Quarantine: a Month of Haiku
On Day 25 of This, I finally figured out how to process my days: seventeen syllables every night. Here’s the result (so far).
Most of the day: rain,
but a walk in the sunshine.
Ice cream: delivered.
Spring: a dress, smooth legs.
Sun on my face. Paperback.
Pause to smell blossom.
Dreams of human touch;
Welcome voices in machines;
Books on my doorstep.
Friday night. Eerie
quiet in the neighbourhood.
Cold: the weather knows.
Cops in Lincoln Park
Street Musicians in face masks
War, and yet: spring blooms
Hope! He is risen!
I’m remembered. Thoughtful treats,
Yelled greetings from cars.
distance means nothing
laughter with faraway friends
a month without touch
Made a child laugh. Worked.
Celebrated two birthdays.
Life continues on.
the smell of mown grass
the blossom almost gone now
we stand in the sun
blue sky. I don mask
(or scarf); loop Capitol grounds
—empty. Unsettling.
Sleep eludes me. Naps.
Headaches. Upstairs, the floors creak.
Another month? Sigh.
Scarf over my mouth
I shop; refill my freezer
stockpiling for war
rest, walk, time “with” friends
a thousand words on paper
a hug-less week starts
cherry blossom: gone
nature’s unrelenting hope
brings new flowers still
Why am I still here?
Outward smile. Silent screaming.
I want out of this.
Are you tired? I am.
Writing seems impossible.
We go on. We must.
Small joys, so vital
Stories read from the pavement
Some comfort TV
computer headaches
suppressed emotions surface
early morning angst
Unexpected joy:
a street wedding! Sparkling wine!
Love is real. There’s that.
down to my last pants
laundry: insurmountable
as are all tasks now
Friends so close and yet
untouchable. We adapt
too easily, no?
will blue light glasses
make me feel better or will
only touch do that
Everything hurts. But:
a cocktail in a Ziploc,
freshly home-baked bread.
I cry in the park.
Strangers smile, understanding,
concern in their eyes.
Another week done.
Two days of rest now? No, more
sad monotony
a singing baby,
ducks in the reflecting pool:
today, that’s enough
Screens: faces, voices
remind me who i am and
call me home, maybe?
it’s become routine:
ambient anxiety and
Monday lunchtime walks
I drown out silence:
strangers’ voices in my phone.
No room for thought, thanks.
tension in my back
I read poetry, breathe; I
write romance, escape
About the Creator
Claire Amy Handscombe
Host of the Brit Lit Podcast.
Books:
UNSCRIPTED, a novel about a young woman with a celebrity crush and a determined plan
CONQUERING BABEL: A Practical Guide to Learning a Language
WALK WITH US: How the West Wing Changed Our Lives.
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