Pandemic Poems Plus One

Michael Sykes

Description

The information about the book is not available as of this time.

Sujets

• Enertia Software
• Poetry

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 10 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669840480
• Langue: English

Extrait

Other titles by the Author:
From an Island in Time
Pandemic Poems Plus One
 
From Wuhan to Bucha and Beyond
 

 
Michael Sykes
COPYRIGHT © 2022 BY MICHAEL SYKES.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER:
2022914211
ISBN:
HARDCOVER
978-1-6698-4050-3

SOFTCOVER
978-1-6698-4049-7

EBOOK
978-1-6698-4048-0
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
As Years Advance” was published by Whitefish Review
All of the Above” was published by Northern Contours
 
 
Rev. date: 11/11/2022
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
844382
Dedication
For my family and friends, whoever and wherever they may be.
Contents
Preface
PART ONE
Wuhan
Life is a Vacation
Pandemic Poem, 2020
Being Human
This Bag
My Own Private Opiod Crisis
I dreamt I had insomnia.
Like memory life
Killer Asteroids
Relationships
Artificial Intelligence
Ransom Wear
Launching a Boat on Dry Land
Climate Change
The life lived trails behind us like a ghost
All of the Above
The Dividing Line
Pandemic Poem, 2021
Choosing
Mimicry
Me and my Duct Tape
The Great Gravity Builders
Breakthrough Sonnet
The Missing Card
Prophecy
We obviously live in the moment
This Page Intentionally Left Blank
Un-American Activities Committee
The Dark Mind
Pieces
Poem for the New Year, 2022
Free Reign
Bucha
Going West
As Years Advance
Mortality
I know now how I’ll die
Evening Prayer
PART TWO
The Path of Totality
PART THREE
Prayer
About the Author
Preface
The majority of these poems were written between March, 2020, and the present. I was in Mexico February/March as usual when the news started to filter in, actually in Mexico City after being in Isla Mujeres, Zihuatanejo, Puebla, Oaxaca, and back to Mexico City. I was planning on one more week over to Morelia, Patzcuaro, and Guadalajara. I had a ticket back to Reno from Guadalajara on Volaris March 10. But the world was lowering, the gates were closing fast, and I wisely scratched the last week, ate the Volaris ticket, and used some remaining frequent flyer miles for a free one-way ticket from Mexico City to Reno. Then the waves rose up and came crashing down. But I was in the far northeastern corner of California, in the high desert of the Great Basin, where social distancing is a way of life, socialization a choice. I saw it coming like Naomi Watts saw the impossible, and I lay low, writing like a madman through depression and hopelessness towards an open field of exaltation and the promised land. I’m still writing like crazy as this book goes to press. I’ll be writing from the grave if I remember to put a flashlight, pen and paper, in the coffin. Some other work written before March, 2020, has been sprinkled in here and there when it seemed appropriate, but only a little. (I’ve been writing since I was 14 and keeping a journal since 1972, so this is just the tip of the iceberg.) I thought I’d pass this manuscript around, or at least a few poems here and there, to get some publication credits, but there’s not enough time and I’m not getting any younger, not yet. Besides I’m lazy and could twiddle my thumbs procrastinating before sending out time-sensitive work when I could really go on writing, which is all that really counts: To keep on keeping on and do what you love, teach your children well, embrace those you love and even those you don’t, be generous, kind, compassionate, and do the Work.
PART ONE
Wuhan
I dreamed of Wuhan last night.
It resembled an enormous Quonset hut
several thousand feet across at its mouth.
I could just make out the inner walls near the front,
then the interior descended into a darkness
that was darker than the deepest night.
The floor was solid earth without defining marks.
It had a guttural odor of old feces,
burned garbage, cooking smells of unknown origin.
I thought there might be an end to it,
a great wall or sudden plunge into the depths,
but no sound emanated from inside.
 
It felt completely dead, abandoned.
And then I saw moving figures, shifting shapes
They began to come toward me as I shivered
with a fear I’d never felt before.
I thought they would come closer into the light
but the more I looked the fainter they became
and soon the walls closed around them,
the ceiling collapsed with a groan into the earth,
a cloud of dust and decay rose out
of the entrance and billowed up, obscuring the sky.
I turned to flee, to run, to escape,
but then I saw the cloud was all around me.
Life is a Vacation
You wake up one morning
and realize it’s almost over.
There were so many things
you planned to do, but didn’t:
That classic English pub
with its facade of stone and ancient wood;
you can taste the dark amber ale,
hear the conversations and laughter;
that certain bench under a certain tree
that caught the afternoon light just so.
You were going to sit there and think,
or write a card to someone you love.
The festival of arts and crafts;
the Italian restaurant in Mexico
run by an Israeli couple
that everyone swore served the best
food they’d ever eaten;
the cobblestone street with the paper store
that curved around a corner to somewhere
that was something you meant to see.
 
There’s only so much time left
before you have to pack up and leave,
and that day will be different from all the others,
not really a vacation day at all
but a travel day, a transition,
and you have to be ready for it,
you can’t waste time or get distracted
or wander off on a whim.
 
There’s a train, a plane, or bus you have to catch
and it will leave with you aboard or not,
so you’d better take one last look
at that singular palm or carriage
with its horse standing quietly at ease.
Soon everything will be in motion again,
people will be rushing around you,
and you’ll be left with your thumb in your ear
wondering what it was you left behind
or forgot to buy that you didn’t need
but thought you did, if not for yourself
then someone else, who may or may not
be waiting for you back home.
Pandemic Poem, 2020
Sometimes I wake in tears
or the precursor thereof,
that feeling in the pit of my stomach,
the hollowness in my chest,
that I’ve been betrayed,
that I’m being betrayed,
not only by the people around me
but the people around them.
The list goes on.
I’m so lonesome I could cry,
but I don’t.
I only disbelieve and hold my tears
like scraps of information
scribbled on a paper bag.
 
The long day lies ahead,
the old day lies behind,
in between the night,
uneasy, irregular sleep,
dreams that make no sense
mixed with the amazing ones,
the ones that take me away from the world
into one filled with promise,
everything new and fascinating
instead of stirring up garbage
from the previous day.
 
Surrounded by viruses and wildfires,
the decadent American way of life
in shreds and tattered by doom,
what is there to look forward to
that hasn’t come and gone for good?
I have to remind myself
of the rain and wind on my face,
the sound of crows calling in the woods,
the surf thundering on the shore.
That the sky above the smoke
is blue, the sun is shining somewhere on the earth.
Lovers entwine, children play,
animals chase their tails.
I have to keep my spirits up
to keep from drowning,
dog-paddling in place at least,
looking for a piece of land.
When I see it I can swim
towards it and pull myself out,
crawl up on the beach
and lay my head on the sand,
grateful to be safe and sound,
to fall asleep and wake
in hopes of a new world,
a new beginning.
Being Human
A giant ant stopped by my house today.
He was about my size, maybe a little taller,
stood very erect and was self-composed.
We shook hands, I’m not sure how.
He sat in the recliner and crossed several legs.
I sat across from him and waited.
I wasn’t sure why he was here,
but I had my suspicions.
 
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Lately a few of us have come into your kitchen,
poking around for food and other things,
like spilled margarita juice and peanut butter.
It’s a perfectly natural thing to do,
as I’m sure you’re aware.”
(I knew now for sure what this was leading to.)
“But yesterday morning,” he went on,
“you mashed two of us with your closed fist,
out of sheer frustration,
and I can understand this.”
(Followed by a moment of silence.)
 
“I know you may be thinking about poison traps,
it’s the logical next step, for humans.
But you may not realize the pain and suffering
it brings to our people, especially the children.
You’ve seen this in your own time.
If you follow history you know about the Kurds
on the Turkish-Syrian-Iraq border.
You may have seen