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2021 Art Contributing Creators Contributing Writers Pandemic Poetry

Cataclysmic Age

Art and Text by Gordon Lewis

Pieces of your soul

Gasp at the medieval jumble
Weʼre swimming in the abysmal soup
A plague that has spread
We live in infested quarters

Culture fails in this new world
The Dark Ages are alive and well
Theyʼve found their dwelling place
In the bowels of the states

Can you grasp the reality?
We live our lives on the screen
Hoping to find some meaning
But it slips out of our grip

Modern day renaissance man
Looking to beautify the world
When everything looks bleak
Pick up the pieces of your soul

Lux Lucis Ferre

Die solis invikti nati
When the Sun rises again
Saturn spins around our head
We see the solstice occur
Knowing that light is on the horizon
Weʼve gotten over the darkest days
But new challenges lie ahead
We cannot back off
Especially now when nature needs us the most
Let the rays of Phosphoros shine
Lux-Lucis Ferre

Abu Rowash

Subhuman enemy
Apocalyptic axioms
Simplest stratagem
Biowarfare blankers
Cataclysmic specie
Hellbent messiah
Unholy matrimony
Scarred Disciple
Temple of Abu Rowash
High Priest exalted
Mysterious omen
Torn Scrolls
The end is the beginning
The prophecy foretold
In ancient scripture
The numbers align

Gordon Lewis is a writer, musician, photographer, and artist currently residing in Colorado where he enjoys being in nature and working on his creative endeavors.

2020 Contributing Writers Pandemic Poetry


Written by Amy Steingart

In this moment I am bone-weary
I can go on, but I can’t.
In this moment my foolish hopes spiral up –
and spiral down.
In this moment I try to
hold my daughter up,
keep her head above water;
to keep her afloat to
keep us both from living on the ground,
In this moment I avoid headlines, reality.
In this moment I want to be smart, speak knowledgeably
when my friends say how does it feel?
I need to say something.
How does it feel to be in the epicenter?
they say – how terrifying!
how are you able to function? and
can you get toilet paper? and
do you wear a mask?

Do you ever hear sirens?
Yes. Yes I do. I hear sirens
all day and all night.
they have to be
hushed background noise,
a murmur
so I can stay above water
and not live on the ground,

Can do you sleep? Do you have nightmares? How does it feel?

How does it feel?
It feels
weary in my bones, in my skin,
my eyes my hair in the tips of my fingernails.
I am so weary.
In this moment the sun is fighting with clouds
outside my window,
it draws my eye.

In this moment, light penetrates my arm,
whispers to my skin
illuminates my bones
For this moment I can breathe.
I am here
I am still here
I am still.

Amy Steingart lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York. She attended Oberlin College studying English, creative writing, and theater. Her first poetry collection, I Am Where You Have Put Your Eggs, was published in June 2019 from Small White Cat Press. She is a co-founder and editor of Writers’ Bloc.

2020 Contributing Writers Pandemic Poetry

Where are those smiles?

Written by Bhuwan Thapaliya

Sitting in my living room
watching the slits of moonlight
peeping through the louvered window,
I sip a cup of lemon tea and get nostalgic.
Vivid pictures of tiny toddlers
going to the school
holding their grandparent’s hand
dances before me.
And the emancipated smile
on the face of a woman
driving an electric tempo
in the streets of Kathmandu teases me.
I am missing seeing an elderly man
having tea and happily gossiping
with his friends at the roadside tea stalls,
a yard away from his children’s reverie.
And I desperately miss looking
at an old Nepalese woman
in her traditional attire feeding pigeons at
Hanumandhoka Durbar Square
with dancing pigeons all around.
I am missing the glimpses of a normal life.
Where are those smiles?
I toss and turn in my bed
hundred times every night
as the clouds that
roars and mumbles in the sky.
I toss and turn.
Horrid images of children
with no childhood
flashes before my eye.
No tangible relief in sight.

Nepalese poet, Bhuwan Thapaliya is the author of four poetry collections and is currently working on his fresh poetry collection, The Marching Millions.  His main theme often hinges around the globalization of love, peace, and universal solidarity. His poems and articles have been widely published in such journals and periodicals such as Kritya, The Foundling Review,  Strong Verse, Pratik, Taj Mahal Review, Nuveine Magazine, Poetry Life and Times, VOICES ( Education Project), The Vallance Review, Longfellow Literary Project, The Global Politician, and Poets Against the War.

2020 Contributing Writers Pandemic Poetry

Dead Mother

Written by Debadrita Sur

I watched your mother take her last breath
I looked into her eyes as she struggled to eat last night
She wanted a glass of water
She cried when they refused- this made me laugh
They looked at me with pure disgust in their eyes.
“Have you no pity?” they spat.
I smiled in response to their hate.

I watched your mother take her last breath
It was exciting to say the least
As night fell, I saw her gasping for air
Reaching out to the nearest table, trying to grab the pump
I sat up on my bed, enthusiastic
She was finally being set free
From the dreadful shackles of life

I watched your mother take her last breath
But I felt no remorse
The ones next to me trembled in fear and said their prayer
While I looked straight into her ebony eyes
I do not know who she is, I do not know her name
I know not what she accomplished in life
What lies beneath that fragile frame.

I watched your mother take her last breath
She called out a few names
While the nurses shed tears and held her back
In my heart, I felt a tingling pain
I wonder who will watch me die
I wonder if someone will be there to write
How I tried to breathe for one last time

I watched your mother take her last breath
Horizontal lines bade her goodbye
They ripped out the pipes that supported her
They wrapped her in plastic before our eyes
Concealing her from the curious multitude
Treating her like the waste she is
Waiting to throw her in the nearby landfill

I watched your mother take her last breath
Sick and degenerate, we are nothing but junk
Clad in hazmat suits and gas masks
They are waiting for us to die
Even in my deathbed, I feel even more alive
To think you would give anything
To be here right now instead of me.

You are crying and screaming- where is your closure?
You were not allowed to see your mother- was it the fear of exposure?
I did: I saw her as she writhed, before being overcome by quietude
As they wheel me towards the ventilation room, silence overpowers me
Amidst the pipes and nozzles, a conceited smirk one can see
Your mother lies among millions dumped- what an ill fate
Yes, I was the one who watched your mother take her last breath.

Debadrita Sur is a 20-year-old student of English Literature at Presidency University, Kolkata. She is a serial procrastinator who dreams of traveling the world, swimming with sharks, and finding inner peace someday!