Intercession - Sept 24 2023

 

Intercession

Sept 24 2023

I can see why the ancients

prayed for spring.

As the days shorten

and darkness descends

like a heavy shroud,

creeping steadily

down over our eyes,

why wouldn't winter

feel like death?

Of light.

By starvation.

Through the freezing cold.

The season of eternal rest

at the mercy of the elements.

So when the snow eventually melts

if winter ever ends

frozen bodies will emerge,

bones appear

without a scrap of meat left,

blood glisten

still bright as when it was shed.

They implored their gods

to help them survive,

and now we, their descendants

are also imbued with faith,

selected

by the cruel reckoning

of the living and the dead.

Even heretics like me

who scoff at superstition

sometimes pray.

Just as atheists in foxholes

hug the ground

heads down

and take His name in vain;

out in the cold

exposed

when any shred of hope

will do.

Out of Africa - Sept 25 2023

 

Out of Africa

Sept 25 2023

Even Antarctica.

Every continent

inhabited by Man.

And not just the land.

Because every moment

thousands of freighters

are plowing through the oceans

trailing dense black smoke,

airplanes

with sleek aluminum skins

crossing paths above the clouds.

Like rats, ants, mosquitoes

we are an invasive species

who have made ourselves at home,

out of Africa

to colonize the planet

and fashion it after ourselves.

The apex predator

who believe ourselves exempt from nature,

yet imagine our presence here

perfectly natural.

So just what counts?

When does an invasive species

become native,

and isn't travel what made us, anyway?

The migrating animal

who doesn't so much adapt

as renovate,

altering the landscape

and engineering the planet

like a fickle millionaire

gutting his mansion to studs;

firing the architect

and hiring contractors,

time after time

revising the plans.

Now, plastic chokes the oceans,

great forests

go up in smoke.

And there's nowhere left to go

except underground

mountaintops

the bottom of the sea.

Or Mars.

Escape artists

doing what we've always done,

leaving no place untouched.

The rich, that is,

who have both the means

and outrageous ambition.

At least the ones who aren't too busy

seeking immortality

for their solipsistic selves.

Out of Africa

to the red planet,

the last resort;

an inhospitable place

of blasted rock

and unbreathable air,

named for the god of war.

(From The New Yorker, Oct 2 2023 edition.)

“They’re an invasive species that will destroy the environment if left unchecked.”

All the Murders I've Seen - Sept 23 2023

 

All the Murders I've Seen

Sept 23 2023

I've never even held one.

Witnessed dozens of murders

on film and TV,

read the sociology

ballistics

and statistics of guns,

but nothing first-hand.

Except the Daisy BB gun

I tried as a kid.

No kick,

bad sights,

and too toy-like

to feel like John Wayne,

but still

I couldn't get enough.

Even though I missed

by a long shot,

not just the bullseye

but the target entirely.

So many years, but I get it still.

The feeling

of invincibility.

My finger

firmly on the trigger

itching to shoot.

And the lethal aesthetic of guns  —

the cool heft

in gun-metal grey,

the short sharp sound

of precisely milled parts,

and the hot smoking barrel

after the shot.

Self-protection, they say.

Forgetting

that when everyone is armed

no one's safe.

And now, all grown-up, I know better

than to be seduced by its charms.

The world isn't out to get me.

There are no meth-heads

terrorists

rapists

in my backyard.

I go out defenceless

and suffer no harm.

Stranger at the Door - Sept 22 2023

 

Stranger at the Door

Sept 22 2023

They said that the earth

was leaking deadly gas

through my basement floor.

That the sun's powerful rays

would scramble my DNA

and turn me monstrous.

That I'm swimming in a ubiquitous soup

of invisible pollution

from power lines

the microwave

my phone;

potent enough

to fry my brain,

over time

sedating me

into mind-controlled compliance.

Radon gas.

Cosmic rays.

Our own miracle technologies.

Little did I realize

it would be my own mistakes

that would do me in;

not electromagnetic rays,

but arrogance, and vanity

my failure to learn.

Thinking I know myself

when really, I don’t.

The universe

is not conspiring against me.

Rather, I am my worst enemy;

the stranger at the door

they warned us about.

Fruiting Bodies - Sept 19 2023

 

Fruiting Bodies

Sept 19 2023

A wet summer

and the mushrooms grew fat, and plentiful.

But now, decomposing

after their short fruitful lives

large clumps

of dark black glop

dot the forest path

glistening in sun.

I know nothing of mushrooms,

so assume every one

is instant death,

leave them

to the gleaners

adventurous eaters

and double dares.

Even the dogs won't touch them,

just a brief inquisitive sniff

before moving on.

But what we're all missing

is the life underground.

Their vast intricate hyphae,

talking to the trees

supporting the soil

and resurrecting nutrients

from the dead, and the moribund.

Fungi,

the overlooked kingdom

that was here long before

our sort evolved,

will outlive us all.

A subterranean city

we have no inkling of,

except when their fruiting bodies erupt

from solid ground

in the brief season

of prime picking

and toxic spores.

Like icebergs, the hidden 90%

but even more.

Because we see so much less

than we don't    . . .

see what we expect to see   . . .

look

but fail to notice.

Walking on top of a world

we never knew existed

yet couldn't live without. 

Keeping Bees - Sept 18 2023

 

Keeping Bees

Sept 18 2023

The honey bee

with its sesame seed brain

dances in the dark.

The intricate language of dance

conveyed by touch,

giving directions

to life-giving nectar

steered by the sun.

Is this a kind of sentience?

Do they learn,

do they remember?

And is the hive

some kind of collective mind,

as alien to us

as an extra-terrestrial

stumbling on earth?

We “keep” bees

as if they need to be kept.

I think of this conceit

   —   our presumption of mastery

over an unknowable creature

so unlike ourselves  —

and wonder at our hubris.

Who made us

masters of the universe?

And what danger is there

in such misplaced certainty,

when there is so much more to know

so little we have learned?

A fascinating article. Like the industrialization of agriculture in general, does apiculture contain the seeds of its own destruction?

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/08/28/is-beekeeping-wrong

Gimlet-Eyed - Sept 17 2023

 

Gimlet-Eyed

Sept 17 2023

The tent leaked.

It was a box-like thing,

squat and squarish and cramped

in a wretched olive brown.

Not light, space-age

ventilated,

but mildewed canvas

that was heavy as hell

even when it wasn’t wet.

We slept there all summer,

enveloped in the stagnant air

onion breath

and fetid farts

of pre-adolescents,

boys

far from home

for the first time.

All new to us,

including the bad food

biting bugs

and morning dips

in the freezing cold

there was no getting out of.

An outhouse

without any plumbing

that stunk so much

we held it as long as we could.

Under the supervision

of other boys

not much older than us.

Whom we thought of as men

yet clearly weren't

with their acned skin

and peach fuzz beards

and fumbling tries at sex.

But there were no girls here

in this swampy place

that reeked of testosterone

and unwashed socks.

The funny thing

Is how I remember it.

Not with the gimlet-eyed clarity

of all I just said,

but as the best time of my life.

Ahhh, to be young again.

To not know any better.

To have best friends forever.

To live in the moment

with such singular presence

that even that tubercular tent

seemed like paradise.

In the Eyes of Others - Sept 17 2023

 

In the Eyes of Others

Sept 17 2023

It's said the river is alive.

Which is true

if you accept the belief

that we only exist

in the eyes of others.

I see the river giving life.

I see it move, change

mirror the mood

of the world it travels through;

the land, flora, weather.

I see its constancy,

as generation

succeeds generation

in our brief human lives.

My descendants

standing where I once stood,

among the trees

that crowd its banks

in a rainbow of cool spray.

If I look carefully

I can see a pulse,

as if there was a beating heart

somewhere upstream.

I see its power.

But even though water

can move great rocks,

steadily, incrementally

wear them to sand,

I also see its frailty.

The river

that was here before man

now contending

with drought

dam

flood,

the poisoned wasted

we heedlessly dump.

But for now, unstoppably, the water runs.

Over waterfalls.

Around fallen trees and polished rocks.

Through steep-sided narrows.

Flowing to some distant sea

as if called,

seeking the lowest level

with such determination and ferocity

I begin to see

its iron will.

Gut Feeling - Sept 16 2023

 

Gut Feeling

Sept 16 2023

I remember being lost.

Peering through the welter of legs

with no idea where, or what comes next,

if this will ever end.

And anxious, as well

that I did something wrong

to have brought this on myself.

Not biographical memory,

but rather the feeling

of panic, confusion, fear.

My hand, slipping out of hers,

lost in distraction

as I wandered off.

Odd, how memory works.

The details change, the story evolves.

But the emotion remains,

feels just as present

just as strong.

The brain is clever

yet often forgets;

but the gut, never.

Perhaps

why it was once believed

that the soul resided there,

the stomach

was at our core.

Its memory fixed

just waiting to be triggered;

tightening

like a clenched fist,

the acid

still burning its way out.

No Harm Done - Sept 15 2023

No Harm Done

Sept 15 2023

Hail the size of nickels

rattled the windows

and pinged off the trim,

ricocheted against the shingles

with a furious din

that sent the dogs cowering

and put me on edge,

loud enough

to drown out the thunder

of the sudden summer storm.

The downpour came after,

a waterfall

so hard and fast

the ground couldn't absorb it all,

filling shallow lakes

with cold muddy rain,

and scouring the gravel

as it ran down the driveway

in deep zig-zag streams.

But summer storms are short,

and before long

it was blue skies and warm sun.

No harm done.

Just like me, and my famous impatience

hair-trigger temper

whipsaw moods,

best to simply wait

until the skies clear.

And how can I ever complain

when I’m just as mercurial

as the weather these days?

Lightning, hail

furious rain,

my face

red with rage.

The summer storm

will pass soon enough.

And my sudden outburst

is best ignored,

no harm done.

Embodied - Sept 14 2023

 

Embodied

Sept 14 2023

I’m a fast walker,

brushing past people

pushing through crowds

rushing to be done.

I take inexplicable delight

in an invigorating stride.

So when I find myself dragging

I think of Descartes

and how wrong he was.

Because there is no separation

of body from mind;

I think, yes

but also feel,

the cool calculating brain

over-ruled, more often than not

by my hot-blooded heart.

And live in a body

of muscle, gut, and pulsing blood

with all its aches and maladies.

Its history

written in scars

and failing parts,

injuries

that never fully healed.

Today, the world weighs on me;

I feel drained,

cannot will my feet

to move any faster.

It's like walking underwater

or through deep sucking mud.

In the crushing gravity

of an alien planet

with thick unbreathable air.

The body, fit and able;

the mind

sapped of will.

I am dragging, mired

immobilized.

A blur of people streams by,

hurrying through their busy lives

oblivious of me.

As it should be, I think;

as I feel myself shrink,

struggling for a reason

to hurry on my way.

Man on a Wire - Sept 12 2023

 

Man On a Wire

Sept 12 2023

Empty boxes

pile up in the shed

like dust balls and debt.

A jumble of cardboard

in various shades of brown

that could be a work of art;

a cubist painting

or conceptual sculpture,

an architect's fever dream.

Or, as an engineer would call it

“kraft paper

in corrugated fibreboard”.

And the many items

I have purchased

that either disappointed

or broke

and have already been disposed of.

But the boxes remain.

Not as art

but stern admonishment

for failing to recycle

reuse

reduce.

A silent testament

to heedless consumption.

The mountain grows larger.

I look away

from its accusing eye

and toss another on top,

teetering there

like a tightrope walker

before the fall.

No Great Wit - Sept 11 2023

 

No Great Wit

Sept 11 2023

I am reduced to a 6 year old

in this strange new country

where I fumble with a foreign tongue.

It's frustrating

not to mention humbling.

But oddly freeing, as well.

Because no one expects much of me.

Because I get to throw up my hands, and relax.

Because I'm forced to listen, observe, step back,

follow passively

where I used to lead.

In my day

6 year olds

only spoke when spoken to

did what we were told.

All I wanted

was to grow up

and have some control of my life.

But now, it's a relief to let go.

And I’m on vacation

so I can be anyone I want.

How refreshing,

to re-invent myself

as a little kid

in a grown man's body.

No great wit

or deep thoughts

are expected of me.

I am the slow one

who is indulged

and must depend on the kindness of others.

My loud voice

and dumb jokes,

off-the-cuff opinions

and tendency to interrupt

belong to the old version of me.

And now, unexpectedly young

I'm the listener

with next to nothing to say.

If only I'd learned earlier

that silence becomes me;

how holding my tongue

opens my ear.

House Rules - Sept 10 2023

 

House Rules

Sept 10 2023

The shoes are neatly paired,

lined up

like regimental soldiers

by the front door.

They are a still life painting

of dutiful waiting

as they sit, unlaced, at rest.

Runners, loafers, formal wear,

airing out the sweat

and sour fleshy odour

of tired swollen feet.

Soles

soiled with who-knows-what

from the great outdoors.

And inside

supple leather slippers

padding softly on the floors

keeping feet toasty warm.

They have been trained well,

strictly observing

the house rules.

The rigid separation

of “in” from “out” —

the dark hushed interior

from the cacophonous world;

the dirt and garbage and mess

that might infiltrate

this hermetic space

of calm and contentment.

The vestibule door is closed.

And the dirty shoes

now relieved of duty

are free to take their ease.

A rough crowd

these street-wise shoes,

who have seen it all

from the ground up,

and visibly wear

their world-weary experience.

So who knows what goes on

when they're on their own,

lace braiding

foot races

partner swapping?

Or do they, too, crave peace and quiet?

At rest

on the muddy mat

where they were kicked-off and left,

the stocking feet of their wearers

sighing with relief.