Pandemic

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On This Covid Pandemic

The Chinese had a phrase for it –
‘May you live in interesting times.’
Double- edged, somewhat inscrutable,
As I read between its lines.

Intended as a curse it is said;
Perhaps we’re paying for our crimes?
As we live this life not led before –
Perdition’s paradigm.

Cometh The Lockdown

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Stop the world I want to get off;
Let’s have a global fire break.
Give me time to recuperate,
To stop this corvid headache.

We’re hoping for some respite now,
A pause in life’s short passage;;
A little rest may well be best,
A chance to send a message,

Let’s tell the world we’ve not gone mad,
Defy cynics and mockers;
Impress upon the populace
We’ve not gone off our rockers.

For every person, young or old,
Still living on this planet,
Has cause to love a life that’s free,
To live a life – not ban it.

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Deo Volente

DEO VOLENTE

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Cometh the day
Cometh the ban
Yet another deprivation
Another death for motivation
Covid Nine still running wild
Meaning for us
Nothing good
Nothing mild
Just another tight restriction
This is now life
It is not fiction

I tell my family they cannot come
They are not surprised
They do not blanche
Just another faded chance
Not something else to life enhance

Will I one day
Look back and say
When this black cloud has blown away
I lived through covid
Took its measure
Saw it off
Without a cough
Survived to tell new generations
How grandad lived through such privations
Knuckled down
Obeyed the rules
Derided all those other fools
Who didn’t care
Who took it easy
Yet also lived to tell the tale

I can’t help but think
With a nod and a wink
Life’s still worth living
D. V. – God Willing.



Embers of my Dreams

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My lockdown life has fuelled a fire
a fire of the imagination
It burns the strongest in my dreams
its brightest light at night
an ever flickering conflagration
half hidden from my sight

For when I wake
I feel its kick
I tremble with the loss
of leaving that other clouded world
left picking through its embers

There where strangers meet as friends
where lovers lose their once-held power
where every tree meant more to me
with every passing hour

But why when shrouded in dreamland’s mists
do such recovered images
disappear with wakefulness
refuse to linger
rush away
leaving only a taste
a memory risked
asecond chance missed
a taste of what could have been
lost in that fleeting insubstantial dream

Elfchen

Today, I attempt to compose an ELFCHEN or, in English, an ELEVENIE

 

Wikipedia defines an Elevenie, or Elfchen, as follows:

“An elevenie (German Elfchen — Elf “eleven” and -chen as diminutive suffix to indicate diminutive size and endearment) is a short poem with a given pattern. It contains eleven words which are arranged in a specified order over five rows. Each row has a requirement that can vary.”

A simple form, similar perhaps to  Haiku, Senryu or Tanka, in which the poet attempts to carry an idea within a set format of words and lines which imposes certain strictures of thought and form on the author.

The usual format requires a short verse of eleven words in five lines in the form – 1, 2, 3, 4, 1.  An order which I have reversed in  my last of the 4 elfchen below  . . .

ELEVENSIE 1 . . .   On Poetry

Poetry
Felt experience
Not always beautiful
But rich in meaning
Worthwhile

ELEVENSIE 2  . . .   On Age

Years
Bring age
Not necessarily wisdom
Learn from your experience
Grow

ELEVENSIE 3  . . .   On Lockdown

Constriction
Distorting minds
Playing with normality
Threatening well earned contentment
Lockdown

REVERSE ELEVENSIE 4  . . .   On Covid19

Puzzlement
Why let us suffer
Whilst time passes
Our lives
Wasting

 

 

 

Escape From Lockdown

Escape From Lockdown

Where shall I go?
I await inspiration.
Don’t fancy The Broads,
Try a brand new location.

The Weald is too flat,
The Highlands too high,
The Lowlands too low,
I’ll put them on standby.

The Gower is too near,
The Wirral too far,
The Pennines too high,
And too hard on my car.

I like the Welsh Marches,
But they don’t like me;
Of the Wolds and the Marshes
I’m no devotee.

But I do need a break,
An escape from this lockdown.
I’ve a yen for new vistas –
Corfe, Pwllheli or Plockton.

Coast, country or town,
I won’t be prescriptive;
Just find me a bolt-hole
And I’ll get descriptive.

Not foreign this time,
The risk is too great.
To be locked in on return
Is something I’d hate.

So let it be England,
‘The home of the free’,
Though where we get that from
Is a mystery to me.

I haven’t felt FREE
Since restricted in Spring.
I must get away,
Break my bonds, have a fling.

I could try the Dales,
The Downs or The Lakes,
The Peaks or the Fens,
I’ve got just what it takes.

For adventure, for risk,
I’m up for them all
So just hide my face mask
I’m no more in its thrall.

Yes, I’m off to Bognor,
That ‘Bugger’ of a town,
The best place to be
To end my lockdown. 

“Bugger Bognor!” were the alleged last words of King George V in 1936, in response to being told that he would soon be well enough to visit the seaside resort Bognor Regis on the south coast of England.

 

A Word To The Wise

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Foto  – Pixels (detail)

A Word To The Wise

 

Pas de problème
As the French say,
There’s nothing really
To get in the way
Of putting things right
This difficult day.

Nothing to stop
Making all okay,
But some I suspect
Will give us away,
Cause a lockdown
Yet another delay.

If we want to be normal
We all must obey,
Keep to the rules
Just don’t go astray;
We know that it’s right
It’s the true British Way.

 

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Shielding in the Nursery

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Shielding in the Nursery

 

Jack Sprat Is getting fat,
He’s nibbling while he shields.
Weight reduction and old age
Are now his battlefields.

His wife has quite a different plan
As she battles with her weight.
Her diet, filled with pop and coke,
And cake upon her plate.

Tommy Tucker no longer sings,
Waiting for his supper,
Gorging on sweets and chocolate,
And loaves of bread with butter.

Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey
No longer are enough
To satisfy her appetite,
She huffs and puffs and stuffs.

Georgie Porgie’s pudding and pie
Were never enough for existence,
He’s taken to feeding on fat chicken thigh
As the line of least resistance.

Little Jack Horner still loves his pies,
But one won’t suffice for a snack,
So he adds to his meals a pair of Cartwheels
And a toffee and treacle flapjack.

Now Humpty Dumpty sits on the floor,
He’s had quite enough of falling.
He contents himself with Smarties galore,
His appetite something appalling.

Jack and Jill are filling out,
Snacking all the time,
Drowning their recent lockdown sorrows
In patisseries and wine.

All seem now to have given up trying
To take more care with their diet,
Which causes us all to be sad at their fall,
At least they’re not having a riot.

 

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TWENTY-TWENTY

flight landscape nature sky

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TWENTY-TWENTY

The longest light, the shortest night,
Have passed and now are gone,
And twenty-twenty stumbles on,
A dark phenomenon.

A memory to mark a life,
While I in fear live through it;
Live in purdah, taste the bile,
Trying not to lose it.

But hope and love they bear me on,
Counter my dejection;
Dark skies above will turn to blue
And counter this infection.

 

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A Limited Life

abandoned ancient antique architecture

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A Limited Life

Take my breath away
yet let me live
my blinded eyes
they still can see the sun
I walk but cannot move
for fear to fall
my stulted words
restricted to my pen

Now all my thoughts
are centred on myself
not touch nor closeness
are allowed

to stunt my waking dreams
and life depends
on instant ends
the future makes no sense
and time has ceased

For now has lost its meaning
in the drift in which I live
day melds into night
and then returns
but only to repeat
its torpid trend
refusing to rekindle
that fire which burns
within my ashes urn

 

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