Someone once asked, “For whom does the poet write?” and the response “Somewhere somebody is reading one of my poems.” But it’s highly possible that “no one is reading any of [my] poems, right now.” So, I’ll indulge myself.
1. Expand. What’s there to say! The universe gives in abundance.
2. Each year starts as a promise, I remember toasting with a glass full of hope.
3. Things unknown occupy space. No one can tell if it’s the beginning or end of a bad dystopian era.
4. This is NO writer’s retreat, a luxury of space and time. Yet the sun rises despite of everything and birds flutter their wings at my window.
5. Oh, the city! Madness is gallant. Every morn, I take a stroll and bypass the lunatic asylum.
6. A blackboard in my kitchen over spills with disappointments. A virus buildup I’ve been quietly tallying since the start.
7. This is a liminal space filled with anxiety, uncertainty and waiting, waiting, waiting…
8. How many clouds gather for a downpour?
9. Hopping back and forth in different rooms of Zoom is one of the Seven Steps to Accept Change.
10. This— I acknowledge privilege.
11. A friend asks how my family is doing. Family—I choke. For, where do I start? “F.I.N.E.” I respond.
12. We can do nothing. But sit comfortably with grief, for we are left to survive like lilies at the edge of a flooding river.
13. The country is lyric. Every night, I dance to the rhythm in between intro and outro tracks of the year.