Friendly Advice Based on a Reading of the Gospels

Don't rush Easter. It's a Sunday thing;
And even then, it's rushed a little bit.
The prophecies to which he's said to fit
Claimed the third day; for three you have to wring
Every last bit of Saturday, and swing
A little Friday and a little Sunday. Sit
Today in silence, knowing that he will commit
The harrowing of hell. Tomorrow you can sing
Hallelujah, praise God; but today
Live in the moment, with him in the grave
The rock not yet pulled back. The women cry,
The men wander directionless and say
"What was the point of this?" Don't try to waive
The stretch of time when Jesus meant to die.

All The Devils Are Here

I do not yet feel welcomed into hell;

But that makes sense. It's not that kind of place.

They don't intend to treat or feed me well

So welcome parties are a waste of space.

For some, I might suppose, it would be right

To feast them on their sin-induced descent:

The introverts, who would be put to flight,

Are those for whom the welcome mat is meant.

For those of us who loved our company

Their absence rocks us, as it is intended;

We enter hell despairing lonelily,

Thus mirroring the way all life is ended.

Sisyphus fought forever with a stone

But some of us just fight a death alone.

An Open Letter to My Senator, Chuck Grassley, On The Event of The Pandemic

I hope you realize what you have done

But I don’t think you do. You write me still

As if I trusted you. But anyone

Who paid any attention to you will

Be well aware you earned my lack of trust.

I wrote you—often—with the futile hope

My word would make you (surely something must)

Recognize the sliding slippery slope

Of your hypocrisy. You used to seem

Honest and principled, if still wrong-headed;

But I have found that honesty a dream

The principles only in use when wedded

To power politics. You had your chance

But voted for these deaths well in advance.

Early Child Education

The baby is the hardest part;

I can do nothing any day

But she (and know, this breaks my heart)

As much as I adore to play

Had simply too much energy

And mopes too much when it is spent.

I never meant myself to be

Although I did mean to parent

A stay at home, forever there

Kind of father; she and I

Do better in a burst of care

Than in the grind. But I will try:

It's not my wife's job either. So

In quarantine, that's how things go.

Pandemic

These are the hardest weeks
Until the next come through;
We hope the crisis peaks
But it ascends anew.
Each time we think the worst
Has finally arrived
We find it was the first
Of something longer-lived.
Our very struggle seems
A useless intervention
Like running hard in dreams:
Despite our best intention
Whatever we achieve
The crisis will not leave.

A Form of Social Distance

COVID is an existential threat

To other people. Now I do not mean

I couldn't die. But it will not upset

My way of life as well as my routine

Unless I do, or someone near to me.

I have a house that I can pay for; food

Stored up; some savings; job security.

So all the terror somehow is imbued

With surreal colors, like a late Monet.

I do not go outside. I eat. I sleep.

Existence wanders on from day to day

Despite the quarantine. I rarely weep.

This quarantine may threaten many lives

But warm and sheltered, privilege still thrives.

Social Distancing

Back when the West was won, we huddled close

In sod huts bent against the endless breeze.

Our families were enough; they could engross

All our attention, and they could appease

Our every need. The older taught the young,

The parents handed down what they had learned,

And everything was good enough among

The growing family as the seasons turned.

In those days farms were few and far between.

A neighbor was a good ways down the road--

So, often spoke of, and yet seldom seen--

And strangers never troubled each abode.

But if we won the West, wasn't the point

To not live thus? The time is out of joint.

Caution

Imagine this without the Internet,

Sans telephones, sans everything we use

To stay connected, stave off boredom, set

A limit to the impact of the news

(As well as hear the news itself, of course).

Imagine doing this alone. And then

Remember medicine. Conceive the force

With which plagues hit, and glorify again

The depth of what we've faced. Do not pretend

The world was isolated in the past:

Ships sailed, roads ran from end to end

Of continents. They died. But we can last

If we embrace what we have learned and made

(Though even so we ought to be afraid).

Quarantine

Overreaction now would be ideal;

We would like nothing more than to be told,

Some days or months from now, that many feel

We didn't need to do this. If the old,

The ill, and the infirm are to survive

We need to be aggressive. We may look

Like fools, but know: if they are still alive

It's worth it, even if you think we took

Precautions that weren't needed. We can't know

Until the end what ought to have been done;

All that we can do is try to slow

Progression. And you can't please everyone.

The chance of saving lives must matter more

Than anything, and that's what this is for.

Consideration

The patience you have shown with me

Exceeds the bounds of expectation.

To do so so consistently

Would draw me to infatuation

Were we not, by good luck or sense,

Already bound by deeper ties;

I love you not as consequence

But as a bedrock truth that lies

Down at the core of my foundation.

And so your patience is, I find,

A blessing past remuneration.

In this, as all things, I'm resigned

To be a debtor since, you know,

You own all I could ever owe.