poetry/written word

first place

all my might

by dina stander

the middle daughter comes to visit

she rakes leaves in the yard while

I sit nearby but safely far away and

we chat about change and the wild

violets that chose today to reveal their

purple mystery and later when I am

pulling winter off the strawberry bed

she tells me about the thing that makes

her sad and we lean forward for the

hug that comes naturally and then

pull away with a yard of air still open

between us because nowadays we do

not share a bubble in space that way

and the whole time she is here I have

to resist the urge to ask her in for tea

or to reach out a hand and finally while

I sit again she passes behind me with

the rake and plants a kiss on the top

of my head like a blessing while I hold

my breath from the effort of not grabbing

her in for a squeeze because if you had

ever told me there would come a day

when I cannot hold my baby when she

is sad I would have told you to fuck off

with your bad vibes but here we are

I'm learning to love with all my might

and keep my hands in my lap too

~ Dina Stander, April 25, 2020 / covid poems

Breathing

by Matthew Andrews

When I was born, I scooped up some bits of Earth and made my body.
We all do it like that. I saw my son do it, and my daughter too.
Mud and stones and sea and plants and sun; we gather it all up and make an inside and an outside.
And then we climb in and start breathing.
Every day the sun rises and the ocean moves and our blood moves and we breath.
Every day it’s like that.

I drew the stuff of this world into my precious new body:
I consented to the collaboration, to the union of this and that;
I agreed to be us.
My breath told me about relationship, and from within my cocoon, I touched us. Air whirled in through my face and into the hollows in my chest and into my blood. My blood was suddenly my own, and I had to do everything keep it moving inside, And also my breath told me that I was us and all of our blood matters.

This year the Earth that we live inside wanted to remind us about breathing together.
She wanted to remind us that all blood matters, and that our blood can only move when we breathe together.
She thought maybe we had forgotten about that.
It's easy to forget when we have to think so much about keeping our blood safe inside.
Sometimes, when we see someone stop breathing, then we remember our breath, our life, us.

The Earth started whispering, reminding us about breathing together, the sweet secret of the air. Her voice was like an evening breeze in the forest, a little hard to understand, easy to mistake for emptiness,
But insistent.

Her voice grew like a strong ocean wave, majestic, powerful, thundering, definite.
It was easy to be afraid, to think about our own blood again, instead of breathing together.

But somehow, it wasn’t just a voice or a breeze or a wave: there was a love, assurance, comfort.
It was subtle, easy to miss, but once detected it couldn’t be denied,
Like the feeling of sun on a face.
It was like breath, really. Love moved in the air like breath and filled us without us even knowing.
It got mixed into our blood and it warmed us from inside. It didn’t show up on any scientific instruments.

That’s how these things happen sometimes: it’s not our big plans that shape the world. We look around and we have an idea that we didn’t have before.

Remember when

By Tara Dasso Bronner

Remember when...

Do you remember when we used to go outside?
Breathe in fresh air, take long bike rides
You did not need a bracelet that flashes green
To go everywhere and in-between.

Do you remember when we could survey someone’s lips? Decide if you thought they deserved to be kissed
No masks to hide the citizens faces
Anti-bacterial mist sprays before embraces.

Do you remember when we would roam museums filled with art?
Gaze at architecture or sculpture
Whatever touched your heart

Do you remember when we learned at a school without screens?
Teachers held their students’ hands
Were there to comfort
When their charges were in need

Do you remember the day the word was put on pause? We never knew what we would be missing
How much we loved the world that was.

If I could,
I would have worried less about lesson plans,
Instead found joy in unexpected laughter, detours to places unknown

If I could,
I would have said yes to lunches with eager 10-year-olds
in place of last minute trips to the copier It would have jammed anyway

If I could,
I would not berate myself over useless data My focus could have been on things
I did that were not easy to measure

If I could,
I would not waste my time complaining
about the student who made me want to give up
instead spoken with a grateful heart about the ones who made each day worthwhile

If I could,
I would have gathered an extra hug, taken another minute to linger, drank it all in

But I can’t so if I could
I would tell you I miss you
I’m sorry we never got to say goodbye

Tara Dasso is a poet/photographer from Western Massachusetts. As a hearing-impaired individual, she was looking for creative ways to express herself as her hearing loss had progressed limiting her abilities to interact with others at times in a meaningful way.  Her work is inspired by the quiet moments and connections between ordinary individuals. She is also influenced by the many social justice causes she supports. She is co-founder of  Write-up Springfield, a monthly creative writing group that comes together to collaborate, share resources and promote artists from the greater Springfield area. She has exhibited and been published in various literary journals and local galleries.

https://www.pagespineficshowcase.com/tara-dasso.html 

http://www.poetshaven.com/archives/8451 https://www.trestleties.ink/issues/two/tara_dasso 

heavy heart, sweet blossoms

By lorna ritz

I had an accident on Amtrak train and was taken by ambulance to a CT. hospital just before the pandemic. Back home, my Dr. called to say I was at high risk. I told her I was strong as a horse, aside from the accident, but she reminded me of my previous medical issues and countless surgeries as a recurrent cancer patient. I thought she was talking about another person, especially when she reminded me of my age.

In March my gallery closed. Everything closed, (restaurants, movie theaters, colleges, concerts were cancelled). Streets were empty. This became a time to be still, to wonder, to create new experiences and support them with good expectation that brings one to new discoveries. I cleaned the garden, planted peas, played with my neighbor's goats and went for sunset walks. I became immersed in new painting, checking on elderly neighbors by email, and trying not to watch the news too much. (I only believed the scientists). How could I best express my most passionate realities I see in the landscape, (the story beneath ordinary everyday life things), producing on canvas much of what people feel when they get religious? As a painter, I am used to a life of solitude, suggesting to people who live alone to choose some one thing they had always wanted to do but never prioritized, and become brilliant at it. No one came to visit, I did not go out, I could focus on moving these paintings further without interruption. Each night I would tell myself before sleep, “I think I am getting better.” That was why I still paint.

By late March many more people were dying. I brought both sadness and the beauty of the season into the painting. Then the sun would come up and the buds open a little more each day, giving me another chance to do what I do even better. Finally, after total seclusion, I needed to peek out into my community, to see for myself familiar roads and places, which were truly empty. It was the wide openfields catching sunlight, and the blue mountains that were steadfast in their stubbornness ‘just to be.’

I doubled my walks from 2 miles to a daily 4, doubled online yoga classes, painting with deep focus, eating well, putting my hands in clay, (my hands that have ‘eyes,),’ writing and reading, to counteract the terror of what this time had become. The nonpolitical virus would teach us to become an even more compassionate people, kinder, more loving, uplifting each other, seeing the best in each other.

I found friends online from Spain, Colombia, South Africa, France. etc., and left food at neighbors’ who needed connection. But little acts of kindness were not enough. Leading an inspired, driven life kept me emotionally strong, (in pursuit of deeper visual expression), in action especially when listening to a neighbor telling me she is afraid.

second place

i will never see the eiffel tower

By Lauren Arienzale

it’s written on the outside of an empty room, just one of hundreds, where there are more dark windows than there are string lights and shadows. and i know it’s just another liberal arts kid coping with their leftover teenage angst, like we all are, and i know this sentence is meaningless in comparison to every other sentence i’ve heard today. 

but i’ve never see the eiffel tower, either. maybe i never will. 

it never really crossed my mind in any seriousness. i spent some time in england the summer i turned twenty, a study abroad trip i never thought i’d have the money or courage to go on in the first place. my newfound friends and i considered paris briefly and decided against it in favor of cornwall, dorset, wales, oxford ... convincing ourselves there was too much to see in a finite amount of time. 

i wonder what else i’ll never see 

the little town in Italy my great grandparents called home, the weird hippie retreat in California that promised me a scholarship this summer--universal healthcare, clean air and water, the fall of capitalism, prison reform, student loans erased, a fighting chance at something beyond struggle and sacrifice and self-preservation. 

it’s march 31st and my fingers are starting to get stiff with cold air. i know it’s the most hypocritical thing i’ve said but i wish the seasons would choose stability over impulse. i wish we’d stop poisoning the only home we have. i wish i didn’t feel so old and young, so weathered and naive, all at once. i wish someone would hold my hand and tell me it’s all going to be okay. i wish i could reassure somone that there are better days ahead. 

it’s march 31st and i know peace and pandemic will never coexist. it’s march 31st and the ending that doesn’t get an ending is fast approaching. it’s march 31st and if i keep letting circumstance and crisis into my head, i will not see april. this will have all been for nothing. because no matter the time or place, crisis and circumstance will follow me though this lifetime and into the next one and the next one and the next one. because if the story ends here, at the cusp of reclaiming and recovery and realization, i will have wasted everything that was and is and could have been. 

because there is always a choice.

Lauren Arienzale (she/her) is a recent Hampshire College graduate, where she studied clinical psychology and psychoanalysis. She aspires to be a psychologist and is also interested in publishing original poetry and creative writing in the future. Lauren works on Small Ones Farm in Amherst and enjoys keeping up regular yoga and meditation practices in her free time.

last time we spoke

by Rejjia Camphor

Last time we spoke,
I told you to go and ask the trees
about the secrets of the universe
and I wonder if you did.

Its been three months since we’ve known
and I can’t help but wonder
if they whispered to you when the sickness would be over?
Did they say when my friend?

Did the leaves tell you the amount of loved ones we would lose from this
or at least, if the people who wore masks before the pandemic would finally stop hiding themselves?
Did they show you my friend?

Did they reveal when exactly Breonna Taylor’s murderers would be arrested?
or at least, when that pandemic of anti-blackness and violence would end?
Did they trust you my friend?

Did they tell you anything about the hurricanes that keep coming?
or when the dam that hides behind my eyes would finally fall?
Did they know anything about me my friend?

Did they know if anymore gas explosions will be happening in Baltimore,
or at least, who keeps illegally dumping trash in my neighborhood?
I just wonder my friend.

Did they tell you everything you wanted to know?
Or at least, if we will survive this, my friend?
Did they know this would happen?
Did they know, my friend?

Last time we spoke,
I told you to go and ask the trees,
about the secrets of the universe.
But never did I imagine
You’d become one of them.

2020 Hindsight

by don ogden

[ A work in progress ©]

what have we learned from
what we have lived here
land of opportunity
lacking for much unity we
travel in circles victims of uncertainty
or the opposite often wasting energy,
angry looking for others to blame
driving each other insane
two wings of our one entity
one-hundred years ago we suffered together so
and soon forgot the pain until
it returned again
then bread lines as far as eyes could see
and the long lost memory typhoid mary
contact tracing leaders with empathy and
not much attention to the source of all this pain,
sorrow death and dissolution not to forget all the confusion.

look over here where the forests once sheltered
so many creatures now helter skeltered
captured and eaten
sold in cages or tortured and beaten
by humans so hungry for profit they’ve
forgotten the comfort of just
living in Nature instead of
their pocket and then get
on guard when we reveal it
or mock it, behavior once scorned
in old tomes and court edicts
now worshiped above all else
another contagion that might not
kill you but could ruin creation
or love and harmony with any given
relation as we witness the end of countless other lives and existence of species we are so sadly mistaken
while watching the news, the
plague on our place the chance
of a cure or the latest sensation
which means nothing or worse for expiring species in diminishing locations
our machines grind down into lifeless dust
drawn out by building hot winds into recorded nightmares of complete devastation.

how much distance have we put between us and this planet,
enough to make sure whoever’s in charge thinking they ran it were making it worse through selfish deceit transparent theatrics folding in stupid with putrid showmanship apprentice to his own devolution and posing, always posing sitting for portraits never hung though hanging may be too good for some culling the herd you may have heard illness self-inflicted and predicted unspoken requests he please just
get sick and die, who will cry.

what about those who silent stood by
or bought in with the sin of hatred exclusion
the ugly fusion muddled illusion
the speeches of mammon more important than life itself life once precious as your child
and the wild, the wonder even the thunder or a sunset or rising from memory or the moment

where did you just put your
hand in what sequence did
it land near that handle or the
lever and how did the weather become such a marker outside that window first lighter
then darker out there where it is
moving about unseen stealth
feeding on everyone’s health
just waiting for your reopening
just groping for your lungs and wagging tongues of freedom locking and loading and corroding
the steely look in your eyes until your loved one dies and you follow suits empty of souls taking endless tolls on your future your dreams yelling won’t help you be more of
a man reacting to something you don’t understand
like the child you once were
still unsure you react you contract
the virus not guileless and stronger than you.

the price of life what is it how much the cost of a casket a chair a crutch is the venting preventing prevention and such grasping we’re asking
for a certain degree of detention for those
we are loath to mention

for there economic pretensions
when time comes unwound day
after day after week when we seek
the usual it goes south to confusional which moon is it what happened on what day would you say it is the
worst pandemic in generations or
one hundred years or recorded
history of misery and purposeful
injury original sin and slavery now kneeling on necks the law on the street among wrecks burning with anger short on regrets the monuments fall and y’all get defensive
or is it ostensive locking and loading
constantly goading
as the ground beneath you slips away
what do you say unmasked in the fray freedom
to get sick and die but
not to drag us along that’s wrong
no mask covers truth with the lie and the party might last to july more likely it won’t while life goes off the charts while heavily armed men with no hearts
lean into faces of others’
no ending no starts just
the same old bodies piling up on so many sad carts...

Don Ogden, known by many simply as d.o., has been active in environmental issues for most of his life. His poetry and commentaries have appeared in a wide variety of publications and on national and local radio. He has produced and performed in ecologically themed street theater in the Northeast for years as well. He is the producer and co-host of The Enviro Show here on Valley Free Radio. His book, “Bad Atmosphere – A Collection of Poetry & Prose on the Climate Crisis” published by Levellers Press in Amherst contains decades of writing on climate issues (you can get it at Collective Copies in Amherst)

Third place

harmful habits for black women to ditch in times of covid - An essay

by latoya bosworth

Black women are winning in education. We are writing and telling our stories. We are building our own table instead of waiting for a seat. Phrases and hashtags like #BlackGirlsRock, #BlackGirl Magic, #StrongBlackWoman have been motivating and affirming for many of us. They can also be detrimental, distorting the way the world perceives us and dictating how we perceive ourselves. As much as Black women have achieved, we are also dying earlier. Stress is killing us. Being further marginalized our male counterparts and white women in their quest for equality is literally killing us. But we have some control of this. Actor and activist Jesse Williams said, “Just because we’re magic doesn’t mean, we’re not real.” Our pain is real, our struggle is real, our fear is real, we are real. While also home schooling, working from home, making everyone feel safe in a time of civil unrest, Black women are using this historic time to create new habits for a happy and healthier future. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. This boldness might shake some folks up, but it’s time we ditch some of those learned patterns of behavior and take charge of our futures.

Using her pen name, Brenda's Child, in honor of her late mother,  Dr. Latoya Bosworth began writing poetry at age 14. She spreads her message of  H.E.R.S - health, empowerment, resiliency, and self-worth in workshops, as a speaker, a life coach, in print and on stage. Dr.Bosworth specifically focuses on giving a voice to youth and women, especially, Black women whom she feels are often overlooked in struggles for equality.

unseen

by wayne grincewicz

We live in a world of seen
And unSeen.

The Seen so obvious to us all, The unSeen an accepted Construct that our minds Know is there, just unSeen.

A child would ask, Daddy, Mommy, What is a virus?
It's a very small living thing that
Can be very harmful if it gets inside us.

And they may ask, What is kindness?
Yes, that too is unSeen
but it is what We see in human behavior
When people are good to each other.

And what is empathy?
That is when we people know what
Another person is feeling by seeing Their emotions.

What are emotions?
Emotions are what people show
On their face when either in pain or joy.

What is joy?
Joy is knowing that we have Kindness and Empathy
To guide us through any
Dark time.

Mommy, Daddy, do I have Kindness and Empathy and Joy?
Yes, you do because you are looking for them
And they will make your life
Full.

panic 2020

by ladonna olaynk

Came from China, we were wary
Twenty-twenty, January

Coronavirus, Covid 19
“Asian Flu” in quarantine

Headache, fever, coughing, wheezing
Cough in your elbow, mucus, sneezing

The news released, the Market dropped
Each day declines, it hasn’t stopped

Business closed, you work from home
Safe inside your private dome

Schools are closed, they learn on-line
Two plus six and five times nine

Next, spring break, the beach and sun
Virus spreading, it’s begun

Cruise ships floating, people cry
Fears and sickness, people die

Airports closed, no one can travel
People’s lives start to unravel

Restaurants closed, just food “to go”
All food service, going slow

People furloughed, then laid-off
Can’t afford to sneeze or cough

Wear a mask for self-protection
Guard yourself against infection

Toilet paper, people hoarding
Supermarkets not rewarding 

Plastic tote bags you can’t bring
Rationing for everything

Panic shopping, not much food
People push with attitude

Courtesy they all ignore
Rationing throughout the store

Two of this and one of these
May I have an apple, please?

Doctors, nurses, all essential
Work beyond their full potential

Ventilators, not enough
Just surviving, getting rough

Social distance, can’t be near
Six feet out, we feel the fear

City lock-downs, stay in place
Our survival’s just a race

Every country, every state
Climbing deaths, alarming rate

Fighting just to stay alive
Hope that mankind can survive  

(Rhyming couplets)

LaDonna is a resident of Sunderland, but grew up in the mountains of Virginia and West Virginia.

“I’ve always been intrigued by poetry; the different ways in which the words and the rhythms are blended together.   Most of my poetry has a definite rhythm and rhyme pattern.  Also, my poetry usually tells a story.  Sometimes you might need to search for it, but it’s there.  My works runs from the silly (“The Public Fart”) to my serious poetry, addressing child abuse, suicide and the demise of mankind.”

quarantine: Day 110

by jena schwartz

I started counting days in quarantine on March 13. The world has changed so many times over since that notion first entered our consciousness.

What quarantine means for my household is that we are mostly staying home. I go out almost every day to run or

or walk. I don't wear a mask when I go running, because I’m conKdent I will not be in close proximity with other humans. When I do see someone, we give each other a wide berth or cross the street. I only go on the bike path if I'm out very early in the morning; mostly I run on surface streets.

Quarantine means we use delivery services for groceries and curbside pick-up from local farms for as much produce as possible. It means avoiding the physical world of commerce as much as possible, only entering a store when absolutely necessary, such as picking up prescriptions at CVS that cannot be mailed.

Quarantine means ongoing negotiations with my ex-husband, since coparenting means our two households are inextricably connected. We've allowed our son to see friends outdoors with the strict expectation that they'll maintain social distance. So far this has worked out, and I'm very grateful he has been able to have any semblance of a social life. As a fourteen-year old, this is lifeblood.

Quarantine has meant sitting on the far side of my parents' porch for visits with them. It has meant I have not hugged anyone outside of my wife and children in months. It means cancelled writing retreats and visits with friends that might otherwise have happened this summer.

Quarantine means Zoom. Zoom worship. Zoom coaching sessions. Zoom activism.

Quarantine means I've entered my lovely once exactly twice in 110 days. Many mixed feelings about this – a mixture of disappointment and acceptance, along with a hefty dose of gratitude that my ability to work virtually was well-established long before the pandemic. On top of that, my children are not small, so I am not simultaneously parenting in a super hands-on way while attempting to focus. My heart goes out to those who are navigating that.

Quarantine means living with uncertainty and anxiety about the unknowns. My son begins high school in September. How will that look?

Quarantine has also shown me that we are capable of adapting, capable to having dincult conversations, capable of making informed decisions.

None of what I'm writing just now reFects the rage I feel about how avoidable this was. It doesn’t reFect the grief about how many people have died or are suffering, physically, Knancially, emotionally. It doesn’t touch the screaming inequities the pandemic has laid bare, nor speak to the isolation and depression many are experiencing. It doesn’t address the fact that mask-wearing has become a contentious issue instead of a behavior that could stop the spread of this virus in its tracks if universally heeded. It does not mention the toll of lost income.

In many ways, my wife’s chronic illness primed us for quarantine life. It’s been years since we ate together at a friend's house or in a restaurant, for example. Anyone whose life has been significantly impacted by disability or chronic illness may be familiar with what it's like to not be able to participate in the world at large in ways many folks take for granted.

Earlier in the quarantine, I felt something like relief. Not, of course, related to the reason for it. But because for the briefest moment, no one had FOMO. There was a sense of shared experience, something I know many of us yearn for. Quickly enough, that got blasted open by the truth -- we were not having the same experience at all. We saw this as the numbers of deaths rose and the disproportionate devastation among communities of color became glaring.

We saw this as the question of "essential workers" came into the picture, and there was no avoiding the truth that those with more class privilege would be considerably more insulated from potential infection. We saw it as people with second homes Fed dense cities for safer settings. The pandemic turned inside out the realities that were already here, making them visible and undeniable.

These words from adrienne maree brown, author of “Emergent Strategy,” speak to my heart: "Change is constant / Small is good / Never a failure, always a lesson / There is enough time / Move at the speed of trust."

Without trust, everything falls apart. But trust is not a thing that appears as if by magic. It’s the ongoing result of time, intention, and putting in the work. And it also calls on me, on us, to look at where we have placed trust that has not reciprocated.

Quarantine has forced our eyes open. Where will we place our trust? What will we do to strengthen the systems that deserve our trust – and to dismantle the ones that betray it? How do I use my privilege in tangible ways, in ways Ijeoma Oluo reminds us may be "unsexy, boring, and tough"? What will I do with this day?

Today, I will meet with clients. I will go for a run. I will love my wife and not waste time wishing we were anywhere but here. I will feed myself. I will check in with a friend and spend time with my nearly 18-year- old daughter. I will read. I will make calls to elected officials.

On this day, when the headlines give me chills -- "Actual number of COVID-19 cases is 12 times higher than reported, with 50 percent more deaths, says MIT study" and "New Cases in U.S. Are Up 80% in Past 2 Weeks" -- I will stay in quarantine, both to protect myself and my beloveds and to do my part in protecting others.

It is literally the least I can do.