It seems to me, man has changed the planet and thus the weather and I don’t see that being reversed. I am not a very optimistic person, I guess. But the earth will survive; life will adapt,some species may perish (even man) but others will take their place. I see it as part of a natural process. All life, as we know it, may at some time become extinct on earth but it will be a process (though aided by man) out of the control of man. Man’s belief in his power, both for creativity and destruction, is, to me, arrogant and delusional. That is not to said that we should not be striving to correct the damage we’ve done and feeling great shame for what we have allowed to take place.
Author: Leo
-
Leaves
Should I be raking leaves; they’re piling up?
My yard sleeps beneath a saddle-brown snow
complete with two/foot drifts snug around shrubs.
The paths and spent flowers seem content though,
resting without pressure to be well-groomed.
My eyes tell me this without judgment of
their own; leaving the decision for me.
Taking my cue from nature, I chose to
lie fallow and rest beneath a rich snow.
-
The Moth
Your history flows freely:
a gently bubbling shower massage;
effervescent revelations of sweetness,
moist longings and caustic bitterness.
They twirl and coil,
these memories of your considerable passion.
My acceptance of one entices another
and another and with each a glance
from gleaming eyes, demure and measuring,
wondering at my salient calm.
I wonder: how close can I linger,
how long can I sooth and be soothed
before my dusty wings explode in flame?
-
Fawn
Along the bank of a singing creek
drawn crouching beneath tangled laurel
to a sandy cove by a sweet stench,
I found a fawn, awhile dead, untouched,
inches from the water’s edge.
Her pliant, serene/cervine body lay melting
molecule by molecule returning ascending
and her soul held wake above wafting
among lustrous white laurel blossoms.
-
Squirrel Narrative
Spiraling up and up with scratching speed,
the squirrels pursued each other around
the rough barked pine faster than my eyes could shift.I lost them in white sky glare and tangled
needle mass; raucously harsh, screeching calls,
marked them before their leap to a neighbor oak.The smaller fell, spread-eagle in air;
missed! I thought, but spasms of tail/tick-tock
and tendon/claw snagged a limb-tip easing
his plummeting fall to stronger growth.Then, daring pursuit, the parent raced on,
intent on schooling squirrel ways without respite;
tree to tree with chattering leaps of faith.From limb to power line the parent jumped
beckoning the smaller to follow fast; the pupil,
leaping, slipped, then swung upright and froze:
the taut wire of risk lay suddenly clear
in the vastness of white opened air.Father/mother? chastised hesitance with
warnings of dark omnipresent beast,
and ran the unforgiving wire quickly away.The rodent/child, doubt crushed, wavered and fell,
clawing apathetic air to the street
where he lay and twice twitched, perhaps with thoughts
of soft/leaf nest and of drinking water. -
Bird Haiku
Grackle
Brazen hundreds flaunt
their stuff, screaming their presence;
conquering the trees.
•
Bluejay
Unsympathetic;
reigning, brassy-blue diva
of the canopy.
•
Bluebird
The blue of God’s eyes;
with cheek-blushed breast, you flutter
in your dainty bath.
•
Crow
Black hole against soft
sky blue as boy-baby blue;
harsh as a night scream.
•
Mourning Dove
Flushed from brush in twos;
rattling chortles of wings lift
them to lowest limbs.
They call in soft glee.
Mistaken for sad laments,
their calls haunt our days.
Skeptical of bliss;
we refuse to hear pure joy
of a gleeful heart.
-
Maybe, it’s just me, but…
My mind can not comprehend a meaning.
Surely, you merely, poke fun;
content to tease less agile minds
……………..sliding words along,
a string of pearls nicely strung,
glossed with an aura of interrelated-import,
advancing only themselves across the page.
The meter, the sound, the flow is sweet
but what do you…. so delightfully…… decline to say?
Do you at night giggling safely in your bed,
berate yourself for naughtiness,
or…..crying, fear your efforts wanting?
Listen…there!…. Listen. Are you repeating what you hear?
-
The Mower
Still…I feel the spongy dead-stop of my swing
of blade against the harden broom-sedge tuft.
Higher, I reasoned, taking another swipe
with a sling-blade taller than my six years.
Golden grass flowed with the blow yielding only
dry flotsam with straw scented disappointment.
•
So strange….memories lingering half-centuries;
others just a day, a moment, or never really made.
My first remembered ambition: to lay low
that field, expansive then, for no particular reason
other than to see it felled…..to smell accomplishment.
Stubborn grasses or allergies brought tears
and abandonment of blade and pride; both
flung down hard…..then dreams for years self-thwarted.
•
Now….walking aware, overstepping briars,
through fields of desiccated, swishing grasses;
hand, palm down flat, I caress resilient sedge tops.
My blade, bright with sharpen glints, shouldered.
I’m ready to swing with practiced ease but
only for purpose and with reverence for grasses.
-
To the mirror
Listen! I’m talking to you, he said to the mirror.
Help me decipher these fragmented thoughts:
From the very beginning…..we are locked
in isolated minds…..simmering hot
fibrous solutions arcing sparks like a
grinding wheel dumb of its rotating self
throwing holograms of tricky, bland light
for billions of pied elucidations
by flawed, chemical collusions painted
by chances’ whims of perception, fated
to pursue that umbilical link …that
elusive oneness to the flow of life
from which I was lovingly, sadly torn.
And we all know it exist….doesn’t it?
It’s so simple: allow me nirvana,
that whispered agreement, “Yes, yes, I know!”
from some entity divine or simple
as skin touch, hand clap or burning leaves smell.
Place your fingers on your temples: it’s all
just biology. Did you feel it? There,
that repulsive hairy rodent bumping
burrowing stifling muddle-headedness
that dead fullness……is it a corruption
in the spasmodic spark shower itself?
Are capillaries constricted, neurons
lacking sufficient flint to strike words……thoughts?
I do know ideas are snagged in transit,
wedged in dead-end deformities, bouncing
off walls, flinging echoes of frustration.
Those random un-sensed possibilities
struggling to permeate my consciousness;
who knows what brilliance never surfaces?
Is our hard hunger only the seeking
of what’s trapped below; god or peace only
those stifled sparks sending S.O.S. calls?
A logical progression of thought was
just chopped, (I felt the dull blade; my throat aches)
severed just behind the tongue an instant
before a flash of fluency rose up.
Listen I’m talking to you! he said to the mirror.
-
Memorial
Separation is the state of final
acknowledgement of the absolute.
Existing in relation to all, you cannot
complete yourself but we will be here,
remembering your name, speaking humbly,
offering colorful ribbons and tears.
•
Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends.
Who made the choice is not the point to argue;
you were chosen or made the choice yourself.
Whether the cause was just or not or moot,
something was required and you were loss.
Now, you have that knowing that eludes us.
•
Placated, soothed by ritualistic words,
we read hollow text and embarrassed by
uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray,
speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice;
we whisper the name of that demigod.
Here….we will never have that knowing.
•
Guilt is the word, the word that tells,
leaving no room for elaboration.
We wrap and place your bones with no dreams in
The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics.
On occasion, we hear their soft clacking;
lighting short candles, we appease with chants.
Belated Words 