All writing

I had a peculiar dream
a well known psychologists team
Yung, Skinner and Freud
dissect schadenfreude
and all is not what it would seem

like radioactive elements
civilizations have
a half life

that point past which

most goodness
has been spent
and darkness looms

do show me those that would oppose
however thorny, this red rose
or those that still ignore the thrill
of this delightful daffodil

those that refuse to heed the hues
of violets, and sing the blues
over a poppy's bitter cup
and chase their dragons while they nap

those who, their irises split so
they cannot see the snowdrops thaw
how can you help but pity those
it is for them, this thorny rose

The forest, soon to wake up, makes a sound
of stretching sleepy limbs from head to toe.
The snowdrops peek above the thawing ground,
and squirrels settle scores with friend and foe.
A songbird dares to test its vocal chords;
the orchestra then joins the exercise.
A symphony presented for awards,
ambition as important as pure size.
How do they know, the critters, low and high
that time has come to sing their way to love?
That serenade they must, however shy?
Was there a signal sent from up above?
All that exists must serenade the spring,
and so I join the chorus, and I sing

my friends and colleagues
faces on video calls
I miss our lunch breaks

Another call. The faces take their places.
A choreographed dance, fit for the stage.
Cliched, exhausted, hackneyed social graces
and tedious routines refuse to age:
"oh, hahaha, I think you are on mute",
"I'm loving your new background, it's so cute!"
A few more fits and starts, the meeting lingers.
I push it to the side, my nimble fingers
are working on a Wordle while they chat.
I cannot mute it though, might miss a question
and get invited to another session.
(Yeah, fitting words to boxes is all that!)
The last two years, you ask? They have been trying.
But all in all, preferable to dying.

Author notes: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2803653-Poetry-Symposium-Competition-Sonnet-Categor A modified Onegin sonnet

Granddaughter called today, on Facetime
and in her hand, a big balloon
she said: "it's almost past my bedtime,
but grandpa, are you coming soon?
We have new flowers in our garden",
she hiccupped then, then added "Pardon!,
and also mommy said I could
get a new puppy, if I'm good!"

"I'll see you soon", I said, "my dearest"
the screen had just been at its clearest
the pictured turned a little blurry
and hastily, I wiped a tear
"real, really soon, hon, don't you worry,
I'll see you really soon, my dear"

awash in sharp, resplendent colors
the flowers grow on No Man's Land
defying the most ardent scholars
those seek, in vain, to understand
the shrapnel from misfired missiles
had long since sullied the good earth
no semblance of a rose or thistle
no one to plant a virgin birth
and yet they grow, a splash of happy
a limbo, in between two hells
red, crimson blood, a field of poppies
right next to unexploded shells

armchair warriors
love working from home
the modern art of war

an easy trick
to hate on Dick
and thus to signal virtue
it surely cannot hurt you
it comes so easily, this trick
for those who've never done dick

days in daisy chains
sameness permeates
with their stale remains
and forgotten dates
chains, unbreakable
pulling me along
time, unshakeable
calendar, my song

were it up to me
each day different
some a jubilee
some vociferant
some lived quietly
without incidents
some improbably
by coincidence

days in daisy chains
what an almanac
trains stay in their lanes
there's no going back
had I but a pass
to the other side
there are none, alas
nowhere left to hide

Author notes: To the rhythm of Ochi Chernie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfXVBzWA9po

realpolitik
means letting statistics
become tragedy