by Chris O’Carroll
“I don’t take responsibility at all.”
—Donald Trump
The press says nasty things about the virus.
Why do they think the buck should stop with me?
My answer to whatever they inquire is
That I don’t take responsibility.
I’m unconcerned about the nation’s health,
Or deaths among your friends and family.
I watch the Dow, I dream about great wealth,
And I take no responsibility.
This is the art I bring to every deal.
Let’s blame the Chinese this time. Don’t blame me.
Whatever pain you suffer, I can’t feel.
I never take responsibility.
by Julia Griffin
“Arnold Schwarzenegger and his tiny horses urge people to stay home …
[in a Twitter video] featuring the actor and two pets, miniature horse Whiskey and donkey Lulu…”
—The Guardian
Poster boys for prudent courses,
Calming as a metronome,
Arnold and his tiny horses
Urge the nation: Please stay home.
If you’re feeling rather wonky,
If you’ve got the virus scare,
Gaze at Arnold’s dinky donkey
Nuzzling his midget mare,
And absorb their wise advices
(They endorsed what Arnie said):
Outside’s nice but twice as nice is
Watching things like this in bed.
by Ruth S. Baker
To lighten our virus ennui,
The Met’s sharing broadcasts for free;
I escape my malaise
In Parisian cafes,
Till I die of (delightful!) TB.
by Nora Jay
The value of the moral life
Grows clear as we grow antsier.
Best not Covid your neighbor’s wife,
However much you fancy her.
by Dan Campion
“Florida governor calls out spring breakers for ignoring coronavirus warnings”
—Fox News
“If I’m curt with you, it’s because time is a factor.”
—Harvey Keitel as The Wolf in Pulp Fiction
While certain types binge-watch old soaps
Or Nature Channel antelopes,
And bookish sorts sit reading Poe,
Mann, or—my man—Boccaccio,
All hunkered down as they’ve been told,
I note—and I don’t like to scold—
You bunch of jokers fail to heed
The Covid guidelines. Thus you breed
A virulence you oughtta fear,
But risk it all to swill some beer
And hook up on a crowded beach.
You should be swabbing knobs with bleach.
You’ve got no concept of disease!
Exert some caution. Pretty please.
by Christopher Scribner
This poem is not contagious;
it need not be evaded—
my antivirus software
was recently updated.
by Anna M. Evans
We’ve canceled March. There’ll be no sport;
Broadway’s dark; most classes taught
will be online; at Disneyland
the gates are locked; large groups are banned
from gatherings of any sort.
The shops are bare because you’ve bought
your toilet paper. Now, you’re fraught,
keeping your distances, as planned.
We’ve canceled March.
Each cough is evidence you’ve caught
the virus! Each fresh news report
alarms you. Still, we’ve made our stand—
this plague can’t get the upper hand—
so we’ve invoked our last resort
and canceled March.
by Julia Griffin
“Scientists identify rain of molten iron on distant exoplanet
Conditions on Wasp-76b in Pisces include temperatures of 2,400C and 10,000mph winds”
—The Guardian
The exoplanet Wasp in Pisces
Subsists despite unending crises:
It’s hard to keep an even keel
At near the melting-point of steel,
And even heroes’ hearts might cower
With winds 10,000 miles per hour.
The place can furthermore rely on
Incessant rain of molten iron.
All this might serve as a directive
To keep our problems in perspective.
by David Hedges
I feel I’m wedded to the Bride
Of Frankenstein. My honeymoon
Is like a roller-coaster ride,
A bruising bouncy-bounce inside
A runaway hot-air balloon
Inflated only by the steam
I vent at those who disagree
With how I’m running my regime,
Those Never Trumps of academe,
Those Faux News chumps who squeal with glee
And fill the mainstream air with lies,
Those double-dealing Democrats
Who demonize free enterprise
And block my hard-earned Nobel Prize—
Greta and her snot-nosed brats.
I send my flyboys off to battle
To let the world know I’m in charge.
I grind the bones of those who tattle;
There’s not a cage that I can’t rattle.
My hands and other things are large.
So here this virus comes by stealth
And puts my Wall Street claims in doubt.
I say to hell with public health,
I’m more concerned with private wealth.
Vlad’s not about to bail me out.
In fact, he’s driving down the price
Of crude oil right before I stand
For re-election. That’s not nice!
I can’t afford to roll the dice.
This thing is getting out of hand.
by Chris O’Carroll
“… Mr Trump’s fears about the virus have led him to tell aides he is afraid journalists might try to contract coronavirus so they can infect him on Air Force One.”
—The Independent
The Democrats want millions dead,
According to his son.
He fears the press might settle for
(On Air Force One) just one.
by Ruth S. Baker
“[P]ig starts farm fire by excreting pedometer …
The North Yorkshire fire and rescue service said the fire was caused by ‘nature taking its course’
and copper from the pedometer battery reacting with dry hay and the pigpen’s contents.
The pedometer was being used to prove the animal was free range
and had been taken off one of its fellow pigs.
No animals were harmed as a result of the fire.”
—The Guardian
According to North Yorkshire’s rescue force,
The fire was caused when nature took its course:
Pedometers, it seems, light up like cigs
When defecated by unwary pigs.
Although the beast met no impediment
While voiding pedometric excrement,
It proved that ranging freely may be trouble,
And that pedometers are execrable.
by Gail White
I was dreaming of gelato.
“More sambuca!” was my motto.
Now, because of travel strictures
I’ve torn up my passport pictures—
Tiramisu, how I’ll miss you—
Italy’s shut down.
Deeply I deplore the menace
of a virus haunting Venice,
and the thought of shuttered Florence
fills me with a deep abhorrence.
Influenza stalks Pienza,
once my favorite town.
Every canceled Tuscan city
adds to my extreme self-pity,
as from Rome to Lampedusa
all the country is chiusa.*
Now I mope and have no hope.
I cannot cope
When Italy shuts down.
*closed
by Jerome Betts
“Disneyland has closed parks in
California, Florida and Paris.”
—The Guardian
Yes, Pluto’s not all there, poor mutt,
His wits, like Goofy’s, on the roam.
Old Bambi’s useless come the rut
While Snow White’s in a nursing home.
The mouse can hardly raise a squeak
And Donald D. is far from spry,
His apoplectic pride and pique
Long lost to Anno Domini.
The call is now “Self-isolate!
C-virus most endangers those
Surviving past their sell-by date”—
So even Disney’s world must close.
by Dan Campion
“NBA Suspends Season Until Further Notice…”
—Sports Illustrated
When nursing homes must be locked down
And schools are closed, and ports,
The markets tank, health experts frown,
The rich flock to resorts,
The nation blinks. When does it groan?
When illness hammers sports.
That’s when there’s woe on every phone:
No crowds can fill the courts,
And frantic fans must stay at home!
The land’s grabbed by the shorts.
The crisis hits each field and dome.
A bug is killing SPORTS!
The president must ask for calm
And bailouts of all sorts:
The nation needs the sovereign’s balm.
Alas, it lacks for sports.
by Steve Taylor
For once the poetry feels dangerous.
The readers hesitate to handle it,
and if they pick it up, they feel a nervous
urge to wash, fearing what the words transmit.
For once all conversations have an edge
even ambitious groveling cannot dull.
No need for sucking up or trying to wedge
oneself into a more exclusive circle.
Behind our masks, we seem anonymous,
as if we now hate to be recognized,
and posturing becomes more obvious
when focused on each other’s shifty eyes.
You’ve made us more alert to eye rolls
and made us wish, for once, not to go viral.
