This Virus Ends With -Us
March 26, 2020

This is the time to be resilient.
This is the time when wolves come out
to hunt and prey on the weak.

This is the time where we must
stay inside and not think
about the negative or fuss,

we must be mindful
through the course of each day
and not lose our focus.

On the couch I surf the web, distracting
myself from fear. My grandparents knew
shortages and gardens and dodged

bullets and suffered financial ruin.
Will I make them proud of me?
Will we make them proud of us?

Tickets for Hamilton at the Pantages,
after 5 years, cancelled;
help us, Dionysus.

It’s time to be kind to ourselves
and others. Fight the temptation
to close the distance. Be courageous.

Forgot your mittens? Didn’t pack
a lunch? Sit next to me.
Last seat on the bus.

A crusty mess who loves to cuss
Don’t sneeze on me!
You might be contagious.

Off to work wearing a mask.
Keeping a safe distance
is tough on a crowded bus.

Walking in the bright of day, flowers
galore and orange blossoms
so fragrant, keeping

a six foot distance, like
experts say, to avoid catching
the Coronavirus.

Look up! What do you see?
A “Hefalump” or “Woozle”? For those
with less imagination–it’s a stratus,

a cirrus, a cumulus— No, can’t you
see it? Clearly, it’s cumulelaphumpus!
Dozens, too many to count,

wound their way overhead
yesterday: seagulls, flying without
fear or fuss. And the sea

and the wind and the trees, all in chorus.
Cool spring breeze through apricot blossoms:
melodious, harmonious, delicious.

You’re addictive, contagious,
I’ve caught your virus. I’ve waited forever
for me & you to become us.

We tremble awaiting
our release—it’s so deciduous!
All conspired in the wild, wild rumpus.

by Juanita Mantz, Robin Longfield, Gudelia Vaden, Ruth Bavetta, Julianna Cruz, James Luna, Lynn Doiron, Kris Lovekin, Kirk McConnell, Stevie Taken, Christian Garduno, Nan Friedley, Ai Kelly, Larry Burns, Steven Mast

Original prompt: Write anything you’d like, but the last word in your line should rhyme with or end in “-us”.

Get Away: A Pandemic Road Trip
March 25, 2020

Sometimes I just need to hold the wheel to feel in control.
I slam the door and turn the key and off we go.

Hate to drive but see me in the passenger seat
willing pines to transform into palms
as husband steers saying look at the rain.

Vistas untrammeled by fear— the lure of the endless
road, empty and clean, and the weightless air.

Windows washed with rain, clouds reaching for
the heavens, rainbows to the end of forever.
Gravel churns on an asphalt highway, windows

open to warm wind, past wheat fields
of memory. Headed to Hawaii

because it’s far away from here, and waterfalls
wash me clean. Rain on lava hisses steam;
plumeria scents midday dreams.

Windows down, warm breezes help palm trees
tickle the sky. As I round the curve the sun

sizzles in the hair of the broken pine.
Often I like to drive
to San Francisco and see the Golden Gate bridge,

smell the ocean while birds fly above
clear blue skies. Jump in my car

with no loaves of bread. Sorry ducks.
The rose garden is ready to bloom! Over
the wooden bridge I go,

around the lake ten times.
Sun shines through

the century-old trees. Passing
Joshua with arms reaching
to the heavens and Old Man Yucca bent

over with age. Sometimes you need
to whisk your spouse away

for wind therapy, Zeppelin, and the mountains…
to see my identically twin grandchildren.
Redundant but delightful!

Fairmont Park awaits our return.
I spy less traffic as I dash
during the senior happy hour at the market.

And through it all, we grow old.
We are born blind; I’ve come to take you home.

by Ruth Bavetta, Julianna Cruz, Lynn Doiron, Janine Pourroy Gamblin, Stephanie Barbe Hammer, Debby Johnson, Judy Kronenfeld, Jessica Lea, Kris Lovekin, Doug McCulloh, Cindi Neisinger, Magdalena Nunez, Cati Porter, Dar Stone, David Stone, Gudelia Vaden, and Frances Vasquez.

Original promp: Let’s imagine we are going for a car ride. Where are we going? What do you we see, hear, taste, touch, feel? Who are we with?

Days 317 and 318 of Self-Quarantine: Take-Out Delivery Service Via Drone to Your Door
March 24, 2020

by Christina Guillen, Cati Porter, Burcu Misirli Chatham, Julianna Cruz, Ai Kelley, Dar Stone, Robin Longfield, Shali Nicholas, James Luna, Liz Armstrong, Magdalena Nunez, Cherie Rouse,

“A blessed day to you, Ma’m”, a voice from
the ether said as a package landed at our feet.
“That looks like something that fell from space!”,
said the child. “Son, Mommy has to quarantine
the cardboard box 24 hours in the garage first!”

“You didn’t wash that avocado, did you?,” asked
Grandma. “Listen to yo momma, child!”
“See, I told you there’d be enough rice for
everyone if we all just take a little.” Then Grandma
said, ”Finger Food” doesn’t mean your fingers
are food—get them out of your mouth!”

”Don’t eat that without washing your hands!,”
mother exclaimed, “You told me he was dead!,”
mom said, looking at Dad.

“And I grabbed an extra thermometer.”
“I f’ing love you”

Original prompt: Today, please contribute a line of dialogue. It can be anyone talking to anybody. It doesn’t have to be complete. It can even be a snippet of an overheard conversation.

Spring Greening
March 23, 2020

Violet and green,
Mother Nature’s
clean. Palm leaves, green,
swaying in the
breeze. Green debate
in the wind rasp-
ing between pane
and sash. The view
from here: A slice
of window, glass
greened by the trees.

by Julianna Cruz, Christine Perkins, Joseph Milazzo, Cati Porter

Original prompt: Today, let’s try to each add a line that includes the color green.

Listen Up
March 22, 2020

The clanging of metal on metal, muffled
words, men still at work
Zephyr’s breath through sycamore leaves,
chittering Golden Finch,
hum, whiz, darting, iridescent hummingbird
wings, buzzing
bees across strawberry
blossoms
Children’s voices at play, floating carefree over
the back fence
Scratch, scratch, whoosh,
in the bag, raking last
autumn’s leaves

by Dar Stone, Julianna Cruz, Debby Johnson, Cati Porter

Original prompt: Take a moment to listen to your surroundings and let those sounds inform your contribution.

For Today
March 21, 2020

Today, I might have sampled strawberries
at the farmer’s market.
Today I might have shopped
for groceries if I could’ve but i couldn’t!

Today I might have have gone to the casino
and danced with the regulars.
Today, I might have gone to Disneyland but instead
the park is closed.

Today I might have thought more about my to do list
than the sound of my children’s laughter.
Today I might have shared a learning moment with a child,
but instead I learned– like a child in the garden.

Today, I might have lingered in bed, drenched in ennui, but instead
I wandered into the garden
and found the right branch for hanging a birdhouse.

Today, I might have stayed inside and listened to dire news,
but instead sat outside listening to jazz & the sounds
of the teens two houses over playing
basketball, while my husband
paints a garden shed.

Today, I might have forgotten the smell of cut
clover, the metallic spin of a push mower, lavender &
rosemary on the wind.

I might as well write a poem.

by Christine Perkins, Marjorie Graham-Howard, Sherre Vernon, Magdalena Nunez, Elizabeth Faith Aamot, Janine Pourroy Gamblin, Julianna Cruz, Robbi Nester, Liz Armstron, Correcaminitos, Dar Stone, Becca Spence Dobias, Rakhi Shelat

Original prompt: Let’s try something a little different today: Let’s use some anaphora (repetition at the beginning of the line):

“Today, I might have…” and then finish the line with whatever you might have done had it been a normal day.

Ready, set, write!

Elegy for TP: A Villanelle
March 18, 2020

It was almost as if toilet paper didn’t grow on trees
Until it didn’t and we looked to the bees
And earth was swaddled in green

The bees, and their sticky honey, and we, licking —
each one caught up in the useless, repetitive of their work, blind.
It was almost as if toilet paper didn’t grow on trees

A vase from Santa Clara del Cobre was revealed.
This is balance, but my spine won’t straighten.
And earth was swaddled in green

Each one caught up in the useless, repetitive of their work, blind.
We craved her Royal Jelly, but at what cost? We did not care.
It was almost as if toilet paper didn’t grow on trees.

A vase from Santa Clara del Cobre was revealed
And I prayed that they might skin us in their copper.
And earth was swaddled in green.
It was almost as if toilet paper didn’t grow on trees

by Joseph Milazzo, Rebecca K. O’Connor, Julianna M. Cruz, Frances Vasquez, Dar Stone, and Cati Porter

Original prompt: Inlandia writers: Let’s write a collaborative poem together. We’ll start with one line in the comments and everyone who wants to participate, use the comments to write your own line and add to the poem. We’ll share the completed work when it’s done. Ready, set, go!

It is Monday, April 6, 2020. I am writing from Riverside, California, where the stay at home order has been in place since March 19.

Yesterday it was just announced that a local nursing care facility has thirty patients who have tested positive for COVID-19, plus some of their staff. And that’s usually how it begins in our communities, during this crisis that has killed more than 10,000 people in the United States, to date, and growing exponentially every day.

We’ve been told that this and the following week are going to be the hardest. That number of deaths will explode. So, in the face of that, this will be a space to share your writing about your life during the pandemic. I will update it as often as I can, beginning with the collaborative poems we have been writing on Inlandia’s Facebook page.

If you are moved to write about your experience, either in poetry or prose, any genre, please submit your work here, one piece per day.

Caveats: To keep it simple, we are only allowing Word docs at this time. Poems using complex forms/formats may not be feasible for this project as part of the initiative is to post items quickly. Submission is not a guarantee of publication, but I plan to publish as much as possible to create a record of our lives during these uneasy weeks/months– years?