By: Carl “Papa” Palmer

vacancy

 

curtains closed clock shows 4AM or PM

seated heavily at my kitchen table

gripping a cup of twice heated cold coffee

still in pajama bottoms busy being alone

this space once ours gathering stillness

 

rereading the page of unwritten words

sought then forgotten pencil poised

awaiting a first line for this poem

 

Bookshelf Prophecy 2020 – COVID

 

All this happened, more or less.                                                                      

It was the best of times.                                                                                

It was the worst of times.                                      

 

It was a bright cold day in April                                                                                              

and the clocks were striking thirteen.                                                                                       

We started dying before the snow,                                                                                            

and like the snow, we continued to fall.                                                                                    

(closing sentences)

We are lost in darkness and distance.                                                                            

and not enough to see by.                                                                                            

 

After tomorrow, another day                                                                      

Are there any questions?                                                                          

 

So that in the end, there was no end.                                                                       

We shall never again be as we were.                                                                     

 

The above poem draws inspiration from:

Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut

A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

1984, George Orwell

Tracks, R. Davidson

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Cat’s Eye, Margaret Atwood

Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell

The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood

The Tree of Man, Patrick White

Wings of the Dove, Henry James

 

It is what it is   

                                                         

I’ve heard it a lot lately. Is it a current cliché

or catch phrase, the pat answer recap signaling

an end to any further conversation about it ?

 

Like the sobbing boy holding his empty cone,

ice cream scoop on the floor as his dad hugs

him and says, Don’t cry, son, it is what it is.

 

Or a response of surrender, of defeat, giving up,

helplessly accepting things being what they are,

nothing more and nothing can be done about it ?

 

Like the coach at the post game press conference

fielding endless questions about why he lost the

game ending his interview with,  It is what it is.

 

Rather than it is what it is, maybe it should be

it ain’t what it ain’t  ~ ‘taint what ‘taint

or it is not what it is not  ~ ‘snot what ‘snot.

 

Still, whatever it is or it isn’t, it remains it.

It is what it is ~ it’s what it’s

or as the poet says, ‘tis what ‘tis.

 

 

Bio: Carl “Papa” Palmer

Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington.

He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA).

He’s currently enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. 

PAPA’s MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!

 

 

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