If there were ever worthier cause than this, then tell me please. To start and think how each and every step we take will mark the ground with footprint there that, howsoever small,
one day a thousand footprints coalesce
into a hardened monument, that stands
… forever irresistible to all.
Each one of us will contribute toward exposing the futility of war,
the rape of Mother Earth. To save her soul, reiterate,
unquestioning, the need
for all to find another way … for all;
to seek new politic and social order.
And might this be our greatest ever quest that every day we do or be our best ensuring love and kindness finds a place
in every breath we take, that gives us grace to reconcile conflicting minds and cease the fight, and search for everlasting peace.
[This has to become my daily prayer]
“Then you would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love in a sort of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I meet my friend the seagull on the rocks:
mesmerized by ocean, we share this ritual.
I feel wind through my hair
adore me like never before.
It keeps waking me, taunting
me, blowing love’s echo in the night.
Just me and time is all it takes.
Eternity swallowed that simple.
How I disappear in azure eyes.
Words pulsate in my blood,
I can read ad infinitum,
wishing the road never ends.
Softness and power I cannot resist —
hunter and hunted in one —
beauty flows through you, overwhelms
and delights me to insanity.
The sky fills with hundreds of birds
who witness the sun steal away, the day die
as your smile eclipses the light
and turns the dream into a spell.
The tide is out way downstream
in the great harbor, so the reed-ringed
pool at riverside here is wading depth
for a single spindly-legged heron.
She picks her way around, slowly folding
her leg up then extending it to wakelessly
enter the water in a slow-motion
hunter’s march toward the center
of her soggy dining room. All the while
she searches mightily for crabs and shiners
in its strangely sheened shallows.
Her movements are hard-wired
through uncountable generations
of her kind for whom the Hudson
has been home and larder.
They all walked the same gyre as she,
striding toward the middle of the pool
in successively smaller circles,
as if attached to an ever-shortening string
winding ‘round a pole to its mid-pool end.
But an intruder has claimed the throne there,
and she nervously diverts her attention between it
and the scant dinner darting just beyond her reach.
Blue and broad-chested, the interloper
carries a scent familiar to her now, always
in the air but never so strong as today.
A darning needle hums through the heat,
as a barge glides by, its wake shaking
the outsider to life. Fearful, the natural hunter
beats its wings and surrenders to the leaking
fuel drum that scatters swirling rainbows
across the water and its venom to the
muddy bottom of this realm where once
ruled lean grey princes and princesses.
It starts with one.
One skylark singing.
One Carson warning.
Then the robins and blackbirds join in.
The early birds, like Carson.
Then the wrens and warblers
as the daylight warms them.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
The warning calls are warming up as well,
strengthening their numbers
as the bird song
dies away.
Listen.
Listen.
Can you hear them?
Listen.
Don’t sleep.
Don’t wait
to hear
the silence.
on the Atlantic Seaboard they’re paralyzed under
the weight of snow drifts, the detritus of blizzards;
their stark bare branches of oak, elm and maple
etch dark veins into an icy-gray cast-over sky
on the West Coast we’re breaking out magnolias
and blades of tender spring grass are unfurling;
the slight warmth tempts us to pull early spring
like a wool blanket around us or perhaps a blessing
along the stretch of Big Sur the sea strikes stone
and the air explodes, bright and wet with spume,
the green-patinated brine salts our mouths;
above us cloud turrets mimic white-capped waves
standing here, consumed by an unutterable infinity,
our hands and eyes and mind are in cahoots to
imitate nature in the most apt way they’re able,
with our sketch pad, pen and colored pencils
a quick wingless flight into that dancing sea and
we surface with visions grasped tight in our fists,
our eyes are blinded by palette colors, our pencils
bear witness to the gift of another morning,
another kind of beauty; undulating, animated
and so unlike the silent white majesty of snow
Development and sustainability
Without any question should go hand in hand?
The world its people demand stability
A fair global market, nothing underhand.
Give a living wage and every child a school
Treat no man doglike, no woman as a maid
Weren’t we made equal: look at His grandeur
Look isn’t there ample—what’s the masquerade.
Look, for every man there’s also a woman
So why’s there all this rape and pillaging
The land can’t provide any more gold bullion
Haven’t you had enough? Stop dispiriting
-Every one of us with your warmongering.
Let’s have meaningful relations with neighbours
We’ve had enough of your scandalmongering
We know it’s all about scheming payoffs.
Fill their pockets, don’t care about tomorrow
I’m just living for today as life was made
That’s the business I’m in, so keep your sorrow
If nothing else, corruption will still pervade
That’s the attitude our children are faced with
Are raised with and aspire to live. I’m afraid.
Hazardous material is so much pith
A cleaner fairer world – it’s just a charade.
The bark of the old oak shows its wrinkles, scars written on the vellum of its years, a new ring spans the finger of its heart, a summer’s history almost soldered as its sparse leaves crinkle; sap withdraws in August Drop before painting the oak then falling to mulch and feed the tree. This oak has seen our planet change with time its rivers tamed, fields, and its villages and coasts redrawn, kings’ rule and die as all men do their legacy and palaces razed or democratized. Its seen Sahara’s sands creep to the sea, ice thicken or melt around the pole’s, jungles spread, retreat and species change men flee from famine, war, women weep and children starve or die upon the sea. Encased within the chrysalis of power oligarchs, dictators wield transient decrees with the cold eyes and furrowed faces age bestows; for gold and power strips their hearts, yet their bones will lay with poor men in the earth. Whose riches can sustain both man and beast if kindly managed like this ancient oak, tending to all a share that gives food and cloak and with respect shelter from the storms of life. Stripped bones give no hint of state or faith when they rise with movement of the plant’s shell? Ground by magma, rock, wave or fire to dust they may well blow upon the wind to fall on foreign fields forgotten by their folk. Each of us is but an oak leaf in Earth’s time; life a summer’s span before September’s age, precursors November’s fall to earth and death’s transformation to mulch to feed the oak afresh.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the walls and holes they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
four years ago,
when there was a housing boom
and money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were destroyed by human nest builders
three years ago,
even though,
there was no market for nests
and no money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
the new holes and rubble they liked to nest in
were washed away two years ago,
as the walls that stopped the storm flow
were destroyed by human nest builders,
to prepare the ground for money to be made.
The hoopoes are back,
even though
their nesting places are hidden, buried
under growing mountains of rubble brought
by the human nest builders a year ago
as there is no demand for human nests
and no money to be made, except from rubble.
Hey, the hoopoes are back! I’ve seen them!
The hoopoes are back!
– Lynn White
First published by Furry Writers Guild in Civilised Beasts Anthology, 2015, Weasel Press
no church bells or calls to prayer have been heard doves now rest near sacred texts doves safer now now that man is no more for his wars have finally brought about nature’s reign and the long sought after peace peace came quickly such weapons assured no prolonged battles death rained down upon humankind with well designed destruction targeted to war’s given species to protect the environment for survivors of which there were none how bright the sun without concrete structures how quiet the night without human fights how well the earth has become without its caretakers
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal
Gordon George Byron, Lord Byron
from Childe Harold, Canto iv, Verse 178
abundance lifted on the arc of time
then the folding in ~
the circular successions of creation and negation
forever changing, dark and luminous
nature and destiny, coming and passing
ever active, whole, eternally nameless
the wild river, the still mountain
the wordless mystery
“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
It’s always our self we find in the sea”
E.E. Cummings
The angel who smells of my childhood
My mother, piano and oboe
Whose face the icon reflects
Auburn hair like a Modigliani
Eyes the color of rain
Light caught by surprise
Whose presence the absence reveals
Whose laughter burns snow
Whose warm breath I breathed
This morning as I woke
The scent of gardenias whispering
I never left you
Hollie Poetry a.k.a. Hollie McNish, poet, author and spoken word artist
“Born in Reading to Glaswegian parents, Hollie studied French and German at King’s College, Cambridge, before earning a master’s degree in Development Economics.Hollie won the UK Slam Poetry Competition in 2009 and went on to finish 3rd in the global Slam Du Monde contest. A collection of her poems, Papers was published by Greenwich Exchange in 2012.
“A number of Hollie’s YouTube videos have gone viral and her account currently has over 3.9 million views.McNish’s first album, Versus, was released in September 2014 under the pseudonym Hollie Poetry, she was the first poet to record an album at Abbey Road Studios.Hollie has collaborated with Kate Tempest and George the Poet and they have appeared on stage with her during her 2015 tour. McNish received major national airplay on the BBC, first in January 2015 on Huw Stephens BBC Radio 1 show and then in May 2015 on BBC Radio 1Xtra in as part of a spoken word event.” Wikipedia
Embarrassed
I thought it was okay, I could understand the reasons
They said, “There might
be a man or a nervous child
seeing this small piece of flesh that they
weren’t quite expecting.”
So I whispered and tip-toed with nervous discretion
But after six months of her life sat sitting on lids,
sipping on milk, nostrils sniffing on piss
Trying not to bang her head on toilet roll dispensers
I wonder whether these public loo feeds offend her
‘Cause I’m getting tired of discretion and being polite
As my baby’s first sips are drowned drenched in shite
I spent the first feeding months of her beautiful life
Feeling nervous and awkward and wanting everything right
Surrounded by family ‘til I stepped out the house
It took me eight weeks to get the confidence to go into town
Now, the comments around me cut like a knife
As I rush into toilet cubicles
feeling nothing like nice
Because I’m giving her milk that’s not in a bottle
Which in the cocaine generation white powder would topple
I see pyramids, sales pitches, across our green globe
And female breasts–banned–unless they’re out just for show
And the more I go out, the more I can’t stand it
I walk into town, feel I’m surrounded by bandits
‘Cause in this country of billboards, covered in tits
And family newsagent magazines full of it
WH Smith top shelf’s out for men
Why don’t you complain about them then?
In this country of billboards, covered in tits
And family newsagent magazines full of it
W.H. Smith top shelves out for men
I’m getting embarrassed in case
a small flash of flesh might offend
And I’m not trying to parade it
I don’t want to make a show
But when I’m told I’d be better just staying at home
And when another friend
I know is thrown off a bus
And another mother told to get out of a pub
Even my grandma said that maybe I was sexing it up
And I’m sure the milk-makers love all this fuss
All the cussing, and worry, and looks of disgust
As another mother turns from nipples to powder
Ashamed or embarrassed by the comments around her
And as I hold her head up and pull my cartie across
And she sips on that liquor made from everyone’s God
I think, For God’s sake, Jesus drank it
So did Siddhartha, Muhammad, and Moses
And both of their fathers
Ganesh, and Shiva and Brigit and Buddha
And I’m sure they weren’t doing it sniffing on piss
As their mothers sat embarrassed sitting on cold toilet lids
In a country of billboards covered in tits
In a country of low-cut tops cleavage and skin
In a country of clothed bags and recycling bins
And as I desperately try to take all of this in
I hold her head up, I can’t get my head round the anger
Towards us and not to the sound of lorries
Off-loading formula milk
Into countries dripping in filth
In towns where breasts are oases of life
Now dried up in two-for-one offers enticed by labels, and gold standard rights
Claiming that breast milk is healthier, powdered and white
Packaged marketed and branded and sold at a price
That nothing is free in this money-fueled life
Which is fine if you need it or prefer to use bottles
Where water is clean and bacteria boiled
But in towns where they drown in pollution and sewage
Bottled kids die and they know that they do it
In towns where pennies are savored like sweets
We’re now paying for one thing that’s always been free
In towns empty of hospital beds, babies die,
Diarrhea-fueled, that breastmilk would end
So no more will I sit on these cold toilet lids
No matter how embarrassed I feel as she sips
Because in this country of billboards, covered in tits
I think we should try to get used to this
i admit, it’s so tender, unspoiled
tongue forages for right words ~
they always carry the light of spirit,
always merge with the mind and
the heart, always temper and
heal, if you use the right ones,
if you use them the right way,
the way of what we call
“true” love, lasting love, love
that speaks in every moment,
every expression, “ true love,”
stale language, though; hollow,
banal, clichéd, tired, hackneyed,
used up . . . so let us say “authentic”
“constant” or “ardent” … all that and tireless, Yes! , tireless – your tireless
warmth redeems my old dreams
from their prison of lost hope
“Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.” Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
on the Atlantic Seaboard they’re paralyzed under
abundance lifted on the arc of time
The BeZine 