Do you remember 2020
When the world was Covid crazy
And those in power
Did everything to fuel the fear
Enrich themselves and ultimately harm billions
And kill tens of millions?
I do. I remember their death cult.
And I clearly remember
It was a time of mass hysteria for willing sheep.
What is the justice
For such a massive lie?
So far nothing,
But I wouldn’t bet my life on that.
(7/29/26)
it is 2082
we have had three pandemics since 2020
the side effects of the latest one are catastrophic
your fingers could disappear
skin could melt from your face
your limbs might stop working
where did this virus come from?
underground labs run by snakes and rats
they hate us the most, right?
Nativity Bandhan
Stranger in a strange city.
Protect yourself.
Wear a mask.
Protect from whom?
One virus makes me foreign.
Unwanted, unnecessary and mean.
Suddenly I am an alien.
In the city alien, familiar city alien.
In my alien country.
An Island within the Country.
Feeling of shame, humiliation.
I realize the remoteness in me.
Muted, starved, exhausted.
My labour is what is wanted,
Not I.
Market-based labour market.
Daily wager, coolies,
Adhoc workers, contractual staff.
Long roads,
Sleeping rails
Killing fields.
Dancing death.
Fear of dying 'here'.
There should be four to carry.
'Why was I born?' feeling.
Blame poverty, blame the city.
Why don't 'they' suffer?
The rustic place which drove me out
builds the bandhan.
I know everyone.
No one will chase me out.
There or not there
I eat something all the time.
My mean labour earns me respect.
All are my bandhan
No man is foreign.
This is my nativity.
Seal the mountains, the peaks, the city—
The little emperor rides waves like in Shanghai Bund.
In the end, the man who loved beauty became a rifle.
Where is the man-made bathing pool atop that mountain?
The princely courage, allies in accord,
Carried martial genes, shamanic rhythms,
Carried cells of herbs and discipline, anti-entropy.
Like Zhang Xianzhong sinking treasure into the Min River—his final aesthetic.
He believed only in genetic revenge,
Mocking blossoms, young girls, and green plums in May.
Some tradition loved empire but mistook beauty.
It collapsed in his beautiful feed for the kingdom.
A sliver of beauty—madness moved in,
A sprite watered by greed,
Denied by earth and the abyss’s breath.
( Poems by Shifeimi
Translated from Chinese by AI with authorial editing and final approval.)
A runaway growth of weeds alongside the road,
greenery gone wild,
a stagnant wilderness unwinding,
seedy leaves scatter
but cannot flee. Dust bowl squalor
chokes down scrawny roots.
A gray sugar rush from speedy cube trucks sprinkles
what wiggle room is left to sweeten ameciated tongues.
You Are
a coffin lid with nails
pulled out, a quake's handrails
the paws releasing snails
a Rorschach of Swiss trails
the comb still stuck in Wales'
hair pounding on my sails
You're you when all else fails
Pandemic is
A Noah's ark
People deadlock.
Pandemic of flesh
Pandemic of internet
Cleanse and seek redress.
Millennia
has passed since
the last time
we met.
In those thousands
of years, our world
has shifted through
immeasurable changes.
Do I remember
the sound of your voice?
How does your face
glow when you smile?
Do you still wear
that coat,
the one that
makes you resemble
a Soviet revolutionary?
Millennia
has passed since
we last drank together.
In those thousands
of years, our tastes
have changed.
Do you now take
your coffee black?
How many shots of
tequila can you handle
before you fall around,
laughing in a gleeful stupor?
Did your bubble tea
order change?
Millennia
has passed since
we were able to embrace.
In those thousands
of years, a hug
has become a threat.
A handshake is
now contraband,
and a kiss
carries with it
a death sentence.
Are you safe?
Are you lonely?
Do you miss me
as much as I miss you?
Millennia
has passed
since friends, family, lovers
were allowed to simply be.
In those thousands
of years, our compromises
have done good to others,
but left ourselves empty.
Graduation
Limbs that quake with nerves
Soon stiffen.
An extended arm, poker straight,
Leads her across the stage
Slowly and gracefully
To the next, unwritten page of her life.
She wields her knowledge
As her writing tool
And begins to jot out the future.
Heartbreak
Love that no longer lingered
In that tired, battle-worn heart,
Was soon replaced by the heaviness
Of dark, wet cement,
Hardening and grounding her.
In that scarred heart,
Love could find new ways to bloom,
Chipping away at the cement
To form some beautiful sculpture.
Pandemic
How much longer?
Fervor is festering within the walls,
Confined in small space,
Gearing up to burst.
Let them out, let them breathe.
The days repeat an endless cycle,
The actions forgotten
In the amnesia of elongated sleep.
How much longer?
Deep breath in,
Deeper breath out.
There are no crowds.
There is nobody.
Crowds are unavoidable:
The ebb and flow of busybodies
Moves with and against you
Like a cluster of active cells.
Deep breath in
Deeper breath out.
Picking skin, exposing pink flesh beneath,
Shakes that won't subside.
Desolate high streets that,
Once upon a time, flourished
With people as their bright green leaves,
Now fall barren and edging death.
Deep breath in,
Deeper breath out.
It's freer now. It's quieter now.
The shakes subside.
Watching dragon's breath billow out
In the middle of an empty car park,
Muttering and humming to oneself
Without fear of being noticed.
Deep breath in,
Deeper breath out.
It's unusual; we all do unusual things
When we feel free.
The nighttime that once seemed frightening
Is now an inviting presence
That envelopes your insecurities
And shadows them from the world.
Deep breath in,
Deeper breath our.
There are no crowds.
There is nobody.
It was as if we received an unwanted grounding from the heavens above.
“No friends, no going out, no leaving the house” they said with a disgruntled gaze.
But what had we done so wrong, so foul, to deserve such a sentencing?
Was the bed not made before we tip-toed out past the guards of midnight?
Did we forget to kiss our partners before they embarked on another Tuesday morning commute?
Or did we talk back to the emotionless big men perched on stale thrones?
Do share with the group,
so sanctity can weasel itself back into place in this mad, mad world.
(Author’s note: This poem is a humorous look at how the pandemic changed our technology, our relationships, and maybe even our spiritual quests.)
God’s on Mute
By Mark D. Stucky
We forgot how to talk
during the pandemic.
Glitches often bedeviled us,
and we erratically conversed.
Technology was cursed
but also godsent.
We had to learn new words
and new meanings of words
when Zoom burst from obscurity
to overnight ubiquity,
helping to (almost) satisfy
our lonely souls inside.
And now I want to Zoom with God,
typing questions in the chat box
because He seems to be on mute
and His camera is turned off.
But I want to see the face of God
and take screen selfies of Him with me
to start a Facebook killer meme
and blow up Instagram and Twitter.
Pray tell where I can find and click
a divine invitation link!
(First published with the title “On Mute” in Bearings Online, 30 Nov. 2022. See also my poems “Missing: God Incarnate,” “The Ascension (with Rewrites),” and “God Around the Corner.”)
(Photo by Chris Montgomery on Unsplash.com.)
A good day into a mood day
Why’s everyone being crude day
The sun is radiant
So what’s with the frown
How did the moods die down
From a happy community
To what happened to unity and the impunity
A small town as a family in disguise
Whatever happened to being allies
This is where it’s all hands on deck to rebuild what was
A pandemic seems to fall under a probable cause
It’s a long road to peace so let's take our time
A beautiful symphony turned into a conflict in the summertime
'The Bearer of Bad News'
All around you lay
The sick and the dying,
Calling out for help
While you go on denying
Unmasking legions
Misleading crowds,
Basically handing them
Their own death shrouds
You are no authority
You are no physician,
Just a man abusing
His mighty position
Responsible for those
The pandemic did kill,
All the while denying
And doing it still
No more ears listen to
The bearer of bad news,
I wouldn't want to be
The wearer of your shoes.
FIRST - ACT I
stragglers,
mad of
pandemic...
introverts,
suffocated and
masked...
we livef
our neuroses
paralyzing...
no antidotes
no shelters...
only poetry in us
comforts like hypnosis
the body and soul
in symbiosis...
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.