What Was It Shelley Said? ‘Poets are the un-acknowledged legislators of the world.’
‘Thank you poem
Dear Mr. Peckford – thank you for all the legal and political work you’re doing to help keep many of us sane – the last couple of years have been unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life and I’ve experienced a lot over the past 70 years
– I’m a retired English teacher and write a lot of poetry so the pdf of my poem called “Barefoot on Eggshells” is my contribution to the effort – i.e. a way of keeping perspective as well as a way of wishing those of us who are hanging on with such determination a happy summer solstice and the end of a glorious spring even if the world seems on the verge of collapse – as Emile Zola said in Germinal, “Connection is all.”
– to put the poem in context, a friend of mine who also writes sent me a recent book of hers that included a poem called “To the Anti-Vaxxer” Dr. Souse style – I thought, ‘what is she thinking?’ by using such a term – the whole issue of name-calling over the past 2+ years has been so damaging – I responded by writing a series of haikus/senryus that tell a narrative different from the one she has experienced – I used a pen name for my poem that I’ve used before – it felt in keeping with its tone
– I don’t have a lot of hope that things will improve even if the end of the poem sounds hopeful – but it’s in the nature of writing that we can see a different reality even if it feels unreachable
– good luck with the court case in Sept around travel mandates as unconstitutional – and have a good summer – stay well – we need you – Deb Panko
Barefoot on Eggshells
in Canada, Spring 2022
So much name-calling coming from one direction … you hide your face too.
of the names designed for me, I give back to you.
Why this war of words before first robin’s first note greets both day and night?
Feathers knock against
the window pane, settle on two tiny blue eggs.
Each egg has its shell
to rest complete within it
Riverbanks sprout blooms. What message in RNA
are you looking for?
Wars make enemies.
This time they’re invisible. Let me be your moth.
In our global nest war-mongering ghouls work at streamlining designs.
It seems that disease
can be asymptomatic. Masked bandits creep close.
It takes only one munching moth to unravel designer sweaters.
Big Media drives
the ‘vaccine’ war machine, ads unprecedented.
Neighbours are convinced. Bind yourself to ‘sacrifice’. Give your life for theirs.
Stay home. Stay safe. Zoom. Pray at the crossroads. Prophets seed graveyard poppies.
All glorious wars
fade, as do forget-me-nots. What do you expect?
You know already
you’ve lost. We all meet our ghosts eventually.
War gods want you dead
yet will mourn you when you die. Therein lies the lie.
These pop-up verses
are safer, more effective than their ‘common good’.
Your head spins. You sleep. Crack open reason’s cocoon or become enslaved.
Evil preens itself.
Detached from all that breathes deep, it sniffs out your fear.
We are divided.
It’s too late, unless you pluck your name from its plot.
I give back to you
robin, moth, forget-me-not. I’ve learned from poppies.
The name I give you
is the name you gave yourself looking in water.
Don’t you remember? Invisible at first glance, names reveal themselves.
Prophets make profits, build plandemic industries. Billionaires rejoice.
Thunder spawns addicts. Big Pharma’s injuries spike, their message expressed.
The sky is alive.
Birds stream in from far and wide. Do you hear their calls?
In all directions
designs spring up unbidden. Riverbanks chatter.
Dawn’s chorus of notes
has swelled from the first robin to me still writing.
Each fragile shell breaks, brooks impossibilities. You’ll find empty nests.
Ghosts conscript bodies. Breathe in circles fully. Read what will happen next.
go track mating calls. Wings flash without censorship.
block Big Tech penetrations. Cows graze in meadows.
Spring’s immunity over-rides ‘gain-of-function’ man-made pathogens.
Robin chicks have fledged. Children find joy in nature recover beauty.
Peace heals our spirits. Feathered freedoms purify. Gratitude abounds.
in five-seven-five tempo, lays her golden eggs.