GERONIMO THE ALPACA

by Martin Elster

GERONIMO the tragic alpaca was dragged from his paddock [on August 31, 0221] and executed by a team of [UK] government officials. The eight-year-old animal, whose plight touched the nation, was shoved in a horsebox and killed with a bolt gun after 25 cops and four Defra [Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs] agents descended on his farm. Geronimo, who Defra claimed had TB, kicked out and appeared distressed as he was pulled away with a rope round his neck at Wickwar, Gloucestershire [UK}. His furious owner said the tragic alpaca’s “barbaric” execution was murder. The eight-year-old animal was dragged to his death by a team of “bully-boy” Defra ­officials after he tried to make a last dash for freedom. The Government claims he had TB but Helen Macdonald, 50, said he was perfectly healthy. She previously vowed to “take a bullet” for her beloved alpaca. —The Sun, August 31, 2021

I felt healthy and hardy.

TB? None, for sure!

Why the gun to my head?

Does that make you secure?

Sniffing hay-scented air,

I was glad when I saw

my owner each day;

but condemned by your law,

a scapegoat alpaca,

I paid a big price.

As for your cold heart,

try melting its ice.

Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. His career in music has influenced his fondness for writing metrical verse, which has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies in the US and abroad. A full-length collection Celestial Euphony was published by Plum White Press in 2019.

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet

“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.

Joy has deep, soft texture these days,

like going barefoot on a carpet so lush

you almost feel you’re walking on air.

Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,

 

no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air

passing through spring leaves. Its color

is the wash of a water-color painting—

nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish

 

but how can I feel other when—as I write—

all whom I love are healthy and those dearest

I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—

and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter

 

and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter

hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver

of Covid concern causes pause until—

like warm sun on my face in winter—

 

time dissolves into the eternity of now

and I breathe in the joy of the moment.

 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.