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Virus

The sun is shining
But lying a fate that awaits
for some of us.
An insipid virus waits
Ready to pounce
Unannounced.
Some will survive
Some will not
We do not know
if this is our lot.
In the meantime
The sun is shining

Barbara Wright


(photo credit: Daniel J. Schwarz via Unsplash)

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

‘R’ You Saving The World?

Some of us R trying: Recyclers, re-users and repairers; riders of bicycles and rev-ers of electric cars; reducers of emissions with bio-mass boilers, roof solar panels, and residents who use them, really sustainable developers,         with rainfall harvesters and run-off tanks; regular givers and those who limit usage of finite resources; radical learners who know what’s safe, not toxic nor wasteful; radiant fashionistas in natural fabrics, not man-made rayons; rich beauties who never use micro-beads in ‘products’; radgie gadgies who put their newspapers into the blue sulo; ruddy faced growers of organics who reject chemicals; reflective designers of biodegradables who create wrappings      and rubbish that rots rapidly; religious genetic engineers who’ve worked out the ethics; researchers who grow food with hydroponics; readable writers who explain global warming,      so oRdinaRy people understand; realistic politicians (The Green Party)      who plan for the planet not just for no
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Wind Rush

With wind rushing through the reeds I close my eyes I feel the breeze on my cheeks and take a deep breath in. I hear the grebe calling across the water. I breathe out deeply; The warm day has brought spring birds whistling from their canopies. I open my eyes I smell the freshness through my nostrils. The swan glides past smoothly, unaware of myself. The comfort of nature surrounds me.  Melanie  
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The Pandemic

Unprecedented Unprecedented Unprecedented Present distress repeated, repeated recent disease breathed present unprecedented, sent in coughs. Cough, cough, cough. This disease sent on the air. Cough, cough, cough. Unprecedented present breathed in unprecedented disease breathed out unprecedented hand-washing unprecedented deaths dent the present. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe out. Dented breathing. Cough. Present deaths unprecedented. Enough. Too many deaths. Too many people. Too many families. This time Covid19. Another SARS disease present. Unprecedented but not unexpected 2020. Sue  Foster
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White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
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Nobody Knows- Tribute to a dead acquaintance

Nobody knows Sat alone in the field Seasoned, and twisted corn stalks. Nobody knows my hidden thoughts Reaching the heights, Fortitude amongst thieves. Nobody knows against a backdrop of August heat, an Unplanned lesson. Nobody knows. Graeme
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Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke
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Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
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Insect Playground

Hidey holes and pockets of flowers Silhouetted with a lonely crow, watchful of artists. A jumble sale of geology, thoughts, and passers by; A granulated sugar platform Of sandy grains and apple pie. Abbey Tales Group  Poem
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Dunwich Heath Cliff

Beachen sand, coastal gravel Heave and spew with every wave Are fixed above my head Banks of sand, clots of gravel Two million-years adrift Are rolling at my feet Same old, same old Dunwich Cliff, Dunwich Beach: The poetry of sediment remains Tim
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