Ramp up. Ramp up. Use what can to lift up.
Test at the present level, not enough.
The complacency with it, interrupt.
Get to a higher level; know you must.

Ramp up. Ramp up. As if by hydraulic,
or foot pump. Have to use your strength on it.
Get higher. Bit by bit can manage it.
Perform with urgency; engage with it.

Ramp up. It’s a test for everyone.
Ramp up. For the good it does, get it done.
Whatever it takes, we have to become
fit to work, fit to live, out in the Sun.

Ramp up. You know being tested is right.
Once all done, can have a future that’s bright.


Lots to say, but less answers by the day.
In my day, was known as, and called, ‘waffle’.
So much that is absent from what they say.
In Boris Johnson speak, it is ‘piffle’.

Covers up the mistakes and shortcomings;
the essential supplies, failed to muster.
Behind the curve with all the happenings.
Claims to ‘make good’, case of ‘too late’ bluster.

Never straight answer to a straight question.
‘Doing something’ said to allay despair.
But no grip on crisis’s dimension,
so feigned ‘confidence’ amidst much ‘hot air’.

The question unasked, ‘their ability?’
Answer, ‘beyond their capability’.


I want to write a poem about love.
I do have that expression within me.
I’ve done them about the disease enough.
It is time to respond magically.

Love in the time of plague is so precious.
In earlier times, true it had passion.
But now, with this peril, it is a must.
Put my love into all sorts of action.

Show I care for you; I care about you.
You are the rich fabric of my being.
The gold and crimson weave, with shades of blue.
Threads of all colours which I am seeing.

So, I voice my love here, for exposure.
For you, this poem is my disclosure.


Would you care to self-isolate with me?
From others, practice social distancing,
but in same place together, we could be.
Don’t say, ‘don’t find at all interesting’.

I would like to be with you in lockdown.
‘Stay at home’ and ‘stay safe’, we could practice.
Maybe … my hope … could mean a new love found.
But I’m not pressing; we’ll see how it is.

If, however, you want to stay away,
we could again date on some future day,
when thought safe to be in each other’s way.
Until then, by screen, our words can display.

I would like us, though, to be a ‘household’.
You could think about that, now you’ve been told.


There is a considerable danger,
venturing out into the unsafe zone.
May come across an unpleasant stranger.
May be unprotected, there, on my own.

Could meet that throttler, who is still at large.
A latter-day ‘leper’, disease-ridden.
A thief, who for his victim, no regard.
Curfew soldier. My presence forbidden.

When I go, I try to go unnoticed.
When there are not scattergun munitions.
When the ghosts frightened of an exorcist.
And when there are no deadly emissions.

The light in the morning probably best
to be there, away from the risky rest.


Settling into this new state of being.
More in isolation. More at distance.
What has been, so ‘has been’. ‘Was’, the meaning.
To what was, though, don’t feel indifference.

I enjoyed being outside with people.
Shoulder to shoulder solidarity.
Amongst onlookers in a meeting hall.
Not too much as a singularity.

But am now. If with wife counts as single.
I know austerity pain will roll on.
Will hurt many, as cost on them will fall.
Still scared of disease, but given poison.

For many, … perhaps me … , ‘do in’ the brain,
if, with worst there is, it’s more of the same.

… FREE …

I can appear to be free in the world.
In the park, where I evade close contact.
In the streets, which I hope are not peopled,
and no-one’s coming up behind my back.

I am not free from fear of intrusion;
The space I am in being contested.
Nearness in momentary confusion.
Outsider cruelly uninterested.

I am free to exercise with my dogs,
but it is hazardous; it’s not fear-free.
Any old fool who walks, jogger who jogs,
sudden cougher, can put the wind up me.

They could infect me that is the danger.
And that can kill. Death by foolish stranger.

Week 4
Week 6