On this first day of June
there is still nothing new
as much uncertainty as before
at least it won’t continue on for evermore.
Can’t help but think what will happen:
will our generation sadden?
What about all the young love
deteriorated from beautiful to pauvre…
Who knows—all we can do
is enjoy the morning dew
and perhaps recall
the one day we ate a whole pizza and all.
With such glowing eyes
and well-brushed eyebrows
your hellos and goodbyes
all muffled, sounding like frowns.
Only, these frowns
and those grins
can’t be seen
after March 13.
All we’ve got
are tickled cheeks
and glances we sought
for the first time in weeks.
Are you sad? I can’t tell
whether you’re under a spell
the only way is to see
a tear come from an eye of thee.
Now that we’re all wearing masks
tied around our faces
we can go to public places
though taking a swig from our flasks
can prove to be a difficult task.
What day is it?
A greyish blend
An endless pit
With no view around the bend;
but this time
is well spent
making words rhyme.
Others find it less so,
they’re taking it badly;
A shame, because there’s much to know
they look at it rather sadly.
For this is now week five
indeed, it does deprive
us of our friends
and our partners’ beds.
Instead, we can finally see
Those who we’ve been living with: our family.
It’s really not that bad
unless you check the numbers
—and now they’re more than sad;
So many people entering eternal slumbers
For their sake and ours,
Let’s hope this lasts only a few more hours.
What’s wrong with wanting
when we’re wackily wailing
while waiting with Wim’s whim.
Wonderfully windy winters
whenever we wish
when we want!
Wonky wands with worn words
without Wim’s whim.
Wonderland was wryly wrong
wavering, whisking,
wondering whether Wim’s whim
wherefore, was worth waiting?
Why won’t we whisht
when winds whisk
wrongly waiting Wim?
Almost losing count, we’re now in the fourth week
‘tis a strange thing, not seeing others
and not even hearing them speak.
Grim-faced and sullen, the faces
of everybody around
Confinement puts them through their paces
Masks making their muffled sound.
Some speak of a war, a deathly catastrophe
yet all they know is peace and prosperity!
Real, brutal, gruesome war is different while alike
But I have no authority nor experience
To write of war perils or their pertinence
All I can do is highlight the impact on our psyche.
It is a different kind of war, bloody in its own right
One not given up, not without a fight
One fought within the very depths of ourselves
while people empty supermarket shelves.
As we enter week three,
there is not much left to see.
My hands are rubbed raw;
my nails, there is nothing left to gnaw.
Just rice in the pantry,
maybe some spaghetti…
My appetite is paltry,
and our conversations are petty.
There is some positivity:
I have plenty of ink.
Though, at times, mediocre creativity
to practice doublethink.
‘Tis strange, this predicament of isolation.
Never have such attempts been made
to lock down an entire nation;
for times have gone past the nascent state of aid.
“Unprecedented” is said on every frequency,
promptly followed by “don’t panic”;
only guess what people do: hoard greedily,
descending rapidly into a state of manic.
A far cry from times when this was “just a flu”;
now, the crematoriums are packed full.
There is no place left to queue;
simply pronouncing the death count is a mouthful.
In many places, no time for mourning
for it is a war in peacetime.
Eventually, hopefully, this will bring a new morning
when the disease will be past its prime.
But that day seems indeed a long way off;
a glimmer, a glint at the end of the tunnel.
These thoughts arrive as I stifle a cough;
it is time to rest my head upon the flannel
and spare a thought for those
whose times are more morose.
Romeo and Juliet never met,
Shakespeare was a lie.
My cat is not a pet,
stop making that sigh!
Their relationship, a fraud
Like everything nowadays.
An example, Uncle Claude,
all he does is go on holidays.
His accounts, nothing to applaud:
setting stacks of cash ablaze.
But this fiery stack
doesn’t help Claude unpack.
Since he’s stuck on a ship,
he left the captain no tip.
His behaviour is appalling,
he should just be left there;
but then he wouldn’t stop telling
people about Shakespeare’s made-up pair.
An azure-blue sky
so bright, shining.
The sun set into it,
like a gem,
a glowing amber,
radiating heat,
radiating life.
And the bumblebees bumble by bushes
looking lost.
But this is what we think.
With our big societies,
rich civilisations, think.
A glimpse of a bright car
on the road
a van, flashing lights.
Oh no, I think.
Not again.
Not here.
Screeching suddenly, it stops.
Suited-up silhouettes sprinting.
A rush,
a deathly urgency.
Life is in slow motion
now even more so
like pressing ‘rewind’
on a remote with no batteries.
A person, on a stretcher
comes out.
The masks and gloves
slam doors
and all of it
is over.
As quickly as it began.
That’s life
or what remains of it
under quarantine.
I’m not tired
I’m wide awake.
With eyes bulging
and adrenaline rushing
sleep is no option to make.
I’d go flying,
But I have no plane
I’d start reading
But the sentences are too long.
I’m sitting,
not lying down.
Upright, back straight
or that’s what I think.
Glancing at the downy duvet,
the plump pillows,
the mellow mattress
I reflect.
Is this what I want?
To melt into its supple embrace?
But I’m not tired!
I won’t sleep.
I’ll conquer the world
become President
or an astronaut!
Tomorrow.