Bombarded

From having not enough to do
I’m now bombarded with a slew
Of YouTubes that I have to view –
Right now! Right now! Right now!

A few are funny, some bring tears
While others cause disdain or sneers
But what I think is it appears
That onward folks will plow.

They all mean well; I don’t regret
The texts or emails that I get.
I hope the senders aren’t upset
If time does not allow…

My answering them right away
For I’m not able to obey
Each message sent, without delay –
I simply don’t know how.

What Keeps Me Sane

Though doom may loom, I’m in the womb,
Cocooned and thus protected.
Yet stuck in place, without much space,
My psyche’s been affected.

What keeps me sane in my domain
Is walking in the morning
Before the dawn has brightly drawn
Its pink and purple warning.

My hour out, without a doubt,
Is like a giant tether,
Connecting me to what must be
My only taste of weather.

For what I need to still proceed,
In quarantine’s restriction,
Is air and sky; without them I
Would die. (That’s my prediction.)

The Days

I used to mark the days by what
I’d scheduled to do,
Like Fridays with the grandkids
For our weekly rendezvous.

On Thursdays there was quilting
And on Wednesdays, never fear,
I’d be at the museum where
I am a volunteer.

On Tuesdays I’d play mah jongg
Once a month, or else I’d go
With my husband to a movie
Or museum for a show.

On Mondays, with some friends, I’d meet
To walk and have a meal
In places in the city that
We’d heard had some appeal.

The weekends often took me
With my daughter and my spouse
Out to rural Pennsylvania
Where we own a country house.

Yet now the days meld into one –
No differentiation –
With all of my activities
On permanent vacation.

It’s meaningless to call each day,
Like Sunday, by its name
At least to me, for in my life,
They’re sadly, all the same.

In the Kitchen Cabinets

One box was stamped two thousand fifteen;
Another two thousand and five.
If I ate the pasta inside them,
Do you think I would still be alive?

Some crackers found zipped in a baggie
Were stale as a mummy’s last breath.
If I crumbled a few in my chowder,
Would that be the cause of my death?

The ketchup in back of the pantry
Was browner than children’s mud pies.
If I squirted it onto a burger,
Might that cause an early demise?

Since we have relinquished our shopping,
We’re searching our cupboards, no joke,
Discovering items forgotten
Which, if eaten, might cause us to croak!

A Birthday in Place

Believe it or not, my birthday’s been great
Though not one I would have predicted,
Assuming that I would be down in the dumps
For being so virus-restricted.

My pre-sunrise walk was delightful because
The rain I’d expected held off
And no one I passed on the street came too close
And I heard not a sneeze or a cough.

Before my first coffee, my son and his kids
Called with wishes no money could buy
And my grandson surprised me by writing a poem
Starting, “I love my nana…” Oh, my!

A flurry of phone calls and texts followed suit
Since each person I know’s stuck at home,
All with wishes so special I just don’t have room
To describe them inside of a poem.

There was breakfast and lunch and the governor’s talk
Which inspired a fun-to-do task:
With some quilting material, flowered and green,
I then stitched for myself a new mask!

Creative juice flowed so in place of a cake
I baked cupcakes to mark my big day
And my grandkids, on FaceTime, with very big puffs
Blew the flame on the candle away.

Some long-distance toasts with my aunt and some friends
And then dinner and wine with my spouse
Set my spirits on fire with feelings so strong
It would take more than water to douse.

We may have to adjust in this craziness now
To reality unlike before
But it isn’t all negative for we may find
Unexpected surprises in store.

A Cheerful Rhyme

Giggle, chortle, chuckle, laugh,
Snicker and guffaw;
Titter, be in stitches, snort
As if you broke the law.

Cackle, beam and grin so wide
Your cheeks will start to hurt.
Set your face aglow like when
You eat the best dessert.

Keep the real world from your thoughts
And let your mind employ
Whatever tactics it may have
To conjure up some joy.

Every Night at 7

The city’s super quiet now
As life remains on hold,
A siren’s wail from time to time
Erupting uncontrolled.

Until, each night at 7
When the clapping sounds begin,
Accompanied by cow bells,
Only adding to the din.

With whoops and shouts and singing,
Either live or Spotified,
New Yorkers thus acknowledge,
For the help that they provide…

The workers who risk everything
To labor in the stores
And hospitals and anyplace
Beyond their own front doors.

From sidewalks (6 feet separate)
And from windows people clap,
Connecting and uniting
Past the social distance gap.

They cannot hug or congregate –
All contact’s been deferred –
But every night at 7
They join others to be heard.