Social Distance: A Community-Style Poem to Help you Feel Less Isolated–npr

She opens all the windows,
her imagination of freedom
something to hold onto.

Only half there
her mind is far off
Across the world.

kayaking quietly
gazing at glaciers
watching waves dance
a boat out to sea

The sea breeze blowing
against her loneliness
Perched up in the hills
Overlooking a world of fraud
Soul ready to sail away

You see, smart women bend
like stems grabbing at the light
muscles coat limbs
as eyelids stalk the horizon
to calculate what comes next
drought or a wall of water
high cheekbones not afraid to climb out
or crawl up.

It is the same horizon no matter the color. The same sun.

Guess that’s how Rapunzel felt
Staring freedom in its face
Terrified of the unknown
But wanting to escape
Quarantined by society
Restricted by these walls.

Shouting streets stilled
people’s voices wilted like plants.
no dinner with friends.

The sea is forever capricious
A mercurial creature with fickle temperament
The gentle blue of harbor water hides
its ferocity Like a wolf in sheepskin

But, she will not wilt.

Sometimes as day descends
The dog can have the fabricated ice,
the artificial colors.
She takes the water cool and clear,
and The city’s façade can’t hold her,
from sailing away on the tide of night.

She sees herself
in the sky.
in the muddied turquoise of the curtain
In the warm turquoise of the window frame
in the gentle peace that shall not last.

She is not thinking about the next time
they will see each other
She is not thinking about the last time
they saw each other
She is not thinking about the empty grocery shelves
She is not thinking about the furrowed frowning eyebrows
She is not thinking about the word quarantine
and why it sounds so social
She is not thinking about the way her lungs
hold onto air like making love to molecules
She is not thinking about the grandmother
and grandfather in Apt 2c
She is not thinking about whether clouds are aware
of their silly shapes and feel self-conscious
She is not thinking about whether the butter will last

At the window, she considers that
She is not who she was,
and she is not who she will be.
She is transforming.
She will be strong and resilient.
She will be honest with herself and those she loves.
She will have stories to tell And when she does
They will no longer shake her voice.

From here, she will see the anxiety, the worry,
paint over its bold permanence, like oil and acrylic on canvas.
From here, She HOPES, offering it to neighbors from a safe distance.
From here, she SINGS, transcending the dark somber strain
From here, She BELIEVES, we will get through this
From here, today will be good, and tomorrow will be better.

Oh Joy and Sorrow by Kahlil Gibran

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater thar sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

In the Beautiful Rain by Tony Hoagland

Hearing that old phrase “a good death,” which I still don’t exactly understand, I’ve decided I’ve already had so many, I don’t need another.

Though before I go I wish to offer some revisions to the existing vocabulary. Let us decline the pretense of the hyper-factual: the myocardial infarction; the arterial embolism; the postoperative complication. Let us forgo the euphemistic: the “passed away” and “shuffled off this mortal coil,” as worn out and passive as an old dildo.

Now, if poetry can help, it is time to say, “She fell from her trapeze at 2 AM in the midst of a triple backflip in front of her favorite witnesses.”

Let us say, “In broad daylight, Ms. Abigail Miller conducted her daring escape before life, that Crook, had completely picked her pocket.”

It is not too late for some hero to appear and volunteer in the name of setting an example: Let us say, “He flew with abandon, and a joyous expression on his face, like a gust of wind or a man in a necktie from the last dinner party he would ever have to attend.”

To say, “He was the egg that elected to break for the greater cause of the omelet; the good piece of wood that leapt into the fire.”

“Though grudging at first, he fell like the rain, with his eyes wide open, willing to change.”