Mae Armstong When I am Older

When I am Older…

I will not remember the symptoms. I will not remember the dates. I will not remember where or how or when.

I will remember calling my friends when I went for walks every day. I will remember counting out all fourteen days after I left my house. I will remember having to reassure frantic people that “it’s just allergies” whenever I sneezed. I will remember my mom telling her bosses what needed to be done weeks before they listened. I will remember how the Home Depot was closed and all of the construction companies were closed when wooden two-by-fours stood without drywall in the center of my bedroom for months on end. I will remember teaching my nine-year-old brother everything his absent teachers couldn’t. I will remember the three-in-the-morning rations raids that helped my siblings and I connect. I will remember the stress I felt trying to juggle my academics, my job, my family, my friends, and myself from the little desk in the corner of my bedroom.

But above all else, I will remember that “there was no evidence of spread between humans” at the start of 2020.

Laying on of Hands

No pleasure so true as laying hands on the misplaced thing—my purple umbrella peeking out like a slip in the trunk of my son’s Mazda, that was once mine and still wears bumper stickers two elections old: Obama/Biden. Clinton/Kaine. One came true, the other molders among might-have-beens.

No joy so fine as finding three baby pictures of my niece when her parents can’t— the digital files have disappeared— but here she is, squinting at me all pink and damp from squares of a photo album from 2002. Two hours old, I wrote in blotchy ballpoint pen. Eighteen now, a senior who will graduate virtually but not really in this spring of COVID-19. No chairing the best prom ever! Though it would have been— this girl can organize a party. No crossing a stage in high heels, or tossing her cap high while sweating under a cheap gown made of fabric that doesn’t breathe.

We don’t breathe. The virus keeps us spaced apart like atoms of an ever-expanding gas. Hands are for washing, not touching.

When we re-materialize, my daughter, my niece, my misplaced friends— let us lay hands on one another.

It’s a Pandemic

At first, a few whistleblowers here and there Warned the world that continued on Who did not want a big scare And then from China it went beyond

Silently this foe has creeped on us all As the world watches anxiously, To see who is next to fall A fearsome virus, so small but deadly

It’s an infectious disease, That’s consider a respiratory illness Droplets can spread through a cough or sneeze The CDC warned, hoping to spread awareness

COVID-19 starts with fever, And a cough, threatening lung function In serious cases, patients need a ventilator Many patients had past complications

And then cases began to rise On the opposite side of the world, it was discovered It’s worse than the flu, surprise But here it is, we observed

This is now a pandemic, the CDC announced Forcing people to stay at home Left and right, patients have been pronounced Dead on hospital beds, alone

This is why we must take precaution And heed the warnings Rather than continue on with vacations, Because some families are still mourning

Some states have made a stance, Announcing that the people Must practice a thing called social distance Hoping for this curve to cripple

Normal living is put to a stop only essential places are open hospitals, gas stations and shops Are accessible but workers feel burdened

Medical staff begged for proper gear Through social media, the communities and friends Still short-supplied, overworked, and in fear Anything really, masks, PPE, gloves, food, please send

Workers show up every day, Hoping that they’re not exposed Trying to stay safe in any way Possible, so they can protect their household

The order may be hard to follow And easy to ignore our pleas Until it’s you that’s petrified, “I can’t breathe,” And it brings you down to your knees

Everyone is advised To stand 6 feet apart Not to touch their face or rub their eyes Now would be a good time to start

At home please wash your hands Disinfect high touch places And cancel your social plans To lower the number of cases

We must keep hope that we will overcome, Don’t be distraught of the infected numbers and Forget those who have won, A total of three hundred thousand

If anything, this quarantine Has taught us the value of the little things COVID-19 You cannot take from us, everything

Magic

There is no magic in this time of pandemic— no cure, no vaccine no matter how much we want them, need them.

There is only chicanery in the interpretation, in the imagination of those who would blot out sickness by magic.

There is treachery in percentages, hope and gloom in real numbers depending on whose abacus you use and the state of mind.

Yet the virus moves through, capturing men by the lungs, women by the heart, children by the vessels. And some it takes to grave.

Doctors puzzle at apologies and mea culpas, rush to scientists to parse each protein spike, each new symptom, old protocols, no news.

Families puzzle at the hale and hearty who drop like flies, suffer ICU delirium, lungs solidifying on vents, and death…

without a proper goodbye.

Masked mothers puzzle at flocks of revelers storming the ramparts of their local pub at the least news of an opening.

God puzzles at mass graves of the forgot facial recognition masking every face the same, houses of worship supplanted by Matthew 18:20—

“For where two or three gather in my name…” and they still die as if by magic.

50,079 cases, 4,825 deaths today in Michigan Gov. Whitmer stands by May 28 stay-at-home order despite protests 5-15-20

For All Times

Reader—my reader—the answer shall not come in the vagueities of this poem nor the mire of this very oeuvre.

It shall come jejune in the etchings of the fugue of our days—and these days, alone.

It shall come cri de coeur by the night—just as it is written—and it is good.

It shall come with patience, patience— the after of all times is only just forever.

The Story of Us

The story of us gets told over and over. What are we? We're just people wrapped up in identities so twisted that we forget who we are.

Our origins, we flush them down in the part of us that we don't want people to see.

We care deeply about those scrolling, wishing our names were on top of that screen.

We blind ourselves to the possibilities we come across. We get tempted by lust; we want what we can't have; we never appreciate what we have.

We crave the sense of feeling like we belong, yet the demeaning words of other cause us to deny our very existence.

We measure our worth by likes and retweets, but we don't care who we are.

We paint ourselves new personas and act as if we live in a dream.

We hate the demons of reality as we hate the person we choose to be.

We hurt, and we cry behind shut blinds.

Bring light to the dark and the pain goes away.

No,

You need to understand!

Forever inevitable,

It’s where I am!

We feel social media is our way of life,

Our pride,

Our world

Being at Home at Home (Fragmentum)

Since the Governor has rescinded her executive order, we no longer are required to stay at home – although not everything is opening up. However, for several long weeks, many of us have been forced to stay home, and almost everything has been shut down or operating online. Many people have been able to continue working or go to school remotely, yet many people have not been able to work at all because their workplaces have closed. Conversely, many people have been forced to work and work longer, such as doctors, nurses, and essential health care and hospital staff. For myself, since I am in the high-risk category, I have been very careful about staying home. I have gone primarily to one place (except for one necessary trip to one other place) – the grocery store that is almost next door to my house. What else I couldn’t get shipped or delivered, one of my brothers brought to me. Furthermore, I finished my semester online (doing a master’s in Linguistics, as well as finishing a master’s in Literature). Those of us that have been forced to stay at home have been faced with two aspects for handling “sheltering in place” with much of the usual society suspended.

The first aspect has been the practical reality of being at home and figuring out how to do it. People who have been able to work at home, have had to learn to use things like Zoom (remembering to mute when going to the bathroom and choosing proper backgrounds). I have had a fairly easy time. The professors teaching the two courses I took this winter were able, for the most part, to figure out how to switch to an online process. And, I have learned my way around Zoom, etc. Many people have had their children at home and have had to supervise their continued education. Some people have pursued new interests. Of course, many people have had to endure crushing economic hardship.

The second is perhaps a more profound and more difficult aspect –being at home with and within ourselves. Many have found it has worked, finding more things to do and even pursuing more

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creativity. For many this has been almost impossible. They have gone out to demonstrate in front of Michigan’s State House holding guns. Perhaps, forcing us to stay at home and confront ourselves, is part of the reason for the existence of the virus. The Jungian author John Beebe says that Americans are dangerously, even pathologically extroverted. “Most Americans are afraid of being alone for five minutes,” he says. I understand from more than one source that people have predicted this virus. For example, Susan Rowland, who teaches at Pacifica Graduate Institute, indicates that both science and astrology predicted the virus (or something monumental) for this time. Something necessary is going on. This time has given people the opportunity – at least – to deepen their relationship with their inner world. This is vitally needed if this planet is going to continue to exist.

Saltwater

I’m always trying to see the bright side. To stay positive. To accept the situation, And trust that I will be okay. That WE will be okay. People have told me I’m Bubbly, A big yellow sun Sharing a bright light with the world And inspiring others to do the same.

When I was in Laos I kept saying “My cheeks hurt from smiling so big!” And it was true. I felt overwhelming joy And my cheeks carried the weight of it And I never wanted it to end.

The first month I was home I surprised myself. I was at peace. I reminded myself Over and over That this is bigger than me That this is out of my control And all I can do is accept the situation. I took long walks I called friends I read books I smoked weed I watched movies I wrote words I practiced yoga I tried puzzles

I did what I could to pass the time And stay calm.

I didn’t realize how exhausting it is To stay calm. But yesterday my body reminded me. Yesterday, I couldn’t hold back. Tears spilled from my eyes and I was unable to restore the dam in time To slow them down. My nose ran I went through so many tissues My eyes got puffy My throat felt tight My body needed to feel all of the feelings I had been rationalizing. My body needed space to feel The frustration The disappointment The anger The injustice The stress The sadness Of this global pandemic

Every day I am reminded of how lucky I am. Every day I have a roof over my head I have food on my plate I have a dog who makes me smile And a web of people who make me feel loved I am one of the lucky ones And this is still Really. Fucking. Hard.

Yesterday I hit my limit My body asked my brain, Please. Can I have some time to feel this?

Can I have some time to let it out? Can I have some time to not be okay? Please? My brain didn’t have a chance to answer. The dam had already been destroyed And the saltwater flowing from my eyes could not be slowed. Yesterday my body took space to feel.

Today I feel numb. Today I feel tears building in my eyes, but they haven’t spilled. If they do spill, I will not be stopping them. I am giving my body time And space To feel. And once it is ready, I will give it whatever it needs, To heal.

This shit is hard. But I am not alone. You are not alone. We are in this together, No matter how far apart we feel. It is okay to feel pain. It is okay to honor your body and let yourself spill. This too shall pass.

The sun will shine again. The tears will slow, And I will find my light. I will smile big And my cheeks will hurt. I’ll laugh with friends And I’ll see the world.

These things take time. So I’ll give myself time This too shall pass.

Birds and Poets

If the poets of the romantic poetry movement called for a return to nature and the symbol of the bird as peace and beauty, the bird has also another character in the poems that employ the bird as a symbol of freedom from restrictions, and its singing as a symbol of freedom. Moreover, the collective human memory, specifically the Sumerian Babylonian epics, finds the pairing of birds with evil power and the anger of the gods, so you find the thunderbolt Zu and discover that the wings are the context of the heavenly tyranny. However, the bird, with its poetic connotations, takes different dimensions in the poems of the WCC Poetry Club’s meeting held on June 5, 2020. Poets participated in writing poems on the topic of the bird and used it as a poetic tool to express different ideas and visions during the free writing time. Three poems caught my attention, which I will highlight in succession in these lines.

The first poem, “Birds,” by Tom Zimmerman, is narrated through the consciousness of a narrator who appears on the mirrors of the text, bewildered, pondering what is around him, summoning the face of the confused Utnapishtim and his wife during the flood. Notice how Zimmerman writes his poem utilizing the poetic mask, using a dove as a symbolic key to read the poem. In addition, the poetic imagery does not employ the white language of the poem hinge, but rather adopts two long sentences to form the two joints of the poetic text as follows:

The blue jays, finches, wrens, and mourning doves that haunt our backyard prompt my wife to fill three feeders twice a week. The big and small, the bullies and the bullied, find a place, I like to think. The crows, my shadows, hoard their knowledge high, away, and I stay blind. My parents bought encyclopedias

I read when I was young. Andean condors snagged me: carrion-eaters, wingspans bigger than a man, grim scythes that sharpen mountains, wingtips’ fingers charred by heaven’s smudge. Sweet angels nest such birds within, as birds do dinosaurs. Oh, let our minds embrace extinction and eternity, at peace.

However, the poetic imagery kidnaps the features of Utnapishtim towards a new poetic horizon to face a pessimistic, hopeless contemporary Utnapishtim, whose mourning dove does not succeed in finding land that is not covered by the flood of absence of values in the context of a melancholic vision which condemns the absence of compassion between the birds, as the poetic context removes from them the connotations of beauty and purity, and gives them signs that move between maximum of cruelty (“the bullies”) and extreme surrender (“the bullied”).

In fact, it is a semantic hijacking that becomes technique when the poem calls Andean condors to confront the readers with a coding of strength and tyranny (“wingspans bigger/than a man”) that occupies space with their powerful wings. The conclusion of the poem lights up that melancholic vision of New Utnapishtim when the poem symbolizes the pure innocent peaceful characters, “Sweet angels,” as they resemble birds in the context of a complex metaphor that foretells the bleak future. This simile imagery reflects the narrator's fears of the decline of these noble characters to the point of extinction in the framework of a clear condemnation of the violence that topples pure values. Therefore, the poem closes on a collective eulogy (“Oh, let our minds embrace /extinction and eternity, at peace”).

In Diane M. Laboda 's poem, “The Birds Have Gone,” the language of the white has interwoven the poem into 6 stanzas of poetry and employs the metamorphic technique of moving characters on the platform of the poem. It is an embodiment that succeeds in

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removing the familiar indications from the bird to create a hair mask for characters moving on the ground and its time the womb of the present moment, as it appears in the first and second stanzas as follows:

I wonder where the birds have gone. They must be driven off by flash-bangs, pepper gas and rubber bullets. Their eardrums must be broken, wings tattered, eyes a-flood with tears.

Where have the birds gone? Have they been blown away by an overhead chopper, blinded by flood lights pointed directly at them? Perhaps their gentler nature warned them away long ago.

It is clear that the poem uses the technique of repeating the question (“where the birds have gone” + “where have the birds gone?”) to open a dialogue between the listening reader outside the text and to reveal bitterness and confusion about what is happening on the ground in the details of the tragic lived event. The poetic imagery calls the title in the third stanza to reflect its mirrors, details of various events, and hostile open spaces that move birds on its platforms:

birds have gone. High above the trees in bands of free-flight, flying from city to city, trying to find a place devoid of conscience, a place where comrades go home at curfew.

And the poetic imagery explores the movement of birds in hostile places that hide hot events as follows:

The birds are confused. They cannot find a street devoid of light, a perch devoid of thunder, a mouth that speaks no truth. Voices rise to meet them, drown them in resistance, insistence.

The following two stanzas evoke George Floyd's face and his broken voice, "I can't breathe," to intensify the tragic event details:

the birds branch out and linger. They see the fires die down, the cops line up—some take a knee, some shake a hand. The flock they tend like birds sing of justice. Their notes are pure, their voices unsteady, their hearts beating wildly.

The birds sing harmony from their perches, trill notes to the heroes and the sad. They beat their wings to clear the air and breathe a breath of hope that some below will live to honor ground where no monument stands, no words are drawn in letters that can be seen from heaven.

It is clear that the poetic imagery opens the gate of hope in the last stanza, especially as employing rhythmic verbal repetition (“breathe a breath”) and (“no monument stands, no words”) as well as a sign of condemnation and rejection of that tragic event.

The poem “Birds” by Wanda Kay Sanders uses narration to reflect the details of the patriarchal system, to criticize it, knowing that the white language has fragmented it into six stanzas. The birds are moving on the first stanza as fictional characters as follows:

I watched some wrens the other day as they flew back and forth between the trees. The male bird, larger, sang a loud song even as he landed again and again on the smaller female bird to mate. The female bird hoped from side to side and fluttered her wings almost in protest but remained silent. It was as if she had given up trying to fly away, as if she knew her protest would do no good, as if she had lost her voice of freedom from domination.

This stanza puts readers face to face with the patriarchal culture and its fierce system that marginalizes the female’s voice and gives the male absolute power. This narrative poem expresses it through the two main characters (male /female), with the male bird being the unjust character with the physical power and sexual dominance as well that is given by nature (“The male bird, larger/the smaller female bird”), and the oppressed character, the female bird, who is subjected to and surrenders to her weak role and destiny. In addition, there are various events that reflect male practices of physical and sexual violence against the female: “he landed again and again on the smaller female/bird to mate.” The series of abuse and unjust events that she tries to protest against this culture has led her to lose her voice and to give him a loud voice.

It is clear that the narrator, since the first line in the stanza, is an external observer, who moves to an internal monologue that exposes its condemnation of patriarchal culture and its role in silencing the oppressed female voice, as follows:

It made me think that women are often like that female wren. Our voices are silent at times in the midst of protest, unwilling to share our stories out of shame or fear. The Me-Too movement made us more aware of the captivity we still face, the loss of our freedom to just be women. We have only just begun to speak out against the domination of our spirit over this.

And now women come together again – mothers, daughters,

sisters, as we raise our voices in protest not against men this time but alongside of them as we declare that Black Lives Matter. Our cry that the unnecessary violence be stopped and that those who misuse their authority be held accountable.

Here the text discloses its semantic meaning (“It made me think that women are often like that female wren.”) when the encounter is directly with the issues of women's civil rights—the "Me-Too movement,”—and the harmony of pronouncement, “I+ me,” transforms to a devotion to the conscience of the group (the “we/us/our”) and the desire to leave the circle of self-concern for the collective female concern in order to liberate society from the patriarchal cultural norm. The poem links women’s contemporary roles to the issue of women’s civil rights as follows:

May we as women no longer stay silent against the injustice done to us by men or against people in our community. This is a time to link arms and let our song for peace be heard.

In sum, these poets use three different methods to employ birds in their poems to reflect their poetic visions. Tom Zimmerman's poem evokes through the dove the mythological dimension to create a universal theme, launching his poem from its locality. As for Diane M. Laboda 's poem, it uses the bird as a semantic entrance for her poem, which documents the details of the current tragic events of George Floyd in a skillful combination of narration and poetry. Wanda Kay Sanders’s poem creates a narrative utilizing birds as fictional characters that reflect her vision toward the patriarchy as a cultural system that marginalizes the role of women and their rights.

Tip of a Hat

It's a blessing that the streets are full of people I hate. Because they're barefoot and step on cracks and I mirror them. It's a weird world when the tip of a hat can kill. And theirs sit loose atop their head. They tip and I equivocate. After all, there's nothing more covert than not questioning and not asserting.

World falls around me — Didn't it already fall? No answers appear

Father’s Day: A Poem for Ben and Randy Hassan

How many fathers have waited through dark times holding their children close Uncertain the better days promised will actually be delivered

Their steely nerve packed into steamer trunks, duffle bags and DNA Borne to an unknown land and an uncertain future

Our son is both mirror and window as ancestors’ images flicker across his form A nod here, a gesture there upsetting time and space

Great Grandpa Alick’s hands Grandpa Buzzy’s hairline Grandma Dorothy’s jowls Dad’s half-wink

What traces will you pass on to your children -Your kind eyes? Fabulous curls? High arches? Wit?

A Real Deployment

It didn’t seem like any revolution I had ever seen before. They said we were going to war against viral agent 19. It was a real deployment this time, so I waited with others in our barrel.

I started off so soft and pliable, pasty and limp. I had no idea what I was meant to be, and no one was saying anything, except there just wasn’t enough time.

Then I was dumped into a huge metal vat, stirred about and sifted into a mold, squished to almost nothing, cooked until I could stand up by myself, proudly.

I had elastic bands stapled on my sides and was stacked with my mold-mates, bundled into boxes stamped with large red letters reading: ESSENTIAL, CRITICAL, DO NOT DELAY SHIPMENT.

I was sure that we would become some prized munitions, perhaps a helmet or shield, armor or tool—essential and precious.

When our bundle was torn open I tumbled out wildly—let the revolution begin! Then each of us was strapped unceremoniously to the front of a human face.

I was pulled and tugged into position, thrust into a coughing face, sprayed, spit on over and over. I was never taken off.

My human tried several times to throw me into a large green bag, but was told to scrub me with disinfectant for two minutes and put me back on.

She was gentle and thorough, and washed me for several days. I had no idea I’d be so important, so necessary. I didn’t know what to do with all the germs in the meantime, so I held on tight.

Thanks to the Stay At Home Order

this is your chance to dance in the middle of Zeeb Rd. (at midnight) thanks to the Stay At Home Order no trucks no trailers fewer breath inhalers thanks to the Stay At Home Order some folks fight the government’s right to make us stay home but today I’m alive maybe survived thanks to the Stay At Home Order the question is now that it’s lifted and freedom has sprung in frenzied relief how risky how brief how devastating will it be thanks to NO stay at home order?