Worn out on MSNBC and
CNN coverage of the virus,
he checked the TV menu
on PBS for the evening:
Killer Storms, Disaster
Flooding. “Say what! Now?
Programs on natural dis-
asters?” He seriously
considered watching the
marathon programming
of NCIS: New Orleans
which has been going
seemingly since  before
COVID-19 landed on
planet earth or maybe
he would try to find
Mary Poppins. “It’s
a metaphor for Jesus,
isn’t it, dear? You know
Mary with the open
umbrella descending
and then ascending?
We need something
uplifting, no pun in-
tended.” “Mary Poppins?
Did you know those
descending/ascending
scenes nearly killed
Julie Andrews?” “Oh,
my, not more bad news.”
“Honey, she survived.”

I sit in the desk chair,
upright, pushed back
a bit from the desk,
legs crossed, feeling
significant in some
sense because of
my posture in this
time of microbes
when feeling sign-
ificant at all is
significant. My elbow
is on the desk; I
rest my chin and
cradle it in my
hand not unlike
Rodin’s Thinker.
I run my index finger
across my pursed
lips, under my nose
and push my glasses
back up the bridge
of my nose. I do the
things that Dr. Fauci
says not to do in this
age of anxiety and
social distancing. It
comes naturally, habit-
ually, to me, this pose,
as I ponder writing a
poem. In a little while,
I will get up and wash
my hands and face be-
fore kissing my wife
and petting the dog and
then I, a somewhat dis-
obedient writer will go
back to the poem. The
dog just came in and
demanded a pet, this
before I had a chance
to wash my hands, but
I did use my other hand.
Still, sorry, Dr. Fauci.

Tomorrow is Earth Day.
I heard the Earth say,
“Humans, at home you should stay,
and keep the CO2 away.
Then on April 22, the air, the animals,
the water and I will breathe more
freely all day.”

I saw a robin yesterday and asked it
how it was doing with the virus;
it flew away.
I saw a chipmunk yesterday and asked it
how it was doing with the virus;
it scooted away.
I saw a squirrel yesterday and asked it
how it was doing with the virus;
looking for a tree to climb, it ran away.
I saw a rabbit yesterday and asked it
how it was doing with the virus;
it hopped away.
I saw the fish in the pond yesterday and asked
how they were doing with the virus;
they swam away.
I saw a snake along the trail yesterday and asked
how the snake was doing with the virus;
it slithered away.
I saw a fox yesterday and asked it
how it was doing with the virus;
it pranced away.
I looked up into the sky yesterday and asked
how the wind was doing with the virus;
it blew away.
I went for a walk along the Big Lake yesterday and asked
how the waves were doing with the virus;
they waved me away.
Neither the robin, chipmunk, squirrel, rabbit, fish,
snake, fox, wind, waves
cared what I may have to say.
Then I felt the warmth of the sun and the sun
did say, “I’m not going anywhere; for you I’m
here to stay.”

Every grade school class has a Frank.
Frank played a lot of pocket pool.
Frank’s dog always ate the homework.
Frank never brushed his teeth.
Every other student shook his or her
Head when it came to Frank and
These were grade school kids.
We had no idea how Frank was going
To graduate and go on to high school.
Frank did. We just shook our heads.
We lost track of Frank and we all went
to the same high school.
It has been years and years since I have
Seen Frank, but I saw him the other day.
Frank is now known as the United States
Of America and we, Frank’s classmates,
Are the other 183 nations who just shake
Our heads in disbelief even though there
Were only 30 students in our class besides
Frank.

The poetry people, those who
send poems daily and weekly
via e-mail, must be aware that
we have quite a bit of time
on our hands because the poems
are getting pretty long, this
even from a former US Poet
Laureate and the present one.
These poets usually send short,
pithy, narrative, free verse
poems they like and hope that
we recipients will too, but
the poems they send are getting
a lot longer, a lot longer, so
long that my scroll down finger
gets cramps. I’ve got the time,
but I’m not a great lover of
long poems even the ones I write
kind of like this one is becom-
ing, so, so long.

What daedal her needle weaves.
What awe her daedal sculpture leaves.

She constructs wings like Daedalus,
But unlike Icarus, her wings don’t fail us.

What daedal her needle weaves.
Her sculpture flies beyond the tops of trees.

While we wander through Minos’ Labyrinth by Daedalus,
Her daedal sculpture finds freedom flying above us.

He read the concluding words
in the note after reading a sum-
mary of an article with the re-
quisite link and he found him-
self getting choked up — really,
after that sign-off line? “Wow,
what a mess. Hang on!” It was
then, with tears in his eyes, he
knew that he, indeed, was hang-
ing on like most other Americans.

*exclamation from an e-mailer
about another outrageous situation

It’s easier to see a hurricane
than the coronavirus.

It’s easier to hear the assault of war
than the coronavirus.

We don’t think of going out
in a hurricane.

We don’t think of going out
while bombs burst.

The economy will come back
after the hurricane passes.

The economy will come back
after the war passes.

The economy will come back
after the deadly coronavirus passes

and we can go out and buy things
without worrying that the hurricane

will lift us up and drop us three
states away and without worrying

that a bomb will drop on our heads
and without worrying that that

which we can’t see will kill us
as fast as the hurricane or war

which we can see and hear.

*comparisons made in a TV interview
with a magazine writer who is also a
university lecturer.

The pastoral theologian
spoke of the heart from

his head: “There our deep-
est thoughts, intuitions,

emotions, and decisions
find their source.” There?

The heart pumps blood.
All of the thoughts intuit-

ions, emotions, and de-
cisions find their source

in the brain, but he is not
speaking literally or scien-

tifically. He is speaking
metaphorically (or maybe

speaking intuitively of
something else yet to be

discovered) of the place
of compassion. That used

to be “the bowels.” So,
maybe the brain has a

heart and the heart has
a brain and, yes, we all

have bowels. Fortunately,
our metaphors are moving

on up from the alimentary
canal to the place where

I pound my fist in grief,
joy, love and heartache.