Featured Journal from Women Writing History: A Coronavirus Journaling Project
(National Women’s History Museum)
I.
the heartbeat of the Planet gets quicker,
and blood pressures rise like the sea levels,
as people, by the thousands, get sicker.
a play by the Master of the Revels.
Life divided by Angels and Devils
was never the Life to live, far too strict.
it would take more than thousands of bevels
drawing angles and measures to predict
who is right or wrong, and who has been tricked.
Life united by misdirected shame
will surely, universally afflict,
but Solitude gives Death a better name.
it matters not who invented the Fear,
but how the Invention is used from here.
II.
Death and Taxes are playing together
in an ancient game of Musical Chairs.
circling around the world of nether,
the two keep track using raised and split hairs.
and thus, to determine which seat is theirs,
Nature plays a song that nobody chose.
over the music, she can’t hear the prayers
drowned out and muffled along with the woes.
here, destruction looks as keen as the Crows,
hiding their legacy out in plain sight.
grief only blooms where intelligence grows,
Dreamers anticipate each coming night.
so, what does all this fancy language mean?
time will tell less and show more in a scene.
III.
like hindsight, 2020 is the year,
when the month of March came like a lion
over a narrow horizon to clear
the grazing past, in search of a scion.
to graft and regrow costs a fair buy-in,
so a virus is set to plague and spread
life, as we know it, now a stale zion,
far too concerned with the Blue or the Red.
colors don’t matter if Vision is dead,
so the government tells us to stay home:
statistics and numbers get in our head,
widely projected so we dare not roam.
the world is told to pause its urgent tasks,
while old men fight about reusing Masks.
IV.
nineteen years have passed since Nine-Eleven.
this hysteria is foreign to most.
now we’re all thinking more about Heaven:
if we’ll be welcomed by its holy Host.
a broken nation can no longer coast
on the Old Town Roads of History’s past
in the words of Yeezy, let’s have a toast
for poor ones pushed out by an old white cast.
the dangerous hot spots multiply fast,
and no state is safe from air travel spread.
all corners of the country feel this blast,
some with mouths open for lies to be fed.
information is key if it is True,
if false, it chokes, even after we chew.
V.
six feet away or you’re six feet under
when ‘Social Distance’ is the new catchphrase.
but humans aren’t gods; we’re known to blunder,
clearly confused, we’re weak in our daze.
safely isolate and avoid the craze,
never forget to keep washing your hands,
keep mind we’ve only just entered the Maze,
Death will keep making its sudden demands.
marking History like the iron brands,
March will not go out like a lamb this year.
a stimulus check can’t pay for the sands
filling the hourglass’s lower sphere.
for some, money is held closer than Love,
so for now we float, awaiting a dove.
VI.
to grocery shop becomes a mission,
essential workers are called in to Fate,
daily errands pose one big decision
around what is urgent and what can wait.
in one family home in a red zone state,
a middle-aged mother must make two trips:
with elderly parents, the risk is great,
both over eighty, anxiety grips.
tragic, the nursing homes in the news clips:
hand-written notes pressed up against the glass
visits are banned, and Optimism dips,
Communication is at an impasse.
are we just meant to die, old and alone?
a kiss can’t be given over the phone.
VII.
April showers proved long and indulgent
as kids got used to learning from afar.
thankfully the May sun shone refulgent
though graduations felt rather bizarre.
Futures unwind when a plague sets the bar,
the hoops we once went through are changing shape,
as Sylvia’s image through the Bell Jar,
distorted, uprooted, unknown landscape.
parents and teachers pull off the red tape
and anything can go just to get by,
Technology is the only escape
back into a world that’s now gone awry.
everyone downloads a program called Zoom
then replants at home as May flowers bloom.
VIII.
some industries suffer more than others.
if you can’t work from home, where do you work?
Space is limited, given our druthers,
all bets are off if your roommate’s a jerk.
cabin fever might make hot tension lurk.
in cities like New York, watch where you stride
the six feet rule is not one you can shirk
in the name of science, we must abide.
“Move over!” an angry sidewalker cried.
“Wear a mask!” shouts another with rage.
true colors come out, which often do hide
when we’re not all locked up in the same cage.
the wealthy can leave the great Big Apple,
the rest are left with ruins to grapple.
IX.
outside cities, humans and Nature meet
to learn what it means to go take a hike.
the Roads Less Traveled now see lots of feet
unless of course those feet peddle a bike.
some say a plague can cause ideas to strike
like a good pitcher or good lightning storm
but will they stick like a meal for the shrike?
or will they get lost inside of the swarm?
turning to side hustles feels like the norm
if given a day without distraction.
how long it takes for an idea to form
how much longer to feel a reaction.
might we reconnect with the Great Outdoors?
or drift right by like a boat with no oars?
X.
spring breakers don’t take it seriously,
assuming the young will never die young.
while their elders react furiously,
youths go to beaches and make out with tongue.
for now, the alarm bell can’t be unrung,
though some people say to just plug your ears,
hear no evil and you’ll never get stung
by the deadly bug that pollinates fears.
sure, we know, there’s a limit to our years
at a certain point, they will stop ringing.
so why not just party, have a few beers,
weigh your chances and then go out swinging
it’s true that death’s a mysterious end,
but what is something that time cannot mend?
XI.
towards the end of May comes a fateful day:
a Black man named George is killed on the street.
a policeman’s bent knee blocks the air’s way
from getting to his heart, keeping its beat.
the smart phones come out to post a live tweet.
the policeman stares, as if in a trance.
robotic racism programmed to cheat,
taking from darker skin any fair chance.
this is no isolated circumstance:
a white man claims self-defense for killing.
it stretches across space and time’s expanse
an empty claim disguised to sound filling.
a person who doesn’t know when to stop:
a job description that fits today’s cop.
XII.
to take someone’s life for no good reason
is psychotic at best, evil at worst.
an act high above the highest treason
even condemns the repentant as cursed.
but then, who should answer for this sin first?
should we take on guilt from those come before?
when will the historical bubble burst?
how much Glory will it take? how much Gore?
wading through this muck feels a minor chore
for the unaffected to the unmoved.
the truth is too deep to dig to its core;
on unshaken boats, the verdict is proved.
but when you fill God in, don’t leave It blank
or else you’ll be forced to walk the long plank.
XIII.
racism has gone unchecked for too long
liberty and justice are not for all.
the government sings its same old swan song
denying everything as means to stall.
so people stand up! and no longer crawl
at a pace that kept some miles behind.
signs of protest spread out across the sprawl,
it clearly goes a long way to be kind.
all that once lived in the back of the mind
is now stepping forth into the unknown.
2020 was once sight from the hind,
but now it’s the future we will be shown.
it’s easy to say, “no skin off my back”
when you’ve got money or skin that’s not black.
XIV.
“but how do we show that we really care?”
ask white people, turning to their big books.
“I could win,” says the tortoise to the hare.
“So never judge someone based on their looks!”
in this kitchen, there are too many Cooks,
dishes will break and hot water will splash
but guilty Parties will hang on their hooks
for poisoning Guests and stealing their cash.
power plays like a Raccoon in the trash
making a mess and throwing out the rules
in protest, rioters do something brash.
patience and peace don’t provide the right tools.
Fox News only shows destruction outside,
CNN only shows marches in stride.
XV.
when we ask the great big question of Why,
who is it we’re asking for an answer?
and how do we know that they will not lie,
bending truth with the Grace of a dancer?
gossip and fake news spreading like cancer;
is Trust a smart thing to give up so quick?
will our backs be stabbed by some cruel lancer?
in Stories are plotlines to choose and pick.
swimming in a fishbowl, like bait, we click
into place, falling like flies trapped indoors.
if this is a Joke, it’s surely slapstick,
throwing punches in name-calling wars.
adults grow weary and act just like kids
doing those things Maturity forbids.
XVI.
a reality TV star reruns
for president of the United States,
he somehow survived the first term seasons.
now we are in for some heated debates.
man must beware of the world he creates,
change it when needed, like RBG did.
shatter the ceilings and open the gates
bring forth the meek who society hid.
old white men fighting for the highest bid
never looked or sounded so dim and rude.
you’d expect this behavior from a kid,
shouldn’t grown men act a little more shrewd?
dramatic irony must be at play,
but then, who’s watching from outside the fray?
XVII.
to give the Big Picture its clear border,
a lens must focus, zooming in and out.
a portrait of Chaos made to Order
can brightly filter the shadows of doubt.
Words are too easy to twist and to shout
from the nightly news to Signs in front yards,
a stream of consciousness never in drought
will flood over its dams and drown its guards.
“sorry for your loss” and “get well soon” cards
are reaching above their new record sales.
the world as we framed it’s broken in shards,
a Picture created by old, white males.
when life is stolen, it rarely seems fair.
but Time will pull off the Masks that we wear.
XVIII.
there’s something quite odd about this whole thing,
as if it’s part of a much bigger plan
though bells of conspiracy tend to ring
when questions like this are asked of a man.
who set this chaos on the human clan?
can anyone be blamed for such a fault?
dominoes fall in the line that they span,
until at the end, they suddenly halt.
when secrets are hidden inside a vault
buried with the Dead deep under the ground,
even a dash of the earth’s holy salt
can’t stop these new germs from making their round.
finding the source is a long lost venture,
but still, we search, akin to indenture.
XIX.
the heartbeat of the Planet now slows down,
the passing of months just feels like a daze.
now that a virus is wearing the crown,
a ruling stands: this won’t just be a phase.
teaching a lesson can go many ways
and once it’s taught, who knows what’s to follow.
afterthoughts and regrets cast a dark gaze,
so the laurel wreath sits on Apollo.
could-haves and should-haves render us hollow
systems, like Promises, breaking apart.
our Actions are the potions we swallow,
but then our lines might be cut from the Start.
why do so many decide to Trust us
to find the real Vaccine for injustice?