Poetry by Clay Appell

Winter Isle

Cold and dark; exposed and sullen
Snow drifts higher than sand dunes
Locals hibernate and find solace in one another’s company

Inside the kettle whistles; outside the wind follows suit
The dog and cat become restless—they want out!
The cold air migrates into old homes

It is March now and we all yearn for Spring
Will it come in like a lamb or a lion?

The sea looks uninviting
Come May it will sparkle and tempt the hardiest islanders
It is dreary and frigid, yet oddly majesticNo tourists occupy the narrow downtown streets
Soon enough spring will come

Manufactured Isle 

Days go slow

Will I sleep tonight?

The invisible killers lurk in the shadows
We all await the latest update—change is inevitable

Let’s hold hands around the dinner table, like old times
Then later we can check our smartphones

Homes become islands—are they paradises or prisons?
Are we sheltered or trapped?Do we have enough to eat and drink?
Like caged animals, but no master to take care of us

Like bugs in amber They say he died from the virus
But he was prepared—he had hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes

So it goes…

And the birds gaze upon our houses, they are the only things free
To fly uninhibited—fly away from here

Now we question our mortality—what a sobering thought
Nothing to do but ponder in this hermitic existence