Breaking the Grip
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.