Covidéjà vu.

By Jean Pierre Nikuze.

Unhand that twig
& recede
into your tenebrous tub!

Backtrack, creep
in reverse. Sibilate!

Like a funambulist
hinged,
the gasping close by
notwithstanding,
backpedaling

on a duly oiled
unicycle, silently
as time en route
even
as time unlapsed,

career backwards
& grow into your death
as the rouged user
of a concave mirror
colors her vim.

Tumble back first
heel into curb,

miss the ground’s receipt
of your inion, only
a figure of speech
you levelled bastard,

you bleeding out beast,
cursed owner
of a
staunchless wound,

the compound
good-as-dead;
in three syllables: carrion.

Glide, wriggle, convulse,
rousted by the tail

as in an ill-matched
tug of war,

for though
the wild goats are as

close as Wales,
all who’d been to Eden
died off
with the memory
of whereabouts.

Poet Bio:

Jean Pierre Nikuze is a Rwandan writer and poet.

Masks

By Mniko Chacha 

Masks.

“Wear the masks,” the prominent governor announced,
Soon after Covid-19 emerged,
Despite the increase in price everyone demanded masks at any price,
So, I bought two masks to cover my face,

At home, the wise passerby uttered,
“Wear masks everywhere you go, otherwise, you will cease to exist.”
I resisted it for a while and tried to disbelieve my mind,
Then, I recalled what the Television broadcasted. “Those who will wear masks will defeat this pandemic beast.”

I thought a little bit and took the face mask,
And covered my face,
I looked on the mirror and saw that my face was becoming the dusk,
The confusion disturbed my eyes.

Afterwards, I moved towards the sitting room where my wife drank a beer,
“Woo the ghost is coming to kill me right here.”
She shouted and struck me with the whisk broom,
And fled from my sight.

I threw down the mask thinking that it brought the pandemic ghost in my home,
“Take care, nowadays, the face masks are rare to find,
Like the dust of gold.”
The fading mouth roared to me,

Later, I shook my head to grasp the reality,
And restore into me the sincerity,
To the best of my own ability,
I wore another mask and got back to my sanity.

Listening to Frank at Work during the Corona Virus Lockdown.

By Jack Bowman.

The trumpet flares out, steamy notes, well felt ones,

Frank sits at his desk during a break,

glasses lost, he does his best to shuffle through.

Outside, the world is filled with viruses

and billions are confined to their homes.

Bands of morons,

defy this and will surely cause another wave

of the pandemic to spread.

So Frank writes, does his best to focus and balance

let’s the jazz in

it calms him –

reduces his typos

and reminds him about ‘the moment’

how it feels to be ‘moved’ about all you do

then does it.

Poet Bio:

Jack Bowman is the author of over ten books including poetry collections and novels.

The Heroes (for Eryk Hanut).

By Carolyn Gregory.

The heroes fill my heart with joy.
They open community kitchens
and shut down restaurants.
They reach an ancient birthday
after living a good life.

They offer face masks
to help the poor survive.
They write articles to help
readers know
what looms before them.

The heroes are both invisible
and also in our lives,
carrying good jokes and prayers
in equal measure.

We are lucky to have them among us,
offering peace and much better days
if we are alert
to all their good works.

 

 

Night and Day.

By Jan Tromp.

At home during our first lockdown
it’s as if the end has come
the whole world quieted by the plague
businesses closed, people sent home,
in some countries hospitals overrun
and death at the corner…
us, confined in the house
musing what’s to be done,
doves calling at sunset,
and there was evening
with its glinting star
and morning —the first day.

***

Futilely searching for the manual to all of this,
cut-off, we attempt
to connect by zoom, tik tok and whatsapp
seeking the safe centre,
the how, what and why in countless
burning digiscreens, one-world windows,
We open them to love and hate,
falsity, truth, we can’t resist them now:
chipped with the apple, scared of the doctor
and the dark laboratory churning under,
even as the antelope roam savannahs free,
we’re the planet’s freaks now
shivering…broken/hopeful in the lonely wind,
and there was evening
with shattered neon cloud
and morning —the sixth day.

 

Poet Bio:

 

 

Call for Submissions: COVID-19

Featured

Nalubaale Review COVID-19 Call for Submissions.

Yes, we are looking for stories, essays, experiences of the Covid-19 pandemic. No, we will not let this catastrophic event go down in History without being documented. The papers are doing their part, but we would like a more personal approach – A HUMAN STORY BEHIND THE NUMBERS AND HEADLINES.

We would like to read, and even publish, your Covid-19 story. It does not matter how remote or urban, poor or rich, young or old you are, we just want you to tell that story.

My Covid-19 Story.

My Lockdown Story.
Things I have learnt.
Things I miss most about normal life
The first thing I will do when the covid pandemic is over.
A habit I had before that I will drop/won’t do again.
Letter to your grand children about the Covid-19.
Write a movie story ‘the pandemic that was!’
A letter to someone, a letter to covid-19 itself

Healing \ forging a way forward through.

You can write a poem, short story, dialogue. Any style is welcome.

We want to publish a story from at least every country in the world.

Send submissions to: nalubaalereview@gmail.com

Deadline May 30th 2021.

Six Feet Away.

By Peter Vasic.

No matter what your dwelling may be

Knowing the challenge that we face

Now is not the time and place

To roam close to one another.

 

Staying six feet away from each other

Sticking close to home

Staying with the family

The choice is ours to make

 

Now, supplies run low!

A trip to the grocery is unavoidable.

To choose an aisle very carefully is –

A new skill learned.

 

Within seconds,

A rather large congregation takes form

The six feet apart diminish out of sight

The six feet below are but waiting in line,

 

Contrary to the general populace,

The privileged ones, somewhat ignorant

Go against the new norm

They have no concept, of what six feet is

 

With them I can no longer remain,

With life I choose to retain.

Makes you wonder

What Covid thinks of us!

Rim Canyon Road.

By Jack Bowman. 

It’s May, Frank’s eyes continue to blur,

he loses things, forgets, gets frustrated easily

some pressure;

a new found irritant,

an itchy wound where none was before

 

he gets his youngest, gives him the easy Canon, he uses his phone

takes off toward Tujunga, after 3 attempts to get through, they find it,

Mt Gleeson Rd., which leads up and over,

the road behind the mountains,

it seems, others have found it too,

many cars, hard to see the people, a few doing social distancing

the rocks are there, the cliffs, drying creeks, sand, bridges,

a kite

and then the view,

they stop exit the car and take it in, a few photos, but the expanse is wide;

a valley with high mountains on each side, green of spring, a misty fog makes him wonder if it’s all real,

but he takes it in anyway

shows his son how to work the camera,

 

it works, irritation suspended,

mountain driving, beauty and secrets

hidden in the travertine and limestone, 

it feels

just fine.

Poet Bio:

Jack G. Bowman is a poet, composer, performer and psychotherapist based in Southern California. His poems have been widely published in small presses across the US, UK, India, Mexico and on the internet since 1991. He has written reviews for Poetix and Poetic Diversity, he was a member of the poetry groups; Third Person Singular, Duotribe and The Furniture Guild Poets, in recent years, he has been published in Altadena Poetry Quarterly, Spectrum Anthologies and Fevers of the Mind, He was nominated for a Push-Cart Prize in 2016.

Look Away, Child.  

By Dan Mulinge

 

I’m in line at the hospital,

Seated, not standing

With an awkward distance from her,

Her two little incisors proudly present her smiles

Her scattered hairs, a sombre yet fun reminder

That we are all born bald, and delicate.

She’s playfully dancing on her mother’s lap,

As if it were a ball room and she, the ballerina

I make faces every time she looks this way

I wink, and she blinks twice,

I smile under my mask, she smiles back openly

Her little fingers clutch her mother’s skirt, she ascends

She’s stands, then walks, supported by the bench.

She looks up at me, wanting to be held.

I cannot touch her. I should not touch her. Or hold her. Or tickle her

So long are the days of abujubujubujuu!

So long, child, are the days we’d hold you and play along.

Corona is watching, I better not be her victim.

And neither should you.

So I let her walk around,

I have stopped making faces, she won’t be tempted to be held

By anyone but the mother.

 

BREAKING FREE

   By Agatha Malunda.

 

The slavery of free men has began.

A ruthless Queen has risen from the east and 

She, unlike the sun, is harmful to man.

Each day she exhorts the power of death,

many are struggling to survive;

 all living under the fear of losing their lives.

The world is under attack

And lockdown has become Noah’s ark

to protect us from this fiery flood.

We cover our nose and mouth with a mask

and  we’ve become accustomed to this task.

Large gatherings are restricted

our feeling of togetherness is afflicted.

Handshakes have become illegal 

They say hugs and kisses

contribute to the further spread of the illness.

 

The sun shines but we admire its beauty

through our curtain windows.

We can no longer feel its rays on our skin. 

We spend all day listening to news

hearing how the masters of science

are struggling to find an antidote.

But this pain won’t last forever

we will fight it together.

The reign of Corona will be gone

a new era will be born.

in the meantime let us practice safety

by washing our hands regularly and staying indoors as part of the remedy.

In so doing will defeat this enemy

and convict it for its felony.

Life is sweet and we will not let Corona

still the honey in our bodies.