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.

The deadliest day
was the day
they (the ubiquitous enemies)
they
didn’t do it my
way (!)
was the way 
the Occupant
did say
(on an otherwise
now normally anxious day)
when someone
needed to say,
“Stop it! You are
responsible for all
the virus deaths
from the beginning
to this day.”
Oops, that is something
someone did say
today.
It is the courageous
Nancy Pelosi.

A doddering old fool turned to his more youthful but
sometimes just as forgetful bride and asked, “It’s Steve,
right?” “Who?” “Phil’s friend.” “Hmmm. Something
like that.” “Does he call him Steve or Stephen with
a ‘ph’ but pronounced as in an ‘f’ or Steven as in a ‘v’?”
“Got me there.” “I’m going to be embarrassed if it is Joe
or maybe Joseph as in a ‘ph’ but pronounced as if an ‘f’.”
“Well, don’t forget that it could be Josef with an ‘f’ but
pronounced as a ‘v.’” “I suppose we should just ask him.”
“Good idea there, you handsome man with a smaller than
elephant’s size memory. Or should I say, ‘You elephant-
sized man with a memory about as good as that of a dod-
dering old fool’?” So they asked their friend Phil and the
phone answer came back, “Ah…..your sixth sense is working
here: …the man was actually christened STEPHEN JOSEPH (!),
but answers simply to Steve. Another tidbit for the memory
bank.” And so they thought, we will write it down, because,
according to an old Chinese proverb, “The faintest ink is
better than the best memory.” “Now,” the doddering old fool
asked, “was that Josef with an ‘f’ but pronounced as a ‘v’
or Joseph with a ‘ph’ but pronounced as an ‘f’?” To which
his wife wearily responded, “Don’t worry about it, dear. Just
call him Darrell.” “How do you spell that — two r’s and
two l’s or one of each or one r and two l’s or two r’s and
one l? And now I can’t find a pen that works and I’m forget-
ting who we were talking about.” The next day, Phil called
to talk about his friend Daryl. “How do you spell that?” he
asked Phil. “Daryl.” The old codger called to his wife,
“Honey, how would you pronounce D-A-R-Y-L?” “Don’t
even go there.”

It’s a cold, damp, windy day
this overcast pre-May.

The neighbor sits around the fire pit,
a bloody butcher knife off his lap does slip.

He rises and starts to dig
in the pit with a shovel.
What he’s doing is a puzzle.

He digs — making a deep hole and high mound.
Over the next few days,
we’ll have to watch if his wife Sharon

is seen or makes a sound.
And we’ll watch if back in the pit suddenly
goes the mound.