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Post-Covid Hugs

I want to give the world a hug 

The world needs a hug 


But the world increasingly rejects a full-frontal, enthusiastic hug 


You have to sneak up on the world and hug it from behind 


The creepiness of which presents you with a whole set of other problems  


Poor guy (me) 


Walking around with all that shit backed up

Still Small Voice

There is a still small voice inside of me,  

That speaks clearly and distinctly. 

It says “Press on, all is not lost.” 

“Please be quiet,” I reply. 

The voice persists, “Press on.” 

“Press on for those who remain in the flesh. Press on.” 

“Shut up,” I shout back; 

“You are not of the flesh. What do you know of pressing?” 

“Be quiet still small voice, stop bothering me. I have work to do.” 

I won that argument. I sent the still small voice packing.  

He went silently. 

I have the feeling that he is waiting for a quiet moment. 

He likes those.

Sunday Morning Due

A tiny shimmering bird fluttered—insuring I acknowledged its appearance 

It hovered above the flowerbed a few feet away—with curious indifference 

We caught each other’s eye 

It came closer—not the least bit shy 

It was not interested in my fussed-over blooms  

Yet still—it spoke to me no doom 

Why was I so excited  

By this guest I had not invited? 

Was there an intended message 

In its swift-wing, hovering, gossamer dressage?


The tiny bird was a shimmering, ominous black—

Still, I would eagerly welcome it back 

Not many such birds appear here you know 

I suppose, there are worse ways to go 

Or maybe the portend was simply due 

You did not come to me—so I came to you  

In reflection—I offer this 

A front stoop will do  

For a little Sunday morning bliss

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