Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com

the essentials,
compelled by oath and compassion,
run into raging fires
every day, every hour
every time duty calls,
they run.
when towers fall,
they run.
when lightning strikes and thunder rolls
and tall trees crash through walls
of our homes,
they run.
when riptides rise and tornadoes roar
and earthquakes shake the earth to its core,
they run.
when hearts fail and lungs need air,
they run.
when bones break and blood clots,
they run.
when cars crash and trucks roll,
they run.
when panic attacks,
they run.
when maniacs relapse,
they run.

and when a pandemic
rips cities to shreds
from wuhan and cremona
to elmhurst and madrid,
filling hospital beds
with desperate, breathless strangers
chests heaving,
eyes pleading,
“save me please!”

they
run.

ayo.

~ P

as i stumble through this life, may virtue be my guide to face the blitz of fear with honor, grit and pride / the fleeting flash of light. the fight to make the grade as dusk concedes to night beneath the twilight shade / the coral snakes through leaves with rings of colors bright. the gray wolf howls to heaven, spiked canines snarling white / i swiftly stretch my stride into a steady run and reach the other side; my brush with fear was done.

ayo.

~P

with awestruck eyes
and jaws loose enough
to catch a housefly
or two,
me and the dog pound
from the old county
used to stare at big ships
with flags touching the sky,
sailing by.

giant sea monsters
that made mile-wide rivers
feel like itsy-bitsy streams.

like smitten boy soldiers,
we stood and stared and dreamed
of the many mysteries and opportunities
aboard those hulking vessels of lore.

that one day we might
snag a lucky gig
or hitch a ride on the big metal rig
to make those dreams come true;

and sail into the great beyond
like blackbeard and calico jack
and bring back stacks of treasures
and scores of embellished tales
to share with the dog pound
over infinite cases
of ice-cold beer
at the corner shop.

ayo!

~ P

I ticked off my day
With a tepid mug of Morning Joe.
Then a neoliberal bowl of CNN
Left me bitter like aloe.
So I asked the Fox and his radical Friends
To put me on the right track…

But Hannity prevailed
and I gagged on a cocktail of Rushian Kool-Aid.

Ayo!

~P

would you smell a rose today
if consumed by stress and strive?
would you rather run away?
would you smell a rose today?
would you wait another day
for stress and strive to end your life?
would you smell a rose today
if consumed by stress and strife?

ayo!

~P

don’t forget how to dream.
how you felt when you were seven
ice-skating at the rink;
rollerblading through the ocean breeze
on the boardwalk;
screaming in a roller-coaster
skying high over disneyworld;
chasing joy and laughter round every corner
like heaven was right here on earth.

lock that feeling in your memory bank
like savings in a vault
at ally.
let it brew like fine wine
for the times life drags you
down
to your knees
and you need a drink.

think of that feeling
when you were seven
ice-skating at the rink
way back when...

and dream again.

ayo!
~ P