The words came in one page, three columns, and 90 in total, and I woke up this morning, simply letting each cascade into another, attempting to create something that captured my morning mood, thoughts, worries, and beginning angst for the day. It's a draft, of course, and I'm likely to play more. I'd much rather do this than massage my frustration with the hypocrisy of higher education (which is probably showing up in the cynical way I played here).
I'm thankful to Rich Novack & Kristin Lessard for partnering with CWP once again on making Reading Landscapes & Writing Nature: Flooded with Possibilities happen for the 5th year in a row. I'm even more blessed (and appreciative) that writer Ann E. Burg visited and shared her time with our teachers on the 2nd day of the professional development. My heart is full. Yesterday was spectacular.
This Too Shall Pass (the 90-word poem)
We are made from the calm,
the continuity of time
stressed by the temptation
of finding a piece of mind…
that one blade of grass,
or a meaning from the piliated woodpecker’s shrill,
or that worm dried upon concrete driveways
where the soil has failed them.
I suppose therapy comes from
reminiscing our histories
letting it flooding our minds,
to calm reflections,
with semblances of peace,
that ripple seduction,
draws us in,
lies to us
that we’re not as guilty
of the human-made
chains that deny us
our freedom.
To me, the unknown is sacred,
holding secrets of life
that sometimes arrive with whispers
of Buddhist intentions.
All life is suffering,
I only have a few days a week
to heal, protect, and cherish others…
the lessons told by Maude…
Mother Earth.
So, I didn’t stop the car,
nor call for help,
when I saw the Volvo
hit the fledgling doe.
I just observed
the darkness,
as headlights, those illuminated streams
beamed before frustrated honks
and where human eyes ignored the forests,
the places to run, the chance to be alive.
Ponds are life.
Lakes are stories.
All rivers bring fluidity.
Sometimes the skies tell the truth
with sunshine and storms,
clarity and hail,
whispering to listen
to the movements of
our ignorance,
connecting us for a moment,
in vast illusions
of meaningful meaninglessness.
Behind closed eyes,
the depth comes from such darkness,
making the quiet crystal clear and obvious.
How can I not scream
in all this quiet?
Haven’t we all walked
upon beaches or trails
where our trash ruins the scene?
I have memories,
or are they possibilities,
that explore the metamorphosis of
the butterfly -
the care within a cocoon -
the breathtaking occurrence
for creating wings.
It takes love, generations, life-cycles
& scenery for such migration
to cross autumn skies.
But where did all the milkweed go?
Waterfalls remain
evidence of the obstacles
that water knows from
glaciers to oceans,
where land wishes
for another story
to be told.
Vistas are memories,
grandmothers that swim in shorts
and bras, sisters who make up
games on the lake,
days that are fished with fathers.
I’m a recovering environmentalist.
It's that easy.
That word is meant for humans.
A statement that forgets how
temporary/weak/limited we are…
… against the larger
novels being written
that we'll never be able to read.
Vacations
on Island shores
are exploitive photographs
for the
privileged
to keep in scrapbooks.
Look. I once existed.
I wasn't able to see.
Spring and summer
are leaving now. Fall & winter
will bring more honesty...
And it’s beautiful.
But for many, the
community is small –
thinking differently
against that cascade
with hubris,
the stroll of achievements,
the race towards goals,
& the rush to prove just how
human we actually are.
More power comes from the pause.
A greater purpose
for capturing
words onto a page
before the buildings
and monuments
crash into the ground,
and pop the bubbles
on the surface of happy places.
If only we could swim
with the dolphins,
baptize meaning
in the twists and turns
of a crisper spirituality
more attune to the hypocrisy,
with the curiosity & the disasters
arriving from the harm we cause,
rather than a cure.
We are flooded
with yesterday’s
foolishness.
Nation islands of
territorial stupidity.
There's strength in possibility, though,
a hope for doing good,
(with that extra ‘o’ in God),
both grief-stricken & guilty
for knowing too much,
yet acting too little.
Today, I had a chance at
re-wilding once again,
tasting a Nosturiam for the
first time, with a peppered reminder
there’s still so much I yet to know.
Libraries triumph in such
vegetation…
…the flavors
ripple on the tongue
relocated
into useless words.
Requiems with justice.
Burgs that jut forward
into testimonies
that are more honest
about what we’ve been taught
to believe.
So how can I not relax
when I know there are others
loving / to believe / in hope?
When I’ve been given permission to explore
& connect with lands, native to many,
and not just me?
Yes, the leaves are turning red,
and soon they will fall,
We're only a season
for now.
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