“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.

At first, a tremor beneath the souls of my feet
Blink, a story millions of heartbeats away
Dark clouds over a field as acidic purge falls over us
Venomous mist seeps, humanity weeps
Blink, 18 stars bent and watching
Emitting rays pointing their random strikes

Blink, glorious earth temperate in her rotation
Marble folds on her maternal veil drapes us
Close to her breast, we heave in time with each breath
Blink, sustaining life in the chambers of her deepest ocean
Breathing air across the tall granite mountains
Distressed, and yet still here

Blink, ancient footprints track our journey
Not what we envisioned but “the enlightened ones” foresaw.
The need for understanding,
The need to cause conflict and agitate,
Blink, the need to protect,
The need to heal and mend.

Blink, you are here now, in your full extravagance
Delighting in fracking and disruption
Sleight of hand, our blindness is your reward
Blink, remorseless as you divide us
Along the fault line, we fall

Blink, with loved ones snatched
We turn on one another tossing
Handfuls of poison into the wind
Blink, triggered fingers pointed
Volcanic anger flares
A fist on a horses face
Lawlessness a momentary lapse

Blink, where will you strike next?
We suppress you
We support you
Following the artificial sun through the cracks
You rise again
As we turn on one another
The elusive phantom, a master chameleon
Spawning and stretching into an unknown vastness

Blink, yes, you are here to stay
You can’t be killed
You can’t be destroyed
Blink, neither can we
You will be tamed into submission
You will be a mere quiver beneath the souls of my feet
Blink, vitals diminish and you crawl away
Powerless and a mere symptom as you look out from a rock
Eye blinking.

By Marcela Guajardo      August 2021

Ease your mind
Take away the weight
Our shoulders carry the weight of our thoughts
Our hearts carry the weight of our emotions
Our arms carry the weight of our work
Challenge weighs true

Let me help you
Tell me what is wrong?
Why do you cry?
Why do you laugh and then cry?
Is this madness?
Not madness

Inner voice yelling
Then whispering
Singing sweetly
Screaming at the sky
Chatting with effervescent nerve
Silent like an old granite cliff
Mind racing in top gear
Stuck behind the pack in last
Open like a flower in full bloom
A dried-up seed pod unable to open

Many places to be
Nowhere to go

To feel
All and intensely
To care
Fully and endlessly

Is it weak?
Or is a strength?

Confusion fogging my mind,
I struggle to accept my empathy
For people
For situations
Not relevant to my own
But relevant enough
To consume me
In second hand grief

I’m drowning
Yet emerging

Can I handle these emotions
And still support those in need?

It’s a question I constantly ponder.
With another outbreak,
It’s a question I need to answer.

It's funny how the world spins
Even though we walk amongst pins
The needles buried beneath our skins
Our one of few hopes to salvage sins.

Agree to disagree
Though the world's not better off
Mask up, tone down
Zealots will forever scoff

So pray for your neighbor
Hold out your hand
The waves lapping against the Harbour
As the rats bring about the plague.

A virus is like a secret,
once it’s out, it’s out.
Like, hey, don’t tell anyone,
but I’m gay, and I have blood
in my lungs. I’m trying to choke
the gay out of myself
before anyone else can. You
see, it’s all about control:
needing it, and taking it,
and the in-between state
of having complete control
and spiralling out of it at the same time.

So if I want to find a vaccine
for all the bad thoughts I’m having
about myself, isn’t that just another
way of saying that I’m trying to make myself
immune to hatred from outside?
If it originates in the lungs,
in the mind, in the sickly body,
then it’s somehow more authentic.

And maybe I can deal with it
a little better. Only a little,
because I’m still one-hand-pinned
against the wall, choking myself
to the point that I can’t form words,
can’t say the things I’m desperately
trying to adjust to.

disease and war go hand in hand
covid wasn't a war but it felt like one