Back in March, when we first were accosted with the realities of Covid-19, I decided to write a poem about a person who caught this plague. It seems appropriate now, since so many people, even the President, have tested positive, to share this poem.

The title really has a double meaning. In the old days, "the Grip" was a similar disease, otherwise know as "the Grippe" or influenza. By breaking the grip, I am hopeful the both the medical and economic consequences of this plague will be overcome. Keeping a positive and supportive position for the unfortunate that suffer is my choice of action.

 

Breaking the Grip

 

Low, cold air sneaks around 

the ground feeling my hot toes.

Sick breaths linger where I stand,

and I’m confused, my mind is thick.

Pain crushes my chest, the pressure

I measure beating fast in my brain

pounding my pulse through each place,

racing past the limit, tripping a warning

sound as the alarm brings nurses, 

my curses. Back in bed, body bound

with tubes, and mask, I’m told

to hold on, rest easy, the drug’s gift

easing my pain, slinking in so I last longer,

past a spasm of wheezing

which finally relents, I slowly slip and trip

into a dreamland ditch.

 

Bright blue ocean visions emerge to 

urge a calm to the power of this blight.

Stars shining over a morning sunrise 

disguise the awakening of my hours

sleep. Hope swells, building strong

feelings long missing, fighting to keep

my eyes open now seeing this time

true signs of healing, refusing to cry.

Instead my instincts, my body, reject

infectious tricks played in my head.

I’m living for me, for them, for all love 

above this lowly place, to rise sublime

strong and free. I see my humanity go

on, so each small wish will also belong

alive, rescued by ambitious dreams,

proving themes of hopeful love, survive.