism is to study yourself.
-Dogen
--
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
- Francis of Assisi
POETRY LINKS:
Necromancy for the Bitter, a poem by Brian Koukol
Breathing Space, July, a poem by Tomas Transtromer
Douglass Pool, a poem by Latif Askia Ba
If you enjoy this blog, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. (Not every time you come here, just maybe once in awhile.) It's done safely online, and just takes a moment. Thanks!
-james