Together apART: Creating During COVID Poems & Prose Booklet by ArtsWestchester

Poems, Prose, and more Exhibition On View: May 7 – August 1, 2021

TA B L E O F C EMILY ANDERSON Turning 20 in 2020 Blog post

MARY O’KEEFE BRADY A Gust of Air, A Gulp of Breath Entertainment in the Time of Covid Poems

LORETTA BUTLER

A New Yorker's Perspective on Life During a Pandemic Essay

SANDE CHEN Dear Daughter Essay

THE COMMUNITY WRITING PROJECT JOURNAL,

Co-Edited by Golda Solomon & Jacqueline Reason • Deborah Maier Calendula Rising • Sheila Benedis The Lotus Home • Christopha Moreland Royal Could Not Find My Tears • Nakeisha Cantzlaar The Rage Prompt • Golda Soloman Colors of Rage • Russell Evans We’re all NASA Shallows • Arlene Eulalia Quiyou Children Wrap in Silver • Jacqui Reason Photographs • Nora Freeman My Father’s Magic • Debbie Dolan Losing My Father • Kumi Owusu Kumi’s Home

ONTENTS ROBIN DELLABOUGH

ELLIE MINKOVE

GEORGETTE GOUVEIA

SERENA NORR

RAYMOND FRANKLIN

SHOBHA VANCHISWAR

HEATHER MILLER

PATRICIA WHITE

HEATHER MILLER

JAMES K. ZIMMERMAN

Poems for a Pandemic Poems

The Glass Door Short Story

Old Magic in the Time of a Pandemic Short Story

The Chosen Mama! Africa! Looking Back Forward Stand By Poems

We Can’t Catch A Breath Prose

March 3 Poem

Zoom Like No One is Watching Short Play

A Quartet For The Pandemic Poems

The Virus Maria Coming End Rock Hands Poems

Three Corona Poems Poems

EMILY ANDERSON

Turning 20 in 2020, August 2020 Blog post

From the Artist: On August 31, 2020 I completed my 20th year of life. I had recently rented my first apartment in Bronxville, NY and returned from Florida to the life I had created for myself while in college. My birthday fell within the first week of my return, so I made plans to celebrate in the safest way possible. Turning 20 was already a big milestone for me, so I reflected back on all of my accomplishments up to that point along with all the places I had been, people I had met, and memories I had made. Over the summer, I began a blog where I posted ramblings of my quarantine life, so this piece felt fitting to include as a blog post. I was not the only person experiencing quarantine birthdays but the emotions that this birthday brought up felt like something that needed to be shared. One elderly woman from my hometown had a particular affinity for my blog writing and this piece specifically. This was the last blog post I made. She passed away due to complications of Covid-19 a few months later.

I celebrated my 20th birthday with a dinner at a quaint Thai restaurant in Queens, New York... in a pandemic. My cousin, her partner, my roommate, a friend who lives in Queens, and I were the only attendees of the grand celebration of my transition (and the world’s) into the next decade. Turning 20 in 2020 felt bizarre. I was not surrounded by all of my college friends, going out for a night in NYC was not an option, and masks covered the makeup I spent an hour doing. At dinner, I was asked what my goals for the next decade would be and I found it difficult to answer. All of my goals hinged on the cease of the rampant spread of Covid-19. I want to travel the world. I want to visit my friends' homes in Vienna, Abu Dhabi, Syria, Kenya, Dubai, Texas, New Jersey, California, and many other places I have not yet received the chance to experience. I want to live in New York City and begin a career doing... I don’t even know what. In the words of Mario, a friend who attended the dinner, “I want to fall, and get up, and fly and then fall again.” I want to follow my passions. My 20’s are supposed to be all about exploration, breaking out of societal norms, not living up to expectations, going on adventures, creating a life for myself. I never expected the world, when I turned 20, to look like this. Amidst the uncertainty I found myself pondering on, not only my expectations for the coming years, but also the key moments of my past. Memories from the last ten years of my life came flooding back. What was the impact that I had on the people around me? Was there any at all? Do others cherish memories of me like I cherish memories of them? I posted an Instagram story with the prompt: favorite memory you have of/with me, and I was elated by the responses I received. My closest friends responded with precious memories: Freshman year of college going shopping at Target for christmas decorations for our tiny shoe box of a dorm room, a night spent on a rooftop in Brooklyn staring at the skyline and the stars trying not to freeze from the frigid February air, cleaning while listening to country music, spontaneous ski trips, going to concerts together, matching Halloween costumes, travelling to Hawaii, doing homework together or just simply complaining about the professor, strange parties that ended up being incredible nights, road trip shenanigans, spring break, my hugs. I have so many beautiful memories with so many beautiful people and for this I feel an abundance of gratitude.

When I read the responses submitted through my Instagram story I was overwhelmed by the amount of people who had favorite memories with me and I was saddened by those I have favorite memories with who did not see it necessary to respond. “May the bridges you’ve burned light the way” was written on a set of shot glasses sitting in a Bronxville shop window my roommate and I passed on our walk into town to retrieve birthday cupcakes. The perfect reminder. The people who I am not taking with me into the next chapter of my life are incredibly special to my story. They have been my guidance. They pushed me to become the person I am. They inspired me to dream big dreams, and then achieve them. Turning 20 feels like what I imagine a plant to feel like when it breaks through soil. Roots have been planted, nutrients have been received, but breaking through the soil was painful. Now that I am through, I have to find the sunlight, drink enough water, and grow as tall as I possibly can, spreading vital oxygen and pollen to the rest of those who need it. Contributing to the necessities of life. Burning bridges and continuing to move on to bigger and better things. The last decade of my life was an immense period of growth. I completed middle school, graduated high school, and concluded my first two years of college. I completed the bulk of my standard educational years yet, there is so much left for me to learn. I travelled to Hawaii, Spain, England, Colorado, France, The Florida Keys, Rome, Wisconsin, and many more places and still there is so much left for me to see. The same friends who responded to my prompt of favorite memories described me as: determined, caring, adventurous, inspiring, courageous, independent, radiant, strong, passionate, kind, beautiful, creative, thoughtful, fearless, fun, loyal, considerate, fiery, stubborn, funny, sporty, mature, openhearted, intelligent, protective, life of the party, unique, talented, smart, lovable, and adorable. These are all characteristics I grew into but there are so many characteristics I will still grow into. In recognizing the growth I have been able to experience, I feel mournful of those who were unable to reach the same milestone that I have. Trayvon Martin was 17 when he was shot and killed. Tamir Rice was 12, Michael Brown was 18. I learned and unlearned about various forms of systemic oppression; standing in solidarity with protestors during the women’s march in 2017, the climate strike in 2019, and today in 2020 with Black Lives Matter, fighting a system determined to remain unchanged. I am heartbroken by the current climate crisis as I continue to obtain knowledge and work towards reducing my own carbon footprint. It shocks me that in 20 years I have been able to grow and learn so much through my own lived experience. I will continue to grow and learn all that I can. Returning back to the question asked to me at my birthday dinner: in the next decade I hope to see an end to police brutality, a cure for Covid-19, a solution for world hunger, equality for all. As I reach this milestone with a heart full of gratitude, there is a tinge of nostalgia accompanying it. What does it mean to no longer be a child? The comfort of naivety slips away as society grabs me with it’s cold firm hands pulling me into my life of servitude. Is it my turn to create this comfort of naivety for others? What are the contributions that I will make to the advancement of the world? I am hopeful for what is to take place by 2030. I invite all of you to ponder over your expectations and desires for the next 10 years of our collective experience. Achieve them. Grow as much as you can. Burn bridges and keep moving forward. So here’s to turning 20, and happy birthday to me.

MARY O’KEEFE BRADY

A Gust of Air, A Gulp of Breath, July 2020 Entertainment in the Time of Covid, July 2020 Poems

From the Artist: For the past year, we have been surrounded by heart-breaking stories of love and loss, lifeaffirming resilience and empathy. The pandemic has forced us to process this new reality—poetry is how I make sense of this world. In the face of all of the profound losses we have suffered, poetry has saved me.

A Gust of Air, A Gulp of Breath

Entertainment in the Time of Covid

My ragged breath comes in starts and leaps— I’m grateful that it comes at all, so I may sleep,

The tree guys came yesterday to cut down a dead tree, prune limbs overhanging the roof, grind down stumps

albeit in staggered starts and leaps. My famished heart pines at all hours (I do not sleep) for sunshine, fine wine; my weary heart pines for company, love left behind, moonshine, any cheap wine, a return to living in kind. Know, my love, left behind I bequeath peace with my final breath. Return to living, be kind to yourself, ever grateful when daybreak comes.

left over from past aggressions, spruce up the spruce, though they’re not all spruce trees. The dead tree had grown quite tall, lost all its leaves, and old man that it was, refused to topple over, but its time was near so the euthanasia experts were called, though it’s not euthanasia if a living thing is already dead. And here we are, homeowners and workers watching the man in the bucket, all of us some degree of dead, waiting for someone or something to cut us down. Careful though they were, the tree guys pulled the electric wires from the side of the house and an electrician had to be called. We watched her too. There was little else to do.

LORETTA BUTLER

A New Yorker’s Perspective on Life During a Pandemic, 2020 Essays

From the Artist: I wrote because I was compelled to, not just to document what was happening but to help me process it. Chronicling the events as they occurred allowed me to see them as they were. By doing so, it made them believable and grounded me in this moment in history. As the facts and science evolved and changed on a weekly basis, there were always new things to absorb and deal with. At home, it became a way of talking it over with someone else - putting words to paper.

Day 33: Initial feelings of fear and panic were combined with hopelessness and a general obsession with watching all things Covid19. Must see TV included Cuomo, Fauci and Birx and the occasional BBC and Sanjay. It was a constant attempt to learn the facts about this virus that was changing the world until the realization came that no one knew all of the facts. This virus kept presenting differently and the more we learned the more we found we didn’t really know it. We witnessed the rules change as no age group was exempt any longer. We were horrified to learn of new symptoms and watched as the list continued to grow. Family conversations happened in boxes over zoom which made it feel even more disconnected then connected. The weather in the northeast didn’t help, with tornado warnings and hail generating even more of an apocalyptic feel. But the hours, days and then weeks passed. We woke up, checked our temperatures and soldiered on. Small victories to be celebrated were food deliveries actually arriving. A good day included a walk and maybe good news from a friend not heard from in a while who was okay. It became real when we put a name or a face with someone diagnosed or who was in the hospital. We watched the death toll grow, checking websites daily, town by town. As the number of obituaries grew, we bought sympathy cards in bulk. Funerals were held on zoom or in processions of cars where people stayed inside passing through cemeteries. Our world that once was big seemed smaller and more vulnerable now. Those of us who had ever questioned if we were doing enough now found comfort in being told to just do our part. We were humbled by nurses and doctors and found ways to show our gratitude. We waited on long lines for food only to find empty shelves and aisles. Our hearts ached for families and friends furloughed or fearing life needing food with no paycheck in sight and we found ways to support each other. We grieved with families saying goodbyes to loved ones over Face Time. We became frugal with food, toiletries and paper goods. Sought after hand sanitizers and lysol wipes were hot commodities exchanged among close friends and family with such gratitude. We sat longer. Human doings became human beings. A good book was a treasure, a chore a welcome relief from empty to do lists. Something was happening in the world much bigger than us that reminded us just how small we were. We the people took on a whole new meaning. Doing nothing was doing something, not just for ourselves but for other people known and unknown to us. Acceptance was forced upon us and it settled in on us as time went by. Conversations began with asking genuine questions like how are you dealing with all of this and are you well or in need of anything? Strangers made eye contact

(cont. on next page)

LORETTA BUTLER

A New Yorker’s Perspective on Life During a Pandemic, 2020 (cont.) Essays

over masks and exchanged silent waves. Those who felt okay today were aware of how fleeting it was and how lucky they were. Life assumed a simpler cadence. Internet kept our careers and work selves focused while filling our days with importance from those lives outside our homes that had once consumed us. And those of us grateful to have children in our daily world found some semblance of reassurance in providing structure and routines for them, and by so doing, ourselves. With no end in sight, we adjusted. Resiliency became a forefront character trait, well needed now. We started asking what comes next, when can we plan, will we ever gather together again. We got restless and ventured out on sunny spring days to walk among others while social distancing. We wondered if this was to be not just the new normal but our life as isolated people living among people. Diagnostic tests, antibody tests and vaccines were talked about daily as lifelines for hope. Any sign of illness became a cause for concern. Virtual doctor appointments became the norm. Through it all, we grieved for those whose lives were lost, quietly supporting each other in the privacy of our own homes. We laughed aloud at the onslaught of jokes making the rounds and tuned in to NY and Jersey showing their strength through music and comedy. Life slowed with the feeling a plane makes when about to make a landing, with engines slowing and movement halting. We gave in to that feeling. We held hands or prayed or meditated and accepted life on life’s terms. With all we have been able to do as a society we continued to be amazed that a virus could bring us to our knees in 2020. Time passed with endless days rolling into the next. We awoke to the spectacular beauty of a New York spring. With it came hope that the shared sacrifices have worked, that the appeal to our better angels will continue and that what comes next will bring with it a better idea of what to do next as we learn to live with the uncertainty. Day 78: Days become weeks, weeks months and time passes only to be acknowledged by the changes in the season. A spectacular New York spring about to become summer adds more space to the life we now lead. The outdoors has become a new living room. We emerge from our homes to strike up conversations more then six feet away from neighbors. We share intimate fears and whisper updates about sick friends from a distant touchless space. Conversations drift back to news updates with shared tidbits of the ever-evolving information about Covid19. All updates are given a time frame to verify their validity. Credence is given to today’s updates, last week’s facts quickly discarded. Sources are questioned and always named (a doctor, a scientist, the CDC). Facts have a shelf life, accurate only for today as the experts are seeing the virus for the first time learning in real time. We watch the states re-open with fear and awe as New York counts down on hospitalizations, intubations, deaths. A post traumatic feeling hangs over the region. The new normal is confusing. Beaches will now open but churches, schools and businesses remain closed. We worry that someone we don’t know there will behave in a way that impacts us all.

Walking with social distancing and masked waves remind us of where we are now. Businesses file for bankruptcy and debates over economic vs. public health concerns happen daily. Food supplies dwindle and new shortages occur. Conversations are dominated by the uncertainties of the future. Can we ever get back in our cars still holding full tanks of gas to go anywhere else? Will doubt be our constant companion? Will we contact trace our friends or relatives before welcoming them into our home? Will the virus come back before we are prepared to protect ourselves and our loved ones? We live with the uncertainty while phrases like “the new normal” become commonplace and we learn to figure it out as we go along. We beat on, accepting life’s new terms (what choice do we have?) while already skipping over this summer to dream of the next. And we hope that the shared sacrifices have worked, that the appeal to our better angels will continue and that what comes will bring with it a better idea of what to do next. Day 110: We now live in this gray area of recovery from the coronavirus. The summer weather offers the illusion of normalcy yet we watch other states’ numbers rising drastically. The tri-state governors have ordered restrictions on travelers from those states and we wonder how it can be enforced. Some beaches, some parks and some pools begin to re-open. Towns get creative in finding spaces for outdoor dining. We walk and see people emerging from their homes who haven’t been seen since March. We all grapple with degrees of re-opening and re-entering our community. We talk openly with friends about social distanced gatherings but are careful to check the weather forecast first before confirming. This is our new normal and we navigate difficult conversations with family and friends to share what we are comfortable with, what contacts we all have and who impacts those decisions. In these murky times, we struggle to follow our own moral compass so we won’t have any regrets on the impact those decisions have made on ourselves or others. There continues to be so much we don’t know about this virus as we watch the age of impact drop suddenly by 15 years. We learn about the airborne effect and search for better quality masks. Summer provides the backdrop for the political battles that rage on and we look to local and state leadership to guide us. Economic concerns vs. public health concerns dominate the news cycle. What had seemed so simple as a way to do our part to protect ourselves and others (wearing a mask and social distancing) has now sparked heated emotional responses. Horrified, we watch images of even this entering the rift of our nation’s political divide. And still, we beat on. We support friends and family and each other through losses of jobs, of loved ones, of milestones celebrated alone. We embrace the quiet and learn to live with the uncertainty of the new future. We rediscover a feeling once lost: hope. Out of pain can come progress. We acknowledge how small we are in this big wide world and now feel the reality of how interconnected we all really are. If history is told by the survivors, let our voices be heard. We the people, together, stepping thoughtfully and gratefully into our new world.

SANDE CHEN

Dear Daughter, July 2020 Essay

From the Artist: I started this personal essay, a letter to my one-year-old, to catalog all the dizzying changes that were occurring outside and inside our home. I wanted to express my fears and relay my personal struggles as a single mother of a toddler during a pandemic. I wanted her to understand my experiences even if no one else did, and even if it were years later. I meant it to be a detailed snapshot of home life during a time of intense isolation. The pandemic and subsequent lockdowns have had a great impact on single working mothers, especially those with young children, and on how these children will grow up and view the world.

Dear Daughter, Your mother started this letter after an especially vivid quarantine dream where you went missing. She awoke with a palpable feeling of loss and when she saw you there sleeping, she wanted to tell you how loved and how wanted you were, despite the challenges. The dream was your mother’s mom-guilt seeping into her subconscious, a way of admitting to herself that she feared not being able to take care of you as you deserved. Sometimes she felt so overwhelmed that she cried along with you during your many tantrums. Life has been upended for both of us during the COVID-19 pandemic. You are no longer a baby who takes long naps, allowing your mother to work and write, but an energetic toddler who misses daily Gymboree classes and music sessions. You can’t run through the hallways or visit the doorman, and there is no sitter to cater to your every whim. Now you only have Mommy, who is too exhausted, who works as a cook, a cleaner, a child minder, and a non-essential worker. Your mother had many fears, the worst of which was that she would keel over and die, and you would starve to death. You couldn’t call 911. You didn’t know how to talk. You couldn’t yet manipulate a doorknob and find your way out. You couldn’t even get off the bed where you co-slept with Mommy, your pink dog Spunky, and various other stuffed animals Your mother worried about the basics. Because you were super picky and ate less than 10 different kinds of foods, your mother would fret, announcing in terror on Facebook that there were only four fish sticks left in the freezer. Later, you stopped eating fish sticks entirely. You drank one brand of almond milk, one that was consistently sold out and nowhere to be found. Your mother would try to stock up on almond milk and your pea milk, but grocery shopping was exceedingly difficult due to long lines, empty shelves, crowded stores, and panic buying. Online stores were no help. They were hopelessly backlogged. Toilet paper, cleaning supplies, frozen vegetables, rice, and shelf-stable milk all became coveted items. Finally, when the freezer held no more chicken nuggets, your mother waited in desperation for more than an hour outside a warehouse store, trying to work and feed you at the same time. You sat in a stroller, wrapped in a rain tarp, temporarily appeased by apple sauce and a bottle. Once inside, your mother didn’t attempt to wield a shopping cart along with the stroller. She wanted to because there was

precious little room under your stroller for purchases but this feat required more dexterity and strength than your mother possessed. Still, your mother persisted, loading two bags onto the handles. Eventually, the stroller fell backwards from too much weight and you screamed. People laughed but they did not help. Guiltily, your mother put back the huge box of much-needed training pants and opted for something else. In these days of dwindling supply, there was only one baby-related item allowed per shopper. Your mother wished she had listened to your grandmother who had advised hoarding hand sanitizer and baby wipes months earlier. Your mother coaxed you to potty train, wean, and sleep in your own bed. They were difficult steps for you to accomplish all at the same time, but were needed due to the national diaper shortage and Mommy’s work schedule. Repeatedly, well-meaning friends told your mother that you were too young to potty train, but you got it instantly, especially after you learned you could get books read out loud to you if you just sat on a potty. You wanted Story Time, Crayon Time, and Bubble Time, but in the absence of those you decided you’d have non-stop Potty/Entertainment time, forcing Mommy to sing nursery rhymes and some Christmas carols too. The songs continued at the sink, where you were delighted to hear Happy Birthday sung to you every time you washed your hands. Later, PinkFong released the modified “Baby Shark” song, making Wash your hands doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo! the toddler’s hand washing anthem. Because you loved music so much, you learned to say the word ‘googol’ regularly before ‘mommy.’ Every morning, you would look up expectantly at the speaker, waiting for your daily blast of nursery rhymes, “Baby Shark”, and Disney tunes. You danced to the music and learned to twirl. You learned to put on hats and socks. You fought over the cell phone, laptop, and iPad bitterly and, along with your koala, even video-bombed a panel on emergent narrative. Your mother is just grateful she was able to push the mute button before the play firetruck wailed its siren and started singing. Now, whenever you see talking heads on a video screen, you wave and get annoyed if no one waves back. Eventually, with no better alternatives, your mother, with the help of Guided Access, ceded control of the iPad Pro to you. In doing so, she learned that all the YouTube songs she thought you loved because you would shriek so loudly when you heard them, you actually loathe. Using the controls, you skipped over those tunes as quickly as you could and found your own favorites. She learned that although you sing along with made-up words, you can communicate with more than 45 baby signs. She saw you prop up the iPad and teach yourself the Baby Shark dance. Then, being the mischievous imp that you are, you attempted to sign Mommy up for YouTube Premium, even getting past password creation and linking up Mommy’s PayPal account. Despite her misgivings and the tiresome midnight excursions to bathe and clean while you slept, your mother learned to celebrate each day with you. Would she have learned so much about you if she hadn’t been with you, day in and day out, during this entire time? The world outside changed irrevocably and so did you, at a seemingly rapid pace. In a matter of weeks, your incoherent babble became understandable words. You adapted and grew. These weeks seemed interminable at the time, but they passed like a blink of an eye in retrospect. You will not remember this year, your mother knows, but years from now you will read this letter and see it as a record of your resilience and society’s resilience, too, during these difficult times.

THE COMMUNITY WRITING PROJECT JOURNAL Co-Editors: golda Solomon & Jacqueline Reason Archived at Blue Door Art Center Yonkers, N.Y. 8” x 11”, Fall 2020

From the Artist: The Community Writing Project (TCWP) began as a non-judgmental forum for writers and artists to share and connect with each other during the global pandemic. These virtual workshops have grown organically into impassioned discourse and discussion from writers of all levels. TCWP has taken on a new life energy in the form of an online journal. The redesigned layout is a compilation of works submitted by Yonkers residents along with neighboring and global communities of writers, who span from teens to seniors. Writers submit drafts in progress generated in workshops. Contributors give permission to gently edit and/or excerpt original works for the purpose of publication. Interested participants are encouraged to join us monthly on second Saturdays with ArtSpeak/From Page to Performance. These workshops are partially funded by Poets & Writers. Allow me to thank Co-Editor Jacqui Reason, memoirist and playwright, Artistic Director Russell Evans, Technical Specialist and, Communications Liaison Karim Ahmed and Director Blue Door Art Center Michele Amaro who nurtured and supported this project from its inception and hosts it on https://bluedoorartcenter.org.

Calendula Rising

Children Wrap in Silver

Your outside’s pure dark layers pushing through fogs of ego tiny fistful of winey feathers.

No more borders Yet my island fringe in palms Pulls me I see the waves ripple, softly on the page.

Deborah Maier

You’ll open soon to a bright bed for any creature needing your succor, spokes of gold round a blackish red hub. Elegant you are, healing and edible unexamined, you’re a child’s simple petulance. But your fondest wish is to love. When your petals revert, this time dry rust, you hate yourself, your paltry run of glory. O self-seeder, you’ll be back. Maybe not where you were planted, but where there’s a loam of interrelation, regard raked in deep.

Arlene Eulalia Quiyou

Bright flora lines my path Scarlet flamingos strut on soft ice I offer salutation to the sky Rain bathes me In my adopted home my Trini-American heart hurts I plea No more barriers with children wrapped in silver

We’re all NASA Russell Evans

A visual poem focusing on the idea of separation and closeness as life was observed from the International Space Station webcam until the camera eye reached end of life in June 2020.

90cm x 80cm. Indian ink on paper

Photographs Jacqui Reason

I’ve never been much on photographs When I was young and even now in my vintage years I am hard to see But in the days, I envision my image head thrown back mouth wide open heart covered in joy I came up in a day where children were taught be seen, not heard I have lived long enough to like the way I look and the multiplicity of my words I lift my head and celebrate the beauty of mi boca grande the sound of laughter in my throat and the sienna of my skin

Cold Not Find My Tears Christopha Moreland

Imprisoned, congealed in bitterness forming a cave within Abandoned, withered in some parched unknown place Perhaps they died a howling death or simply languished in disuse. Not so Betrayal’s keen edge, icy with surgeon’s precision Slicing deep to the edge of perception flooding intent with stark numbness And no healing tears

(cont. on next page)

THE COMMUNITY WRITING PROJECT JOURNAL Co-Editors: golda Solomon & Jacqueline Reason (cont.) Archived at Blue Door Art Center Yonkers, N.Y. 8” x 11”

Colors of Rage Golda Solomon

Only one color for Sallie Bussie then In my Crayola box - it was black Not the beautiful brown of her skin My elementary friend passed Her tone would represent now Colors of the World Her hue acknowledged

Cuba #3 collage. Golda Solomon

Shallows

Russell Evans breathe if I can under the river in the ripples dragonflies a mute child a toy boat where stones drop in moonmotion bubbles rise like lemonade I drink the river I learn to I can I learn to drink the water the waves the seeping one swallow at a time river of furniture trucks iceboxes rope shoes the problem is in the middle the antibaptism of surfacing no longer breathing water stopped on top of mountains church steeples geese grey beaks drag me up weeping under the waves is to breathe like fish no mouth no more no death no more still alive I dive

Royal

The Rage Prompt

Rough, brown, hairy skin belies the existence of the treat within Sliced in two, the plump oval reveals pale sweet flesh punctuated with circular patterns of diminutive black flecks. Each cut surface of the golden kiwi, a mirror image of its mate.

You are not what they expect of an angry person Oh! They don’t know you have control lo and behold controlled anger is not the anger they can attack when it comes planned, precise and ten times fold! tired you are neutral you keep when you are right anger that blows your mind upsets your plans and goals not allowing it to impose on your soul Tired you are! Careful they should be! for if they continue You will have no mercy

Christopha Moreland

Mellow, citrus flavored liquid oozes over fingers scooping spoonfuls dripping onto the dish assembled below saffron-tinted diced papaya, tart, juicy chunks of yellow pineapple silken slices of golden orange mango perfectly ripened honeydew gives an incense-like aroma succulent sacrifices on the dessert menu of the Ancient Gods

My Father’s Magic Nora Freeman

In high school I signed up for an elective. Photography. I chose it because it fit my schedule, but I never really connected with it. Soon, my father became the student. He’d never shown any interest in photography but wanted to help me. He read up on it and tried to get me engaged. But I was young and stubborn -- leading a horse to water and all that. He made an old bathroom we never used his darkroom. My dad’s attic darkroom became a special place in our house: big trays filled with gallons of mysterious liquid, a persistent vinegary aroma, an enlarger that resembled a microscope, photos spread out, drying above an old bathtub with claw feet. The photographs became part of the magic my father made. I remember him in the room. Long after the class was over, he pursued his own path without me. Photography was something I blundered him into. He bought better cameras, taking photos of family, friends, random moments that appealed to him and many, many nature scenes. There was a whole wall in the house covered with his photos. He entered local contests and won, none as special as the memories of my father.

Nakeisha Cantzlaar

The Lotus

Shiela Benedis Roots buried in mud Stalks and leaves emerge From deep within the dark, still water Stretch outward High in the air Toward the light Soak up the sun Inner strength Lotus flowers appear Exhilaration Seed pods ripen End down Return to the muddy depths Light to dark reflects the cycle Transforming imperfect to beautiful Connecting heaven to earth Positive energy to healing Slow, smooth, soft, serene Perfectly imperfect (cont. on next page)

THE COMMUNITY WRITING PROJECT JOURNAL Co-Editors: golda Solomon & Jacqueline Reason (cont.) Archived at Blue Door Art Center Yonkers, N.Y. 8” x 11” Losing My Father Debbi Dolan

Losing my father, my rock, my anchor My father, third son of Polish immigrants figured out his life and took chances nearly drowned in the Connecticut River hitchhiked to see the Boston Red Sox wrote to my mother on a dare survived friendly fire in the Air Force Photo: Debbi Dolan

Home

Sheila Benedis Home is my identity as an artist having time and space for creativity no responsibility for my husband lost in exploration like a meditation not a hobby not an impersonator not making money my reward is satisfaction a true accomplishment

My father, who would do anything for any of us rescued us from the projects and a cold-water flat My father who worked three jobs provided vacations at the Jersey shore showed us how to fish and body surf My father, fiercely devoted to my mother made it to the nursing home with a walker to be by her side from morning till night My father, a part of my whole who guided my life choices in his dying days called my life a success Those words sustain me and help me bear the loss My father, who showed me how one dies with dignity in gratitude for a good life Come, celebrate with me my profound, good fortune to have had this man as my father

Kumi’s Home Kumi Owusu

(Marcus John plays guitar to Maxwell’s Bad Habits first verse) I am in pursuit of my home, of my peace, my humble abode Mi casa es su casa for my friends

except the boogie down Bronx? where you see black bodies fight to go away My home will be my protest, my heart in art A place so me you’ll have to call it by name

Foes who intend to lend their dirtied hands will never reach me there

Aunty Kumi’s House

Will never see me Carefree in my constructed heaven on earth

We’ll pray and be grateful that we found each other

I want what Golda has with the Hudson how it reminds her of everything she loves

That we are welcomed in one another’s home

I want to love my setting as she loves hers

To actively participate in love as we should

I want to love not where I lay my head but where my bed is able to live its very eventful life

We’ll thank God for painting us beautiful paradises in progress

I want my walls to speak

Just bring yourself as a housewarming gift

You are loved Born Ghanaian American has taught me to be human to cradle all my insecurities as my identity I never have to fold never have to shrink myself at home Jacqui was always a girl from the Bronx I guess I’ve always been too Always destined to be built this way Where else could I have been born

The glow of loved ones is what keeps the lights on 2020 picked us up in a helicopter and dropped us off Wherever we may have fallen home is not only the destination but the journey If you don’t see me don’t worry I am on my way home

ROBIN DELLABOUGH

Poems for a Pandemic, March 2020- Jan. 2021 Poems

From the Artist: As the pandemic began last March and we suddenly had to shelter in place, I was struck by how much we had brought this upon ourselves. I’ve always been a poet, so the obvious way for me to express my grief and horror over the situation was to write poems. Over the past year, the three poems in my submission tell the story of both my personal evolution and the pandemic’s course, as we went from shock to acceptance to hope. I know that the process of writing them brought me some serenity via the state of flow I am in when birthing a poem. My wish is that others can identify with the emotions I express and will feel heard and seen. We have truly all been through this together.

Waiting

Spring erased

I knit a blanket for my unborn grandson, like exiled Circe with her loom though I have no potent herbs, no nymphs or naiads to keep me company. I have rabbits by the handful, weed-choked flowers, my body’s constant hum of skin waiting to be touched.

Shelter in place. Antibodies. Oh how we want to hug any body or climb into the lap of anyone’s mother, listening to a false lullaby until it’s all clear.

Hydrangeas flattened by weighty rain will rise in the sun. Grief can only last so long before I am buoyed by a child saying she’s excited for marshmallows and fireworks. We will float together on today until her father comes back. Sitting low in a kayak, my friend and I dip paddles in choppy water, the pleasure of muscles waking up while the day goes to rest. We talk of how to love our daughters from a distance, how to be safe on the river, navigating fishermen, freighters, families. A squirrel chews through my screen to reach its peach reward while the dog jumps out another screen, the leap itself his goal.

We may find each other again the way one leather glove lost in snow reemerges in the spring thaw. (By then you’ve thrown away its mate.) The universe has hit reset: Do it better. Be better. Think beyond your little houses, your one body as you help the earth heal or die. We fucked up. Pandemos or vulgar love.

Flanked In this season of wilt and droop, only the wind seems fully alive. Windows don’t close tightly enough to keep out the fast-descending dark. Without touch, talk is dismal, even the black dog is sluggish as he rummages for gold in muddy ruts. A tasteless half-empty glass of wine stands alone on a shelf while blue-lit faces in little boxes strain to catch tattered half-smiles: holding breath until science mates with faith.

RAYMOND FRANKLIN

Old Magic in the Time of a Pandemic, January 2021 Short Story

From the Artist: Covid-19 has cast a tyrannical blanket of prolonged fear, isolation and confinement over our lives. It is in the small, but profound pleasures of sacred, social and family connections often taken for granted that Covid-19 has harshly imposed its unforgiving fist. As a writer in search of himself for decades, I have been touched by the creative muse from time to time. A number of short stories have been written; but my creative efforts are much like a distant cage with a lovely bird that is greatly admired but rarely reached. My journey as a writer has been dormant and sidelined by the commands of professional obligations and loving family priorities. These are commitments I have fully embraced. Nevertheless, the ‘creative muse’ has been very patiently waiting, and at times forgotten, until now. While attempting to give meaning and purpose to life in this time of crisis, that muse has finally beckoned me. In this landscape of confinement and self-imposed reflection, I have coped by embracing, for better or worse, the creative vein being offered in who I am. From the ashes of the Covid virus rises a rediscovered creative outlet. “Old Magic in the Time of a Pandemic” is part non-fiction and part fiction. This story portrays a dreary everyday experience during the Covid-19 pandemic – the vaccine line. Within this gloom, an unexpected old magic appears – the reminiscence of a fond memory – that makes the day, for at least a short time, brighter.

Sally and I slowly rode by a long line of dejected-looking individuals who stood listlessly and silently awaiting a goal no one really wanted – a Covid virus vaccination. Parking reluctantly, we gave a sigh of defeated surrender as we both exited our car.White Plains was a Westchester County city that had characteristics of a bustling, varied and, to some degree, cosmopolitan place to be. Not today. Today the city was a hollow location – its usual pedestrian parade was anemic and muted. A trickle in every aspect; not the temper and pace of an urban center. Shops, restaurants and places of business that I knew and frequented when I had my law practice here were now mere shells. A number of them were boarded up in the dark, with Covid-19 closure signs posted to their front doors. Those businesses that had owned a busy clip were now barely open. They were now like quiet, isolated islands. The city had only a faint heartbeat. We were here not because we wanted to be here, but because we were the recipients of the nearby clinic’s “vaccination sweepstakes,” i.e. we had received a date and time for our vaccination shots. This was our lot in the time of the Covid pandemic. We joined the end of the non-pulsed line and gloomily awaited our turn. Fairly quickly, the line behind us grew. A couple around our age came to stand behind us. Actually, there was a small relief to the sullen line when the gentleman behind us greeted us with a fresh cheery smile: “What a slough this is; but, where are the two of you from? We looked over our shoulders and smiled back. “Yorktown. We’re Sally and Ray. What about you guys?” “Hi, I’m Frank. This is my wife, Christine.” We turned fully around to greet them and give Covid-style fist-bumps. Instantly, Christine appeared very, very remotely familiar; but, I couldn’t place an if, when or where. Frank inquired, “Have the two of you always lived around here?” “We moved up here in the early ’90s from the City. How about you?” “Not originally. We were both raised and lived in New Jersey but my job transferred me to Bronxville (cont. on next page)

RAYMOND FRANKLIN

Old Magic in the Time of a Pandemic, January 2021 (cont.) Short Story

about... oh, twenty years ago at this point. Where in the City were you?” “Sally grew up around East Pelham Parkway in the Bronx. I was raised on the West Side in Manhattan...around 61st and 10th Ave.” Christine quickly cocked her head and looked at me with a puzzled face. Her eyes measured me as she asked: “ Did you go to high school there, too?” Sally chuckled: “This lucky guy went to high school right across the street from where he lived!” Christine’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly. In a detective-like style, direct and to the point, like she was building a case file, she questioned me. Her tone was serious and searching, staccato in nature: “Did you...go to Power Memorial High School? And what years?” Her husband appeared awkward and tried to lighten the mood by smirking. “Hey Christine, what are you grilling the guy for?” Sally and Frank steadied their eyes on me. “It’s okay,” I replied smiling: “Yes, yes. I’m a Power Man from 1964-1968 and pretty much loved every minute of it!” Christine interrupted: “Wait, wait, my freshman year was ‘64, too!” We began searching each other in the context of long, long ago. A small but growing curiosity was fueled by a faint vein of awareness. Christine looked to be remembering a distant story. “I lived in Jersey but I actually went to a Power dance once. Their dances were legendary in the area.” Proud of my alma mater, I was anxious to know: “Well, did you enjoy it?” “I remember being so excited – my girlfriends and I planned to go, but the plans fell through. I was so upset, so my dad reluctantly offered to drive me into Manhattan. My parents were worried. My first high school dance, alone, in “The City.” Well, we ended up hitting heavy traffic, got lost and arrived very late. By then, my father was so irritated and made sure I knew that we wouldn’t be staying long because he was waiting in the car... Anyway, I remember walking in to the music, dancing, big crowd...Actually, it was pretty overwhelming. I was shy, so I quickly just ‘wall-flowered’ against the back wall of the gym.” It all clicked like a long ago old magic. Looking over at my wife in surprised disbelief: “Do you remember the story I told you?” Sally had already heard my saga more than once about my first high school dance. She widened her lovely big brown eyes, broadly smiling, and lifted her chin with a nuanced ‘yes’, which told me – “Go ahead and find out.” She leaned over her six-feet-apart marker to nudge Frank and whispered: “I think these two danced together!” Swiftly, Frank turned his head in astonishment and loudly exclaimed: Your kidding me! I know this story!” Laughing, he chortled; “We have front row seats... I can’t believe this.” Our spouses clapped and playfully cheered us on. The encounter was decades ago, but I still had fond memories of that moment. It was like a side plot in a movie: one chance encounter, one dance between shy freshman, and that was it. But the moment stuck with me over the years as a sweet remembrance of an isolated moment in time. Sally had heard the story before. Apparently, so had Frank. And now so had the Covid vaccine line. The mood in the dreary Covid line transformed from muffled grumbling to a lighter landscape of smiles, laughter and nudging expectations. They had been eavesdropping, and now I was aware that they had heard everything.

I stammered: “Your name was Christine. That’s right.” Christine smiled and quipped “Uh huh, still my name.” I hardly hear the quip and continued: “You had short curly blond hair and a black dress, I remembered thinking you were really cute!” Laughing, I agreed “You were alone, leaning against the back gym wall when I spotted you. I took a deep breath jumping into the social pool. It was with very shaky courage that I asked you to dance that night.” “Oh my God,” Christine placed her hands over her mouth as her eyes moistened to the brim. “It is you! You were so nice... very formal, asking me to dance with your hand held out. I think you were nervous like I was... But I remember thinking you were cute, too!” We remembered that our two dances and conversation came to a quick closing when the lights came on and the dance ended. Our recollection was that it was a hasty thank you and goodbye because her father was patiently waiting outside in his car. That we had both achieved the daunting “first dance,” thinking to ask for names, addresses and phone numbers was far beyond our fledging social coming-of-age skills. Instead, I smiled and we promised to see each other at the next dance... Now all these years later here we are. Christine lamented: “I know... I never did get back to Power. My father’s business moved us to South Jersey.” In wonderment, I mused, “It was over 55 years ago and yet we’re reminiscing like it was yesterday!” By this point, our spouses were practically cheering us to dance in a teasing manner. Once upon a time, again. The crowd of somber vaccine-seekers were now laughing, clearly invested in the story, and requesting us to reprise our dance. Sheepishly smiling, I tried to recreate that long-ago moment, asking: “Excuse me, would you kindly dance with me?” Christine curtsied and I, in pantomime, formally took her hand. Both of us paused, laughing as we remembered the name of the song: “The End Of The World” by Skeeter Davis. Someone quickly found it on their phone. We both mimicked the slow-dance stance from six feet apart and swayed back and forth, laughing. We were surrounded by dancing spouses, and our newly found friends of the Covid vaccination line. They were hooting, laughing, dancing and, for a moment, everyone gratefully forgot why they were there. Eventually, we switched dance partners – Sally was in my arms, and Christine in Frank’s, the way it was meant to be. As our group was called in for shots, the party ended. The White Plains police officer who monitored the line tapped the brim of his cap and said “Thanks, you guys made the day for all of us here.” The four of us exchanged numbers so we could get together another time, once the “new normal” we were all searching for is found. Finally, we wished each other well, agreeing that life is good. This cloud-laden day had a damp bite in the air. The pandemic had cast a shroud of wintery despair, disappointment, and personal constraints on our collective bodies and spirits. If only for a couple of minutes on this Covid line, it was a fresh day in spring. This short hiatus of joy challenged the haunting crisis of Covid-19. The message sent was that, from these dark days, a small testament would soon reemerge with the resilience and joy of the human nature – our better selves. Leaving the clinic, we moved toward our parked auto. Arm in arm shielding each other from the fading day, with its cold temperatures and more persistent wind, we hurried back to the warmth of home.

GEORGETTE GOUVEIA The Glass Door, April 2020 Short Story

From the Artist: As a writer who has made her career mostly in nonfiction, I find that fiction offers me an opportunity to consider at a writerly, artistic remove those subjects that would otherwise be too painful. It seemed natural for the pandemic, particularly as I began to dream about dead relatives and had this recurring image of a man and a woman kissing through a glass door but especially as I cycled through denial, defiance, fear, anger, acceptance and resolution finally to compassion. And so, I wrote “The Glass Door,” which was published in a slightly longer form by JMS Books. You can find more of my work at thegamesmenplay.com and jms-books.com.

Mornings were the hardest. Mornings she woke from the dreams of the night – filled as they were with dead relatives and equally dead celebrities – to the dreams of the day, with their fat, chirping birds and lush gardens, devoid of people. She was among the many fortunate ones who worked from home, tucked away in co-ops and condos or, in her case, a two-family house in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn where she hung on to a writing gig with a travel magazine whose offices lay just across the bridge in that borough that lorded it over the others. It might as well have been another universe. And whenever she had to commute from Brooklyn into Manhattan, it really did seem as if it were. But Brooklyn offered her a lovely little slice of heaven in a home she would not have been able to afford on her own, and so she was determined to keep her place and her job and, to that end, stay well. That meant a complete lockdown in yet “another day in paradise.” She meant it ironically as Phil Collins did in his song. There was nothing paradisiacal about the endless sound of sirens and even the defiant blaring of Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “New York, New York.” And yet, there was something Edenic about an almost physically perfect spring. Nature, Aristotle said, abhorred a vacuum and its richness that spring seemed designed to will the world to go on. As did the house itself – actually two conjoined townhouses with a walled garden halved by a rille of water punctuated by arborvitae. This backyard garden – which also contained apple, cherry and plum blossom trees, along with dogwoods, lilacs, daffodils and tulips – seemed to care for itself but was in reality tended by gardeners who showed up and left without a word, paid for by her landlord, the twin townhouses’ owner, who had chosen to remain with his family in Florida – the best of all possible situations for her. “How lucky you are to live in such a house,” one of her envious apartment-dwelling friends said. “At least you can go out and take a walk and be alone.” She hadn’t seen it that way at first. Instead, she missed her glamorous, old way of life – shopping at Bloomie’s; Thursday night dinners with her friends, in which they solved the world’s problems; The Mets, as in the museum and opera house, not the ball club; the City Ballet; the Yankees; tennis – everything. That longing for everything but especially for an ordinary day in which going out didn’t mean you were taking your life in your hands every time you took a breath or failed to concentrate on what you were doing, turned into resentment and resentment into anger. She was, though she hated to admit it, a bit lonesome, too, even though as a writer she had always craved solitude. That was the first week. During the second week, something funny happened. The second week

was easier to bear – thanks to the realization that she was not only getting more work done but she had time for the house, exercise and all those things she always lamented never having time for. By the third week, she was not only content but indeed came to see this as her natural state of being, as if there had never been another world order and never should be. Her home was her fortress, her refuge, her protection. She would not be going back to her One World Trade offices, not if she could help it. She would have to play that card carefully, but play it she would. Her health came first. After all, without her health there was no one to write all those stories and make money, and no one to take care of her. She had learned that lesson at a too-tender age. AT 5, she had already accomplished something that most native New Yorkers never achieved: She had lived in all five boroughs. That was thanks to her mother, a single parent who could never outrun the voices in her head and so kept moving from place to place, often one step ahead of a collection agency and child welfare. When she was old enough, she would tell her classmates that her mother had an important government job. But in truth, she was embarrassed by her, then afraid of her, then just plain contemptuous of her. She lost track of all the times her mother hit her. She lost count of all the times she hit her back, she who was really the parent. She remembered the last time she saw her in a hospice for the homeless – the pleading eyes, the concave chest. Her mother kissed her hand over and over. She let her as she took her last breath. “Well,” she said to the attending nun, “she’s done it at last. She’s finally outrun them.” She herself had done it, too, outrunning her past. Through all the turmoil, she had studied hard, earning scholarships, internships, powerful mentors. She had made it, so much so that she could have a piece of Park Slope. She wasn’t about to give that up for a virus. And so, complete isolation meant only a walk in the walled garden. And the grocery delivery service. At first, it seemed a luxury. She had always liked to pick out produce herself. And she worried that perhaps she was exploiting someone who couldn’t work from home. But then, that person had to earn a living, didn’t he or she? Maybe by not ordering the groceries, she was harming rather than helping society. All this social consciousness was becoming wearing, so she decided to set it aside and take the plunge. She could always go back to doing a kamikaze run to the local store, mask and gloves firmly in place. The first day, she waited and waited for the sound of the truck. She had a tip for the deliveryman – she was sure it wouldn’t be a woman – but didn’t want to tape the envelope to the outside of the storm door that she was never so grateful for until she saw the deliveryman approach it with the bag. Then once he left, she would bring the bag into the hall, removing only the perishables, cleaning them off and putting them in the refrigerator. The rest would wait till the next day. The deliveryman arrived just before 5 p.m. He was a bit younger than she. It was hard to tell as he wore a hoodie, sunglasses, a mask and gloves. Indeed, he could’ve been the Unabomber. Remember how the wanted poster made the Unabomber so handsome with that movie star stubble sprinkling chiseled features? And then it turned out that the real Unabomber looked like a disheveled Kenneth Branagh, so disappointing. But she was getting distracted. The deliveryman was giving her a big thumbs up for the tip and saying something she could make out through the glass and the mask: “Have a good evening. Stay safe.” “You, too,” she said. “See you next week.” After that, she began to look forward to the deliveryman’s visits. Eventually, the hoodie and jeans gave way to a T-shirt and long shorts that revealed a lithe, sinewy physique, although the mask, the shades and the gloves remained fixed. Good man, she thought, greeting him masked as well, although she had begun to dress up, style her hair and do her makeup, and not just for these occasions. By week (cont. on next page)

GEORGETTE GOUVEIA The Glass Door, April 2020 (cont.) Short Story

two, she had already tired of working in her nightgown. If office attire felt foolish – think of all she was saving on dry cleaning as well as the commute, not to mention that morning latte – then something along the lines of fabulous loungewear was in order. She had settled on Capri pants, a Lily Pulitzer tunic and the sandals she had bought last year on a trip to Greece that seemed like another lifetime. Because it was. Then she threw on a fabulous floral print apron that she had bought at one of those country stores in the suburbs so anyone spying her from what she imagined were telescopes in their apartments would know she was working hard and not just dressing for the delivery guy. Which she was. Her efforts were rewarded. “Looking sharp,” he said. “Well, you know, just because we’re in a tough spot doesn’t mean we can afford to let things slide.” “True that,” he said. And just then he whipped off his sunglasses. She thought it was so his green eyes could gaze into her brown ones, but it was really to make sure he had put the correct receipt in her bag. “What’s your name?” she asked boldly. “Devon. Dev. Yours?” “Cara.” “Well, Cara mia, keep up the good work.” “You, too, Dev. You’re out there on the frontlines. Thank you for your service. And take care of yourself.” He had called her Cara mia, my Cara. Cara and Devon. Devon and Cara. They were like one of those couples in Greek mythology that used to crop up regularly in literature but that no one knew anymore – Pyramis and Thisbe, separated by a partition, united by a partition. Soon she began having other kinds of dreams in which their partition, her glass door, became the conduit of their love. He would place his left hand on the door, and she would meet it with her right. “Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,” she thought, echoing Shakespeare’s Juliet. Then they’d kiss through their masks and the door. Enough for their first fantasy date, she thought. But a holy palmers’ kiss would not suffice forever. In the waking dreams that filled the dark of her bedroom, he returned to her glass door, hot and sweaty after a long run – unmasked, ungloved and shirtless. He’d be rewarded for his efforts, she thought as she began to strip her mask away.... He didn’t appear with the groceries the next week, though, or the week after that or the week after that. She knew. She just knew, but she had to ask anyway. “What happened to the other young man who used to deliver the groceries?” she asked the new delivery man as nonchalantly as she could. He hesitated and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “He’s gone, isn’t he? Oh,” she said, and began to weep. “I’m so sorry. I mean forgive me for getting emotional, too. It’s just that he seemed like such a nice young man. I wonder: Is there someone I could

write to? Do you know his last name?” “No, miss, I’m sorry. You’ll have to call the store for that.” But when she did, the phone just rang and rang. She scoured the front page of The New York Times that reprinted the names of all the Americans the paper could find who had died of the virus – a wallpaper of death in 12-point Times New Roman. She never found it and was haunted by the thought that he, only somewhat known to her and others, had died alone and worse, that somehow she was responsible. Had her desire for him, her fantasies of him, killed him? It seemed irrational. Yet there was nothing rational about lust and love. And even less about a virus that seemed at best a medical crapshoot. Had he infected her and others? Should she go to a hospital when she didn’t feel sick and risk realizing what she only feared? Once she recognized that her shortness of breath was nothing more than an anxiety attack, she was freed to act. She wrote a letter to the grocery store and offered up the Mass she watched the following Sunday online for Devon’s soul. She made a donation to a local food bank in his name. That night she had another of her dead relative dreams. In this one, she was staying in a hotel that was actually Grand Central Terminal. She descended a staircase with her mother from her mother’s flower-filled suite upstairs. As she gazed across the way to the ticket windows, which had morphed into the reception desk and concierge, a staffer offered her more flowers. Her mother intercepted them. “Why don’t you let me hold these for you since you’re going out to work?” “Oh, yes, what a good idea,” she said before turning to one of the bellmen and adding, “Would you be able to put these in my room?” And with that she swept out to a bus on a 42nd Street that she had spied through the lobby windows, through the rain, teeming with pedestrians and motorists, teeming with life. When she awoke, she understood just what the dream had meant. Life wasn’t for those who dwelled “upstairs” but for the living down below, and she would not only survive but live. She would venture out into the world once more. She would go back to work and in time to church, to stores and restaurants, to the life she had known, only now changed, in some ways diminished but no less precious. She would visit her mother’s grave often, the dead being the one demographic group the unpredictable, implacable virus had no sway over. She would walk there and talk to her. She would forgive her. She would forgive herself. And she would go on. When next the new delivery man came to the door, she did not open it but instead left the tip in an envelope taped to the inside of the glass door. His desire to drop off the groceries and secure the tip as safely and as quickly might’ve precluded him from noticing her handmade sign– her Dickinsonian letter to the world, as it were – also taped to the door: “We thank you. We love you. We will never forget you.” Nor, she was sure, would he notice that it was sealed on the glass itself by a red lipstick kiss.

HEATHER MILLER

The Chosen, Mama! Africa!, Looking Back Forward, Stand By Poems

From the Artist: George Floyd was murdered and the world changed. My world changed. Shock! Pain! Anger! Tears! Ugly tears. Bawling day and night. My writing changed. It was filled with anger, wanting, hopelessness. I writhe with pain day in and day out. I cried all of June through July. Every Day! It was one of the most, if not the most, difficult time of my life. I was in quarantine. I took social distancing seriously, which meant not being around anyone, much less a crowd of people. I could not march, I could not protest. I was tormented. It broke me down. I did the next best thing. I became an armchair activist. I got bold and found my voice. I made demands for change on organizations I was involved in. I wrote caustic letters. I wrote my first ever poem. Poetry was a writing skill that had always eluded me. The elections of 2020 and the insurrection of January 6th gave fodder for my newly developed skill.

The Chosen June 5, 2020

I told you stand by And the time is now March to the Hill No, run, come strong I’ll meet you there.

Oh my, look what you did You busted, bum-rushed And closed everything down. Proud boys and patriots Wow, you all did me proud.

They stole my win Now give them hell And had the nerve To elect a Black and a Jew This is no time for you to be weak.

They killed but one A martyr we’ll make For now your job’s done Leave now, go home And go with my love.

Wave the flag, the one they hate Fly mine high, I am your king Bring guns and bombs and MAGA hats Tie a noose and make them quake Trash their office and get Pence too.

My face, name and words All over the news This is all my master plan Don’t have to tweet, Post to the book or IG.

Don’t worry ‘bout the law I AM the law You’ll have time To buck and to wild Before I, the law, send in the law.

It can’t get worse Or so they think Two weeks to go, so much to do Just stand by and watch The best is yet to come...

Stand By

January 7, 2021

Ahmaud Arbery, I am sorry Breonna Taylor, I say the same George Floyd, it bears repeating My sorrow, my grief, my pain.

But they misread your ending In death, they made you soar And caused a new beginning We will lament no more.

Don’t know why you were chosen Will never understand why You were the ones all chosen To take our cries up high.

Be gone, you oppressor The death bell knells for sure Your reign of terror is o’er No more, no more, no more.

You did not raise your hands You did not volunteer These never were your plans To leave without a care.

Breonna, Ahmaud and George For us you paid the price As you left, you bore the torch And made the sacrifice.

In a car, at home or jogging You could not catch your breath Because, out there waylaying Were demons dressed in flesh.

George Floyd, I thank you Breonna Taylor, I say the same Ahmaud Arbery, it’s worth repeating To you, I sing my praise.

It was nothing but your Blackness That posed a threat and fear To those who saw your greatness And chose to end it here.

And to all of you our fallen For four hundred years and more Names known and unknown You, too, among the chosen.

Looking Backward Forward December 22,2020

Corona got me chronicling, After knocking me way down. George Floyd had me crying And all was not well with the world. Post-COVID took its own toll, Adding to a haunting sadness.

I kept my job and salary Honed in on writing skill. Saw family every week And friends also on Zoom. Cook more, spend less, save money Read more, made vision board.

As twenty twenty draw nigh, Ten long, long days to go, Can’t wait to say goodbye.` To a year of gloom and doom. But let me pause and take a moment Must count the blessings too.

Made home my sanctuary. Forced to spend more time in it. Decorating for the season, Not done in twenty years. Looking forward to the new year And all the goodness it will bring.

(cont. on next page)

HEATHER MILLER

The Chosen, Mama! Africa!, Looking Back Forward, Stand By (cont.) Poems Mama! Africa! June 13, 2020

In sixteen nineteen, evil men from afar Using wile and lies and gold coins too Stole us from Ghana, Nigeria, Angola and more Our homelands, our people, our everything Oh! Mama! Africa! we cry out for thee.

Yet, two years and six months all that it would take, For freedom’s word to reach Galveston, Texas Where they kept it a secret And continued to reap benefits of free labor. Gave birth to Juneteenth, Black Independence Day

In dungeons on ships, shackled, lying side by side In bile and vomit and excrement, carcasses too Parched and hungry, some died, some lived As days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Oh Mama! Africa! save us, we pray

Tricked us and promised forty acres and mule Sharecropping a ruse to keep us bondage to thee But while some of us thrived, Jim Crow you enact You burned Black Wall Street and massacred us there To remind us that less than a person we were.

From auction blocks, they displayed us like meat, Your evil ancestors, our masters became. Branded and beaten and given new names You took our language, religion, and customs too. Oh! Mama! Africa! they stripped us of you. Dawn up, sun down, we toiled and we slaved In chains, picked cotton, paid nary a cent Used as breeders for children here and o’er there. You raped our women, sold our children, took our dignity. The animals of the field treated better than we. Toussaint in Haiti, the revolution’s begun For us, Nat Turner and others, freedom‘s a coming The lie that’s been told that in one eight six three Lincoln and his proclamation freed the enslaved If truth‘s to be told, ‘twas fear more than he.

For civil rights we fought and wouldn’t back down Through persistence, perseverance, marches, boycotts. Your dogs and your hose, even your batons too Men hooded at night and in suits by daybreak Lynched us on trees, in jobs and banks and real estate. Our progress was too much for you and your ilk You martyred our warriors Malcolm and Martin and Medgar too And found a way to keep the noose ‘round our necks State sanctioned lynching from clansmen in blue. Up to this moment in two o two o. Have you resolved what is it about us you hate? It’s been all of four hundred one years, Don’t you think it’s time you should quit? We come from a people resilient and strong When you took us from Africa, you couldn’t take Africa from us!

HEATHER MILLER

We Can’t Catch a Breath, May 29, 2020 Prose

From the Artist: I contracted COVID-19 during the early onset of the disease. After surviving, I started to write, giving birth to my blog, Heather’s Dawning - Corona Chronicles, my daily thoughts and musings. I found writing to be therapeutic as I quarantined. I posted every day. Some of my pieces were light-hearted, some funny, while others tugged at the heart,and still tug at my heart as I reread them. Amidst all the suffering that people were enduring with being sick, losing loved ones, adjusting to a new normal of being in isolation for months, George Floyd was brutally killed by a police officer, with a knee embedded in his neck, while three others held him down or just looked on. I became an eye witness by video (thanks or no thanks to the recording by a 17 year old) to that most horrific act. George Floyd’s wailing for his mother and that calm, nonchalant look on the murderer’s face are indelibly etched in my mind. I can’t unsee them. Then came the election of 2020 and the Insurrection of January 6th. There hasn’t been much breathing time during the pandemic. But, they all gave material for my writing.

We have been going through a pandemic for 400 years. FOUR HUNDRED YEARS. We have been shackled, whipped, strung up, lynched, dragged, drowned, tarred, burned, gunned down, by chokehold, by knees on neck, and killed in any and every God-forsaken manner, body by body by body, broken, bruised, breathless. Dead. For a traffic stop, for not signaling a turn (Sandra Bland), the ultimate price - death. For selling loose cigarettes (Eric Garner) - death. For triggering your own life alert in your own home (Kenneth Chamberlain, Sr.) - death. For being a twelve year old with a toy gun (Tamir Rice) - death. For going from your own wedding stag party (Sean Bell) - death. For running into your own home (Ramarley Graham) death. For watching television and eating ice cream in your own home (Botham Jean) - death. For laying in your own bed (Breonna Taylor) - death. For allegedly offering a forged instrument (George Floyd) - death. The last will not be the last. Others will come, possibly before the ink on this paper dries and before you read it. The numbers are infinite. All come and will come with death penalties. The killers the same, protected by their uniforms in blue. The crime, being Black. We can’t criticize bad police officers. When we do, we are attacked as being police haters, which speaks a lot about their privilege. Don’t dare say anything about this protected class. When you, the good police officers, don’t call out the bad, you are saying that the bad is as good as the good. For allegedly whistling at a white woman in Money, MS, 14 year old Emmet Till is massacred on August 28, 1955. For worshipping at the 16th Street Baptist Church, Birmingham, AL on September 15, 1963, four little girls are bombed. For accepting a ride from someone he thought he knew well enough, James Bryd is chained to the back of a truck and dragged for 3 miles in Jasper, Texas on June 7, 1998. For having a prayer meeting at the Emmanuel AME Church, Charleston, SC on June 17, 2015, nine are gunned down. For jogging in his neighborhood, Ahmaud Arbery is shot down like an animal on February 23, 2020. The murderers the same, ku klux clan, neo nazi, white supremacists. low, low and low. the lowest. racist bastards all. (lower case used intentionally). For what? Simply living in a Black body.

(cont. on next page)

HEATHER MILLER

We Can’t Catch a Breath, May 29, 2020 (cont.) Prose

The Black body has no value to some and I will dare say to most. When daniel pantaleo choked the air out of Eric Garner on July 17, 2014 and when derek chauvin did the same to George Floyd on May 25, 2020, they did it because they could. And why wouldn’t they? What’s the penalty, if any? The worst that may happen to them is they lose their jobs, but somewhere down the road apiece, other municipalities will hire them. Indictments are like one strand of hair on a fully coiffed head. Prosecutors everywhere and the criminal justice system do not value the Black body. The ku klux clan executioners of Emmet Till were acquitted. It took all of thirty-six years to indict the murderers of those four little girls, even though the murderers were known from the outset. The mass murder of the nine in the church was taken to McDonald’s after he was caught in a manhunt. Why? All he did was kill nine “niggers,” what’s the big deal. The poor boy is hungry. Let’s feed him. Were those the thoughts in those officers’ minds and did they more than likely mouth those words using even more expletives? pantaleo, for his crime, was fired. chauvin and his three cohorts have been fired. Fired, not arrested. What’s to happen to chauvin who is on videotape calmly looking toward the people gathered and staring directly in their cameras, the face of evil, with knee and weight on Mr. Floyd’s neck as he pleaded “I can’t breathe” and called for his mother? It doesn’t matter how many videotapes from how many angles there are, let’s not take any joy in that. Philando Castille had his murder Facebook lived and no indictment. Eric Garner was videotaped as he was mercilessly choked by pantaleo, no indictment. I have no confidence that the criminal justice system will come back with an indictment and less with a conviction. Already, the prosecutor is saying he sees no evidence of a crime. Killing by strangulation, with knees embedded in the neck must be on the books of the Minneapolis Police Department. Who can forget the Rodney King case where the LAPD officers who viciously beat him on March 3, 1993, were acquitted and LA burned? It’s happening in Minneapolis. Peaceful protests have turned to violent outbursts of looting and shooting and burning of buildings. I will never condone violence. Ever. I understand rage. I understand hopelessness. I understand being tired of the same old thing. We know that, historically, rioters and looters are sent in, some paid, to infiltrate and make the situation worse to make us as a people look bad. Instead of attempting to bring calm and care and concern, the only response the leader of the supposedly free world can give is “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,” confirming the ease at which the Black body can be taken down in a barrage of bullets. This is war!

Until the philosophy Which hold one race superior and another inferior Is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned Everywhere is war, me say war That until there’s no longer First class and second class citizens of any nations Until the color of a man’s skin Is of no more significance than the color of his eyes Me say war That until the basic human right Are equally guaranteed to all Without regard to race Dis a war..... Bob Marley Wherever we are! We can’t walk in a park, use the restroom in Starbucks, be an eight year old selling water, stay at an Airbnb, be a Yale student outside your dorm, live in a tony neighborhood, own a business in an upscale office building, barbecue in the park, without someone calling the police. We are not allowed to breathe the same air, live the same life. Even the damn coronavirus is discriminating against us. Blacks are disproportionately affected by COVID-19. We are more likely to be infected, more likely to be placed on a ventilator and more likely to die. We can’t catch a breath from COVID or from the actions of the police and others. The “I can’t breathe,” last breath of Eric Garner, the eerily same as George Floyd, became the rallying cry of Black Lives Matter. Then came others with All Lives Matter and Blue Lives Matter. Your lives have always, in ALL WAYS mattered. Ours haven’t for 400 years. FOUR.HUNDRED.YEARS. Blacks, all of us, are being lynched day in and day out, sucking the air out of us, breath by breath by breath. Update: 5/29/2020, about 2pm, it is reported that derek chauvin was arrested and charged with 3rd degree murder and manslaughter. 8 minute and 46 seconds - how long that POS had his knee on George Floyd’s neck.

ELLIE MINKOVE March 3, March 3, 2020 Poetry, Writing

From the Artist: This is a poem written by a fifteen year old high school freshman girl at SAR High School in Riverdale, NY. It encapsulates her experience on March 3rd, 2020, the day that she and her New Rochelle community went into quarantine.

The day started just like any other, I woke up and said good morning to my mother. I looked at my phone and saw a notification, Today will be a unexpected day of vacation I was ecstatic and delighted I was concerned yet excited I got ready and headed to town I had no clue this was the day that my world would shut down I was out having a lovely day Everything was going my way When all of a sudden arrived something alarming A message that will forever be scarring I would be stuck in quarantine At the time I didn’t know what that would even mean I was flustered and looked around But I still didn’t realize this was the day my world would shut down One by one the pieces started to fit together This disease was a super spreader Our neighborhood was struck We were stuck It started with five days, then seven, then ten It didn’t even matter then One by one the whole world followed The all the cities and towns hollowed Big cities quiet with little sound This is when I realized my world had shut down

Now one year later The virus is no longer our dictator Though it brought lots of bad into our lives As always the love survived Now we have a vaccine The world will once again be seen March 3rd was the day my world shut down But the world has still been able to make a full turn around

SERENA NORR

Zoom Like No One is Watching, April 2020 Short Play

From the Artist: 2020 taught us all to expect the unexpected. When quarantine started in March 2020, I found myself at a loss. Work dried up and there was all this time, but to do what? I felt a pull back to playwriting, which I love but often treated as something that I could only do “on the side.” This project was my foray into writing in the new medium of Zoom theater, trying something weird, bizarre, sad, and I hope funny. The work is meant to showcase the confusion/doubt of this time where we don’t know what’s going on, but long for a way to connect.

CAST OF CHARACTERS DAVID: 35-year-old teacher. HILLY: 37-year-old mom of 5. SETTING: A Zoom meeting somewhere in America TIME: March 2020, 5:40pm (DAVID enters a zoom chat. He adjusts his bowtie and sits up. HILLY enters the chat. She is wearing an oversized t-shirt and her hair is placed in a messy bun. Her video isn’t on.) HILLY (Confused) Helloooo? Is this thing on? Freakin’ technology! DAVID Hi, there, Hilly! It’s me, David! I’m here but I can’t see your face. HILLY Damn it! I hate this shit. (The clicking of the keys are heard for a few beats. Her face finally appears on the screen.) DAVID It’s working now! HILLY I’m such a boob when it comes to technology. None of this stuff comes naturally to me. DAVID It’s not for everyone. So, um...is this your first time? HILLY Clearly! So what do we do now? (cont. on next page)

SERENA NORR

Zoom Like No One is Watching, April 2020 (cont.) Short Play DAVID

Oh, I don’t know. Talk...get to know each other. HILLY Sounds thrilling.You look like your profile picture, you know. DAVID Thank you! HILLY That’s not a good thing. DAVID Oh. Ok. So, umm...tell me more about yourself. HILLY It was pretty much summed up in my bio. Did you even read the damn thing? DAVID Yea, but those things don’t really paint the picture of who we really are. HILLY Not like the two lonely losers we actually are. DAVID Speak for yourself! I’m not a loser, at least I don’t think I am. HILLY But lonely? DAVID Yea, well, life isn’t easy right now. (Beat. He takes a swig of his beer) So, have you done anything fun...while you’ve been at home? HILLY Don’t have time for fun with 5 kids to homeschool. DAVID Kids? HILLY Yea, kids. Is that a problem?

DAVID No. I just didn’t know. So, ummm...how old are they? HILLY 19, 17, 16, 9, and 4. DAVID Wow! That’s a lot of kids. Can you remind me how old you are again? HILLY What? You’re so rude. You should never ask a grown woman how old she is. DAVID Sorry. It’s just...some of those kids are like older...like almost adults. HIILLY That’s what happens when you spend most of your life having children. DAVID You must have your hands full. HILLY I hate that phrase. People who have no idea what the hell to say, say stupid shit like that. DAVID It just sounds...so exhausting. I can barely take care of myself and you have 4 people to deal with. HILLY 6 people. I’m so tired. Every single day. I feel it in my bones. Which is why this is nice...to see other people who don’t want something from me; who aren’t constantly demanding of me. DAVID You must have been young when you started having them. HILLY I was 16 or was it 17. Whatever, it’s all in the past -- I don’t live there anymore. Life’s a bitch. DAVID Or some might say a beach. HILLY What? DAVID Nothing. I’m such an idiot.

(cont. on next page)

SERENA NORR

Zoom Like No One is Watching, April 2020 (cont.) Short Play HILLY

We are all dumdasses. Some of us are better at hiding it. So do you go first or should I? DAVID Go first? HILLY Take off your shirt. DAVID I think you’re confused. HILLY Oh, man, c’mon! We’ve gone through the pleasantries, now it’s time to get down to business. DAVID This date is just like a talk...a get to know you sorta thing. HILLY So you’ve never messed around on a date? DAVID Well, I guess...but this is Zoom and I don’t think you do that here. I don’t even know you. HILLY Dude, I was able to escape for 15 minutes. Anymore than that and they will start looking for me. So if you want to waste our time talking, so be it. DAVID (DAVID loosens his tie and takes a swig of his beer) So...ummm...how long have you been divorced? HILLY You are a fucking idiot. DAVID I’m just curious. HILLY (Takes a sip glass of her drink) I’m not divorced. DAVID What? So why are you on this call?

HILLY I’m getting divorced. I just have to break it to Dave. It’s a process-DAVID Your husband’s name is Dave? Ok - that’s a little weird. HILLY Things are only as weird as you make them out to be. Stop making such a big deal out of nothing. DAVID I guess I’m a “live by the rules” sorta guy. HILLY Yea, and how’s that working out for you? DAVID (Thinks) It’s not. HILLY I feel bad for you. DAVID I could say the same for you. HILLY You could but you really don’t know shit about my life; about my struggles. DAVID And you don’t know shit about mine! I was actually looking for someone real. Someone real to talk to...to maybe even date. HILLY Date?! Wouldn’t that be cute. What’s it like to follow the rules until you are just a shell of a person? Hasn’t this quarantine taught you anything about life. DAVID It’s taught me a lot, actually. My Dad died from it. HILLY Shit. DAVID So I don’t appreciate you telling me I’m a loser or a weirdo or something. I’ve been through a lot. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without him. HILLY Damn, I’m sorry. DAVID And you know the worst part? I didn’t believe in any of this shit when it first started happening. I was (cont. on next page)

SERENA NORR

Zoom Like No One is Watching, April 2020 (cont.) Short Play

still going out and living my life, or whatever you want to call it, until he got it. And even then it didn’t seem real. HILLY None of this seems real. DAVID What if your husband finds out? HILLY He’s barely my husband anymore. He hasn’t been for years. He’s a shell of who he was and I was too but I don’t want to live like that anymore. I still need to be touched, to be kissed, to feel someone’s love. DAVID Maybe we can chat again. HILLY Yea, maybe. DAVID Look, I loosened my tie for you. HILLY Wow, look at you! You’re really living on the edge. DAVID For me, it is. HILLY (HILLY removes her shirt. She is a skimpy-tank) See what I did for you. DAVID Oh, yes. I do. HILLY Dance for me. DAVID What? HILLY Dance! Or is that something you don’t do on Zoom?

DAVID I just...I don’t exactly dance. HILLY Everyone can dance. Just get up and move your body. (HILLY gets up and starts to move. She doesn’t adjust her camera so you only see the lower half of her body dancing) C’mon! Dance with me. (DAVID gets up and adjusts his camera so he can still be seen.) DAVID This is kind of fun. (They dance together; get lost in the moment) Hilly, you have to adjust your camera. I can’t see your face. (HILLY is deep in the dance and doesn’t hear DAVID. He brushes it off and continues to dance.) HILLY There you go. Feel free! You are alive. DAVID I feel amazing! (There is a knock at HILLY’s door. It continues to get louder.) VOICE MOM! I need to use the computer! MOM! C’mon! What are you doing in there? HILLY (Sits back down and puts her shirt back on.) Party’s over. DAVID Oh, no! I’m having so much fun with you. Hilly, I don’t know...I was thinking...Can we do this tomorrow? (HILLY’s Zoom square is black. She left the meeting.) Hilly? Hilly? (DAVID gets up and continues to dance. He realizes his Zoom meeting is still on and leaves the meeting.) THE END.

SHOBHA VANCHISWAR

A Quartet For The Pandemic, March - Sept. 2020 Poems

From the Artist: The Covid experience is not simply the pandemic but it is the socio-economic and racial injustices and inequities that were revealed anew. It is the political landscape of the time. The national economy, the fight for gender parity – so much surfaced in the past year. We had to confront them all. Poetry has always been my form of expression about everything that impacts me and my world. These three poems reflect some of my emotions and thoughts during the Covid experience as it played itself out in our lives. The required separation and isolation felt strange. Being social animals, it is stressful for humans to seek seclusion. But keeping perspective was very important – for me, it gave me a sense of positivity. The poems acknowledges that life is difficult in the present climate of the pandemic, political division etc., but puts it all in context and suggests reason to be optimistic, empathetic and simply do our best.

It’s Come To This (Social distancing) Chappaqua, March 5, 2020

It’s come to this Touch-free society How does it feel? Far never near Self-isolation Inward not out Quarantine Shut-in, shut-out No handshakes No hugs No closeups No high-fives No clasping No kisses No dances No shared drives Anxious and nervous Fearful and tense Nothing is certain Nothing makes sense Stocking and hoarding Shameless and selfish Some are ignorant Many are foolish

To stay at home is not a sacrifice Having no job brings tears to the eyes Empty streets may look sad and bare What it really shows is that we’re people who care Don’t complain and moan about social isolation when there are people fighting - the sick and ones giving salvation Our forefathers were called to fight for freedom We’re only to stay home but we whine of boredom Fix the house clean out the clutter Read those books Get the heart aflutter Plant that garden Move and dance Learn new skills Watch yourself advance There will come the time to return outside To greet the world made better inside To look back at this without shame or regret Knowing we did our part in conquering the threat

How Will You Be ready? Chappaqua, June 25, 2020

When the world reawakens And the wind blows clean When to caress is safe And smiles can be seen How will I be ready? Greet every friend face to face But still measure the days at a slower pace (cont. on next page)

SHOBHA VANCHISWAR

A Quartet For The Pandemic, March - Sept. 2020 (cont.) Poems

How Will You Be ready? (cont.) Chappaqua, June 25, 2020

Engage with community Support, be kind But first, observe, listen with heart and mind Enter concert halls immerse in music again But keep the endowment of avian choirs, drumming rain Work in earnest give the very best But take on less make time to rest Enjoy the demands of quotidian toil But stem the urge to rush and roil Open to ways needing different skills Confident in knowing I never sat still Step boldly forward fight for a cause But keep lessons learned during the pause The time will arrive the world still unsteady But I’ll be raring to go prepared and ready.

The Mask

Chappaqua, August 5, 2020

A piece of fabric Lightweight protection Fragile yet formidable to stop the infection Concealing concerns covering smiles Wearing kindness Covid style So little asked Minimal effort A huge difference small discomfort Decrying the cover angry to be asked has only confirmed the ignorance unmasked Neither a sufferance nor a restriction It’s not the unknowing who cause the friction It’s not a right to harm another This isn’t freedom under threat of smother Science is truth simple and clear To learn the facts no reason to fear Spurning the experts calling them fake shows a level of stupidity so hard to take Let them get sick suffer and cry? for lack of a mask so many will die.

(cont. on next page)

SHOBHA VANCHISWAR

A Quartet For The Pandemic, March - Sept. 2020 (cont.) Poems

Shadow, Shades, Skin September 3, 2020

The past shadows everywhere we go Our shadows go everyplace we know Some see only the shadows Never the person, only the shadow Shades of Jim Crow Color becomes a targeted shade History throws shade Colors what never fades So you think you know who a person is from the color a skin is Like you’ve done the analysis Just to clarify The shadow is not the person Skin covers the person Color is a pigment not a perversion Lift the shade unveil the vision Color blended vision then make your decision.

PATRICIA WHITE

The Virus, Maria, Coming End, Rock Hands Poems

From the Artist: The pandemic simplified and decluttered my soul. Within these months of COVID 19, I see my life’s minutiae for what it is, and I know what I long for, what I have, and what I truly need. Someday took on a new meaning. No one can wait for someday. Now is all we have. There are no guarantees. Fate is fate, and destiny is destiny. The human race shares the same pain, and I celebrate this pain and loss in poetry. I also celebrate the strength I find from the wisdom I’ve gained and love I feel. I honor our pain, our loss, our love, and our hope in these poems. These four poems represent a collection of ideas: death, pain, love, and hope. I do hope others will recognize our connectedness - not the opposite. I humbly share my moments of learning and feeling with you.

The Virus

Maria

I wake insufficient. I wake perplexed trying to find power for the demands of this day.

She was my mother who guarded me.

3/24/20

12/15/20

Tapping my foot in anxious expectation gorging on self-slavery where I have bound myself to worship all that crumbles-

In childhood, when my father yelled, drunk and illogical, she sheltered me in a land of lullabies and listening

A delicate facade appears guaranteed yet insures no one neither Rebel or Fool

When my clothes were too small and I was not noticed

Put your ear to the Earth and hear her heartbeat.} She speaks to us in the bosom of her soil-

She took me to the place of graceful swans and stood by close watching me swing on the branches of the willow tree

Such strength in her rock and cleansing in her waters. Her wind carries in a new breath of wisdom as her fire burns our metals pure.

She was my sister Teaching me Showing me In awe I watched her hands sew (cont. on next page)

PATRICIA WHITE

The Virus, Maria, Coming End, Rock Hands (cont.) Poems

Maria (cont.) and cut stained glass into works of art and mold clay into pottery so fine She was my friend Encouraging me Guiding me Smiling at me Not smiling at me And now, like her flowers, I wait as a seed of Ceres . . . I cannot bloom I will not grow I refuse to blossom Until I hear her call at Spring and return to the bosom of her seed But for now, the willows are to weep And the snow covers deep All is barren in fields of sleep as am I as am I

Rock Hands

1/24/21 (for James)

When you stepped into the desert Your hands were soft The cold wind chafed them And red with clay they turned, split and cracked, then bloody Into calloused armor. Your fingernails caked with Lessons and trials As you walked across the trails of sunrise Into God’s Light Do not let your hands Turn soft, my son! Keep them dirty And coarse And let the Fires’ soot And wisdom’s sage Pulse through your Blood Guiding your Soul every Step of your Journey Fear not! Wherever the wind blows Wherever you rest Wherever you walk Wherever you turn He is within you.

Coming End 12/30/19

Death Lilly lingers about, Nudging memory to wakes past a funeral spray cascading o’er wrinkled embalmed hands, holding Rosary beads-among framed pictures and wet tissues and sighs and cries She lies.

JAMES K. ZIMMERMAN Three Corona Poems, April-May 2020 Poems

From the Artist: These three poems are part of a larger project inspired by the isolation provoked by the pandemic. Solitude both in terms of social isolation and in regard to the hundreds of thousands of Americans who have had to die alone. The aloneness not only of those who lost their lives to COVID, but also of those who are left bereft - bereft by the loss of loved ones, but also by the fact that they could not be there when their loved ones died alone in hospital beds, linked to monitors and suffocating despite intubation. In these poems, I try to capture the loneliness, the distance, and the internal pain brought on by these conditions. Also the attempts to connect, whether through shared walks (in the poem Corona, (November, 2020)), through visiting the graves of loved ones (in Touch), or breaking through barriers to reach a dying loved one despite the prohibitions against taking that very action (in Mel). I contemplate the long-term effects of the pandemic on us as individuals and as a society. Physical scars, scars on the psyche, and scars on the functioning of our nation as a whole. Healing will come, but it will not come easily – expressed in the tentatively hopeful penultimate stanza of the poem Corona (November, 2020) – as we emerge from our “hibernation.”

Touch for TG

Houses with spalling walls gaze upon us, creaky doors askew, decades of memory in rippled windows. Sugar maples too old for taps and spiles strew our path with roots like tangled hanks of rope. Ivy reads the braille of a stone wall. A lone iris – bud still furled – tries not to wither before it flowers. We enter the cemetery, monuments to remember two centuries of mothers, fathers, soldiers, children, and here – among scattered mounds too fresh for headstones – you lie alone. Even now, we cannot touch you to say goodbye.

(cont. on next page)

JAMES K. ZIMMERMAN

Three Corona Poems, April-May 2020 (cont.) Poems

Mel she cannot touch or kiss swaddled as he is in sheets and shields, beeps and tubing sheathed in a sack of memory she covers her face with who he was, her hands with what might have been in the end, his eyes opaque she leans in unmasked to the froth of his last breath whispers her I love you unearthed, her mind is shrieking

Corona

November, 2020

snug in jackets, burrowing hands in gloves, we pass a curved stone wall, finialcapped, two lions at a gate eroded manes and teeth perhaps the entrance to an English garden, you say but there are no lanes laden with lavender or rows of irises no patchwork quilt of roses rising from beds of moss poison ivy tendrils snake their way up the lions’ haunches barren sinews of wisteria drape the wall, veins on the back of an old man’s hands or the path to a portico, you say we imagine a mansion reigned here before condos invaded across the shaded lane it’s so quiet, you say no children play among maples no dogs plead for a walk no one sings from a window only droplets of a vireo’s song, the arid wheeze of a red-tail hawk, liquid arpeggios of a robin like a cemetery, you say cars at the condos in neat rows no one idling in them no one behind the wheel wondering when warmth will rise from hibernation they look like coffins, you say

ABOUT THE

EXHIBITION COVID-19 has profoundly changed the contours of our daily lives. At this time of great loss and physical distancing, many of us have turned to creative outlets to help us cope, express our anguish, and gain agency when we feel helpless. “Together apART: Creating During COVID” features more than 250 works of painting, photography, sculpture, sewing, crafting, songwriting, poetry and other creative activities by 224 artists and community members from throughout the Hudson Valley. All of the exhibited works were made between March 2020 and March 2021.