Blue Teapot

TeapotBlue

I question why I write this poem
of a family relic from a place called home.
The teapot is blue, a Lipton coupon special;
I am caught in the spell of this memory vessel.

You thought of yourself  as “the trunk of the tree.”
The tea leaves are muddled, but not your memory.
Decades have passed since I left you in Chicago.
Your DNA is in my cells, you cast a long shadow.

I imagine your oilcloth, the table where I listened
to yarns of the past while prunes stewed in your kitchen.
How you came of age during the Great Depression –
tales of gangsters, and flappers, and Italian processions.

The World’s Fair of ’32 – a Century of Progress;
Sally Rand’s dance with fans to conceal her undress.
Woven in your remnants are ones of Grandma too;
how she bore twin boys who perished during Spanish flu.

Now a sun shower blooms out my window in Seattle,
as I sip jasmine pearl to soothe the current rattle:
we have a pandemic in our year 2020,
so I sweeten my black tea with extra honey.

Picasso had his blue period and I am having one too.
It seems that 2020 roared in with nary a clue.
While We The People scratch our heads, world leaders obfuscate
fake news abounds, while scientists rush vaccines to inoculate.

Where is our Century of Progress?  Who are we of the digital age?
Are we, as Shakespeare said, just players on the world’s stage?
When will we meet face to face in homes and in community?
The world’s stage seems to shrink as we players gather virtually.

If I were at your oilcloth to share Corona’s madness,
what would be your antidote to this peculiar sadness?
Would you brew me some Darjeeling to comfort and appease?
If you would, I would cross the moon, welcome a wild breeze.

This simple little teapot has triggered these old times;
the Lipton coupon special that you saved for with dimes.
I find it a comfort, I find it a friend, in this year of our plague –
though you may muddle the tea leaves, your tales are seldom vague.

The Wanderer

LaConner-101313-0077

One of the four led an attack,
loosed the yarn from the skein.
Unraveled thus she flew to the woods
to sort her heart from her brain.

Pinesap and toadstools welcomed her home,
in treetops she spotted birds nests.
It was here she need not think too hard,
here where her heart found rest.

Did the four influence this wandering child,
friend of the thing with feathers?
For in the woods is where she sensed hope
a place where she was untethered.

Bat Shit Crazy

MoonCollage

It’s strange and curious to say the least;
Corona is a bat-shit crazy beast.
We mask up for shopping, put gloves on our hands,
to defend from the virus which lurks across lands.

They say the bug emerged from a bat in Wuhan.
It is stealthy, mysterious, but we must carry on.
We are humbled and learning we have no control.
Life’s game board has changed and it’s taking a toll.

Work, school, and fun are unsettled and vague
because of our century’s very first plague.
Stay 6-feet apart from man, woman and child;
go out and seek nature, but don’t get too wild.

Stay in your community, no beach ball games;
you’ll be warned or fined — that would be a shame.
When shopping for groceries, don’t hoard the TP.
Shit-storm or not, please save some for me.

Take a break from world news, bake some bread with your Mom.|
Paint your pet rock, dog, or cat, unless you have qualms.
Just look to the Italians for cheer and solidarity —
they sing and clap from balconies, refusing insularity.

Bad hair days are certain, but don’t give up hope.
Get scissors, watch YouTube, cut your own to cope.
Sun rises, sun sets, light and dark like to play;
tune into earth’s rhythms and treasure your day.