Poetry in Lockdown: Part VII

It appeared on a Friday, unannounced.
Swaddled in a green paper towel—the abandoned
bastard of a reckless three-pound meal deal? Royal Gala? Pink Lady?
Its heritage long-lost to a polished floor, stuck to a loafer and trodden across town.

David in finance knew nothing about it.
Nor did Sara in Comms. So it stayed nestled
between the monitor and the in-tray. I thought about eating it,
but I was taught to always be suspicious of a thing without a past.

Conference season came and went.
Its skin had slackened off and it no longer reflected
the white phosphorus light. Brenda just dusted around it
because she never touched people’s possessions and it wasn’t hers to throw away.

Christmas party season arrived.
It looked like one of those creepy shrunken heads by then and
seemed like it might stay like that forever, mummified by the dry air.
We finished up early and went to a Wetherspoons. The head made its excuses and stayed.

It was nearing the end of the financial year.
Catrin brought in lemon drizzle cake for her last day.
We shared an awkward moment and I felt a bit sad, but the head
didn’t seem fazed. It knew that people come and go and the drum beat never stops.

Then everyone left for the weekend and the office closed.
Everyone says working from home is so convenient and you can still stay in touch.
And we can go in on Wednesdays to pick up anything we need,
now that Brenda’s done a deep clean.

- Benjamin Sears

Submitted July 27, 2020

His journey normally starts from autumn
a season of harvest
Romance and affection arise from bottom
a layer of target
He meets her in a winding path full of colourful leaves

Winter comes with the warmness of love
when the snowflakes make the world quiet
She runs on the field with happiness of tears
time stops there striking that mighty white
He hugs her from the back wishing to protect

Like elves usually choose spring to dance
their lives begin to grow fractions
with all the power of our earth
So many deals are betrayed
when yelling covers up the singing of birds
So many nights are mingled
with goodness and foul force

- Fei Wang

Submitted July 2020

No tea dark as treacle, no flurries
of laughter, no children shushed 

and sent out to play, no standing 
in line to go into the room 

where she lies in her Sunday best, 
no rosary beads threading her fingers,

no one to notice she’s thin but still 
the spit of her mother, no one to say 

it’s a mercy she was taken, no stories 
repeated, no spats in the kitchen, 

no bottles of stout or nips of whiskey, 
no slinking outside for a smoke, 

no hands to shake, no one to embrace 
as they take their coats to go home.

-Jane Clarke

Submitted July 31, 2020