I – My Bare Foot
I placed my
bare foot firmly
on the soil
of a planet that
longs for the
thinking ones
to think;
that yearns for
the clever ones
to wake up,
and
take action
beyond their simple
speech.
That they
act as the noble
woman upon
which they all stand
and drill
and offer up the
remnants of all they
have taken
from her
and destroyed.
Her ancient plates
and seismic shifts
move not on a
whim or
self involved
reflection of profit –
as does their
every move.
No market share
or stock options
are hers to garner
from her constant
attention
to the landscape
all about her and
within –
as are theirs.
She is shaped
and pressed by
the forces of
all that touch
her. And in
that touch
she always attempts
to bring a balance
that is beyond
any one member
of her system
of life and living.
Whole planets spin
through space
completely unaffected
by the greed of
what we have built
here on our place
with our singular
focus and vision
on our own
lives –
lives
that are willing
to offer everything
else up on the
altars of destruction,
extinction, and
a consumption
that knows no
satiation.
And yet,
with the Buddha
we hold up
one
simple
flower
that all mankind
would become
awakened before
they fossil fuel
themselves to
death.
II – Burning All His Trees
How could we live
with ourselves if
the storms grew
worse for our children
and we did nothing
to bridle our apathy
and our greed.
A blanket cloud
of methane cannot
replace a cumulus.
A river
of polychlorinated biphenyls
cannot replace a spring.
We could loaf and
lean and
invite ourselves no more
to quench our deepest cataracts
on the cold, cold draught
of our hydration.
Like all the earth
a composite of water and dirt.
How could we live
knowing the stones we
gave our children –
as the asked for bread –
fell on them and
crushed them dead
or, at least impaired
them – no more to
lean and loaf with Whitman?
The rocks have not
yet joined the cry of
dissidence and revolt;
the stones have not yet
thrown themselves
on the barons
and corporate moguls
whose tales and lies
have lolled us away
from finding the
trail to their pockets
well-lined with cash
and misinformation.
If a man knew
that burning all his trees
would kill the children
of his home,
would he not look
for a new way to heat
the rooms of his sons –
to light the rooms
of his daughters?
Could he knowingly
march toward the cliff
of his lemming demise with
no concern for the falling
save his own?
The shadow play
of rain upon the bark
has given me hope
a thousand, thousand times.
The muffling stillness
of foot on loam
has caused me
endless pause to
listen beyond myself.
But others,
will they wake
in time?
I do not know,
I do not know.
III – A Canyon of Woe
A canyon of woe
could not replace
the loamy soil
of home.
And yet, each day
I see the tracks
upon the land
that will surely
shatter the dank
and fertile coordinate
of our hope.
The moist dirt
below our feet.
I feel the trails
and hills in the
center of my me,
a tonic against
the mid-day
toil and focus on
my madly hauling
cash and acquisition –
a wall of ennui to
protect the bounty
of my greed.
How might we
then cope,
should we toxify the
very respite of our
toxification?
And, that sound
has no easy listening.
The words of a
dying earth do not
so easily find
themselves in verse.
It is not for the simple rhyming
that they are kept from being
penned.
Toxification.
It’s very harshness cuts
words in two; lacerating one
good image upon the altar
of our poetic druidry and one
good sound upon the misty
morning grass of my
Glencoe prose.
Craning my neck to
assail my eyes with
the wonder of a mountain
climb, I know the
stakes of endlessly fossil
fueling ourselves to the
edge. We will fall –
as all tipping points –
in a whispered descent that
picks up speed.
Unrecognizable
at first. But,
oh too soon upon us, still.
Unless,
unless we make
the ultimate
of all noble sacrifices –
to make a choice to
bridle our rampant
greed for our singular
need to have and use
and devour every
living resource
at our surround.
To begin to say
"NO" to living
in a flippant
ease and
decadent superiority –
numb to the
languishing
and suffering
of every other being that
draws breath.
Me,
my,
glorious and
singularly infatuated
with its own
ownness so much
it pretends
that
there
is
NOTHING
ELSE.
And soon,
as it also dies,
it will briefly
become
true.
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