Anxious Days

Rabia Patel

Dark Circles around my eyes
Work through the long long nights
Couldn’t even see the starry nights.

I watched the patients brought in
A continuous stream running in.
Coughing and spluttering barely breathing.

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Window Peer

Rebecca

I think it’s week six though I can’t be sure,
Before, when I thought last, I found out it was more.
I can see it’s a long time from the length of my hair,
When I turn my neck I can feel it on my collar, there.

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Ode To A Virus

Jem Tovey

Corona doesn’t care if you’re atheist or Anglican,
Whether you’re a Buddhist or have visited the Vatican.
This pathogen’s not fussy, there’s no discernment in a virus,
Not bothered who you vote for or that you don’t like Miley Cyrus.

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We Will Meet Again

Anna L Fry

Can you see the silent skies
and quiet streets and haunted eyes
Have you heard the expert voices taking charge, restricting choices
Do you feel the pain of nations
Counting death in isolation.
Do you smell the cleaner air and hear the birds and hearts that care.

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Connect

Sahera Patel

Have you ever felt the melodious bird song lifting up your tired wings?
Have you ever felt the power of sunbeams healing every aching limb?
Have you ever felt the celestial hymn easing the chaos in your mind?
Have you ever felt the strength of hope replacing despair with a smile?

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Rioteous Rant

Khareef

I live in anger, in hatred, I was born into
shouting, vile insults and outbursts,
and when I step out into the world
the world spits back just as worse.
The grass is only greener on the planet
where confusion, ammunition, panic,
murder, explosions, execution,
are non-existent,

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The Soldier

Eleanor

The soldier stood there as sad as a gloomy day
He didn’t know what to do at all, or what to say
He closed his eyes and wished to be home
Instead he was wishing all on his own.
As guilt flowed through his head for killing others
He tried protecting all his brothers.
Every head of the soldiers was burning hot
All of them were scared of being shot.

First World Problems

by Jem Tovey

This poem was a written as a parody of Gil Scott Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” (itself a satire of how the broadcast media controls and subjugates Black America) and re-imagines it from a white, middle-class perspective:

You will not be able to turn on, log in and shop online at Waitrose, brother.
You will not be able to order that Little Black Number from ASOS, for your mother.
You will not be able to browse Laithwaites for vintage Bordeaux by the case,
Honestly, the broadband here’s an absolute disgrace.

You can’t post photos on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter,
Download speeds are glacial, it’s hard not to be bitter.
You can’t watch clips of Trump waxing braggadocious,
I swear this broadband connection’s simply atrocious.

There will be no mpegs of amusing RTAs,
No footage of Woodstock – Hendrix playing Purple Haze.
No GIFs, no Vines, YouTube’s always buffering,
This broadband’s providing a whole new level of suffering.

The revolution will not be on iPlayer, my connection’s too unstable.
This is the 21st century, where’s my fibre optic cable?
I’ve asked Virgin for an installation date, but they just keep on stalling.
We barely reach two megabits, this broadband is appalling.