World
Capital
Something was missing
in the sad and lonely
former world capital.
Something had been lost.
Oh, there were still places
where you could get a reasonable
cup of coffee.
And every nook and cranny
was Google-Mapped©.
And yes, much of the world
still came there,
in one fashion or other—
even though everyone agreed
they would rather
those dreadful tourists
with their flash cameras
stayed away!
stayed away!
In moments of pique, it whispered,
“Germania never got off
the drawing board.”
the drawing board.”
“Look at those Roman toilets!"
"How far we’ve come.”
But most roads still led there,
just not all of them.
There were fewer statues
adorned with pigeon droppings
than last year.
than last year.
(Something about a bird flu.)
And flags no longer flicked crisply
in the breeze; they drooped—
The air about the place
was much calmer, now.
was much calmer, now.
Why, it positively clean,
what with the oxygen of station
having been put through
the scrubbers of inertia.
The whole city sounded
different, too.
Hardly a day passed
when someone wouldn’t remark
on the number of birds
singing in the parks.
There were even complaints
about the noise
crickets made at night.
crickets made at night.
Imagine!
And people strolled.
They moved with casual intentions
through once-great buildings
and along streets that had captured
the imagination (and more!)
with stories of Byzantine intrigue.
Yes, the former world capital was sadder,
but that was mainly on cloudy days.
It was sad, though it was beginning
to forget why;
without the weight of rule
it was becoming positively light-headed!
And
during springtime, well…
It had rounded the corner on pride
and was making a beeline
for acceptance!
There were days when it was content
simply picking up the pieces
and putting them back—
if not in the right order,
at least in a new one.
It was often seen going for walks,
musing to itself,
watching the days
and listening at night.
It was often seen going for walks,
musing to itself,
watching the days
and listening at night.
Today, travel kiosks
and craft boutiques
are everywhere.
And the ice cream is expensive,
but oh
so very good, indeed!
Steps
in Descent
The darker nights,
less the days shimmer
on wings of butterflies
sitting in palms
of tiny hands.
Rising
All the while
you were waiting,
during those long,
dark months,
I slept.
I dreamt of berries
and warm grasses,
and honey-sweet air.
But you never dreamed
did you?
Awake, your thoughts
were only of pelts
and meat. And blood.
Well, have at it,
brave hunter!
It’s Spring!
And
you’ve more
patience
than I.
The
Greening World
Where are the greening men
who walk the quiet glades?
Where stands the greening ground
that gives the song-birds shade?
Who will greet day’s new dawn,
when lake birds wake their young?
Who’ll treat the hummingbird
with nectar for its tongue?
What will bring summer’s rains
if clouds do only storm?
What will gift shattered lands
when shapes then fail to form?
When will songs rise again
from lips soft-kissed in love?
When will rhymes stir the air
like cooing from a dove?
…..
Will our roads come around
like paths that trend away?
Or will time and matter
convince those left to stay?
Meteorites
Then and Now
Stars aligned while comets blundered.
Hot rocks burst in splintered wonder.
Prayers were said to ward their thunder.
Still, flesh was ripped and torn asunder.
What
Is It Like Over There?
What is It like Over There?
Here, I feel small in your hands.
Here, I become soft shadows
fading in the light
of your eyes at sunrise.
of your eyes at sunrise.
I am like the lightest breeze
drifting across your skin,
while the fabric of your dress,
its weave,
catches the movements of your being
in a laughing sail.
And I will so miss its further swells
and inclinations.
Forest
Walk
A cry in a place
where giants are born,
where ancient babes
are birthed
as scholars of sunshine!
A winnowed creature—
shapely, refined,
elegant in its purpose
for both joy and sorrow.
Some say unevolved
in its mystery,
a past-season’s bloom,
targeted rather than sent.
But, such words fly
with the beat of those wings.
No matter—it remains
a gift of earth and sky,
a joining of these two,
not some departure.
And within this vast
cathedral of the earth
a new song for heaven is sung.
Big
Man with Stick #2
He knows just what he's doing.
He’s the one who'll Gets Things Done.
Our prince among the paupers
in a race that's always won.
An elephant at altar,
he takes communion as high tea.
He’s a genuflecting soldier;
he's a sailor past his sea.
He carries gravity wisely,
not bound by this or that.
You’ll find he’s never lonely
composing his diktats.
Oh, he’s not without his faults.
We’ve known that quite a while.
Still, he takes us by the arm
and walks us up the aisle.
 |
| After the Plough |
HAVE WE ALL MISSED THE BUS? Are we waiting our turn to be just five minutes late
catching the last coach out of Dodge? What are
we waiting for?
Like everyone,
I’ve been watching news about the protests going on in the United States and
around the world; here, too, in Canada. Horrific and ugly, of course, was that
murder in Minneapolis nearly three weeks ago, that has sparked all the protests
and rioting. If that wasn’t a calculated act of choking the life out of a
fellow human being on the part of that police officer and the others assisting
him, I don’t know what is. Many have called it a “lynching”. That works for me.
I think murder charges were appropriate, though it remains to be seen how the
trials will go; these things have a way of going down strange rabbit holes, but
hopefully in this case, justice will be seen to be done.
People
are upset and rightly so; this was a wrong done by a group in our society that
is supposed to “serve and protect”, and all police must bear the burden caused
by the actions of deviants within their ranks, not just in America but anywhere
there is organized policing. There are so many cans of worms to be opened here:
from racism, militarized police, the role of policing in society, freedom of
expression (including press freedom), to social inequalities and growing class
conflicts, and all this surfacing during a pandemic with an economy circling
the drain. It remains to be seen where all the pent-up anger will go—anger over
Floyd's murder, but also anger over the handling of the
coronavirus, anger with
all the lost jobs and livelihoods, the lost hopes and dreams that go along with
it—not to mention all the Wall Street (and Bay Street) hucksters and banksters
making out like bandits in broad daylight. Yes, all this and more bundled into
a toxic loan to the future while giving the finger to today! Pass the aspirin!
As for
the poems—there are some new ones and a couple of older ones. I think a couple
fit quite well under the blog title. WORLD CAPITAL seems to have been on time to catch the last bus. And if it’s not
too late for the Capital, maybe we do have time still before the last coach chugs
out of the depot, with its air brakes squealing and engine rumbling sluggishly to
life. METEORITES
might be a bit of a corrective for all that optimism. We live with the Long Time of
things as well as our pitifully short human spans, and we just have to accept the fact that events in the Long Time impact our
own. It will sometimes make the pleasant and beautiful things we take for granted seem strange and forbidding, even dangerous. As if they had lives of their own. They need to be examined carefully whenever the Long Time reveals itself.
FOREST WALK captures, in part, that gift (call
it what you will) from Long Time. I’ll call it a blessing; to hear a bird call is to hear something that is inextricably knitted together within the great web of being. What we hear in Now Time is just a tiny part of a much larger whole. As Rachel Carson once said: "In nature nothing exists alone." (Silent Spring)
... Well, that’s definitely a moment of clarity,
for as long as it lasts.
The
GREENING WORLD is a plea—for what? That's for the reader to decide.
Just don’t
miss the bus. It might be the last one going.
Cheers,
Jake.
