Thursday, February 6, 2020

Sestina Poem Coronavirus

Corona Virus Poem

Paper towel turns on.
Wet hands large glob of soap.
Cover with big bubbles.
Rub and count to twenty.
Shake for fifteen seconds.
Don't touch anything hard.

Sneezing gets your guard on.
Bless the elbow, not hard.
Share to wash with bubbles.
Our lives count on seconds.
Virus flies almost twenty.
Liquid or bar's good soap.

Glycerin rose is soap
Killing molecules on
surfaces that are hard.
The beauty of bubbles
scrubs away in seconds.
Give it a count twenty.

Rabies creates bubbles
It takes months not seconds
Bites cause one in twenty.
Clean a wound with much soap
reduce molecules on
muscle joins fast and hard.

Our panic is not twenty.
Will there be enough soap?
C. P. C.  evil turns on ~
No vaccine makes it hard.
Guns not filled of bubbles.
Virus spreads split seconds.

Life has many seconds
recall being twenty
the solution is soap
you desire to go on
without beloved its hard
memory pops bubbles

Keep strong, although its hard
recall: wash with bubbles
sing birthday for seconds
see children be twenty
the solution is soap
you desire to go on.

  Caroline Gerardo 

© copyright 2/4/2020 

Please wash your hands in hot water and soap for twenty seconds, some say to sing the Happy Birthday song, before you eat, touch another person, come home, before you touch your face. As a matter of fact train yourself not to touch your face with your fingers.

Tuesday, November 5, 2019


El Chaltén 
Los Glaciares National Park
Argentina hike
A view of Fitz Roy
On this rock a stranger
showed me the macarena

Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Let Go

"In the end only three things matter:
how much you loved,
how gently you lived,
and how gracefully you let go
of the things not meant for you."

Monday, October 7, 2019

Flannery O'Connor

"The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it."

Self portrait oil on board by the writer. 

The halo behind her head has been compared to saint icons of the Orthodox Church;
but, I believe she was playing with a couple themes. Perhaps it is merely a big brimmed
straw hat shading her from the Southern sun? Or even the sun rising in the morning?

The color palette of the pheasant is not one of the hundred peahens on her farm, it is
drab rust, autumnal browns and black. The humor of the straight faced writer and the 
broody hen looks the viewer in the heart. She knew herself.

Tuesday, August 20, 2019


Fog in the evening rolls in from the seas
hangs low in the sky to hug  palm trees

Memory of those gone from my life
stirred sticks with purple loose strife 

Digging toes, find graves in the sand
Continue to reach for a healing hand

Children in Paradise are back at school
Fog triggers emotion of death by a fuel

copyright Caroline Gerardo poem and images © 2018 August 20