Bio Note: On the monthly theme of “lions and lambs,” I offer three poems written in March of last year, right before, and as, everything changed. I didn’t quite enjamb the “lambs” in any of these, but I did get “sheepish.” I still write one story a week for The Boston Globe, post links to poems after publication on Facebook, and blog about Verse-Virtual and other subjects at prosegarden.blogspot.com.
The bluejay calls against the blue and gray sky The winds rage, sending the trash of late winter scudding down the road to find its place in the raspberry patch twisted and filtered and combing its clumsy debris against the locks of hairy stems like the artist cleaning his studio, the writer saying goodbye to all those first drafts I bid goodbye to the winter of mixed engagements empty of old hopes, fleeting praise turn to old songs and look once more for the joy, the seed of contentment, the amalgam of dust within the struggle for the new life the tiny egg inside the greedy jay, pulsing to be born 03.05.20
We're going right to summer All winter freakishly quiet as if someone had put a bag over its mouth and told it, sternly, to calm down, we have other things to think, but will we think them? Winter moped, complained about the food, concluded there was no good place to ski around here, threw up its hands at the prices for cuisine New England featuring last year's lobsters reminiscing, in pink aprons and paper caps, about special times with red tides and blue water ... and left town on the early side Now they're doing for spring No leaves on the trees, and high in the seventies Grown people in shorts pretending they're just back from the Outer Bank, or the jangling Keys, east west or south, or the Inner Self or the inland canalway to great age, in warm and seasonless climes where the blood slows and stare-offs with iguanas pass for conversation OK, ye gods, I can take a day or two of this mixed-up March But do not sell the circus animals quite yet for we may still have need of lions 03.09.20
Sometime Thursday afternoon They canceled the world The trees began disappearing from my neighbor's yard, one by incautious one, forced to stop growing by powers who knew better The cars on the street sheepishly parked in front of neighbors’ houses by those who have too many vehicles for their driveways strangely disappear and, already, I miss them and even the trashy come-ons from those insufficiently contained recycling attempts that blows annoyingly week after week into our yard seem a tender reminder of a past that I hoped would return one day but no one is offering a timetable or a guarantee 03.14.20
©2021 Robert Knox
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