Yay!! There’s snow on Science Hill.
Finally - snow, I love it. Cold, I love it.
Science says men evolved from apes.
Maybe I evolved from polar bears
or those abominable snow people
—yeti—that no one can photograph.
You can’t just reject that outright,
say the odds are minuscule,
just because it’s new and edgy.
I mean, where’s your science—
your unbiased, clinical perspective?
We could end up in the National Geographic.
This kind of story is very much their aesthetic.
I can provide lots of material—I have baby photos
and I’m not uncomfortable about the pressure.
Maybe it’s time to put your voice out there.
The world always needs the comfort of new voices.
You could influence social media—everyone wants THAT.
This is a buffalo, a skibidi, blessing in disguise.
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Unlike me by Kate Havnevik
Poets, do not be discouraged, neither young nor old,
Uncertain verses can pierce stone, or iron,
Just believe those you love you, endure the headwinds,
To think that at the end of the sea there is America and its buffalos,
Just cross rivers with dangerous Indians,
The Amazon, the White Nile, or the great Mississippi, are friends,
Poet, do not be discouraged, do not deviate,
In front of Whitman shining in the diamond sky,
Follow your path, on the great snowy plains,
Follow your path, in the villages of Lower Brittany,
In the hotels of Sichuan, or Manaus,
Warm your heart in Calypso’s arms,
Think of Circe whose beauty poisoned Ulysses
Poet falls in love with the sea, the stars,
Do not be discouraged, Poet, you can be still and quiet like water, or
You can become a torrent in the mountains of Wyoming,
A verse is always an object of the future,
“Drop by drop, water pierces the stone.” (1)
NB (1) From Lucrèce in Montaigne les essais
Always mistreated, never a topic to consider about.
A big hole where everybody is in, without a retunring ticket back.
We enjoy those beautiful areas, we have a wonderful time.
Behind the joy we never think,
we've just enjoyed the nature.
Beyond the wonderful momentes it's the other face of the coin, the one nobody want to look at.
Nature it's becoming poor, as an eagle with wings to fly but without eyes to see the pray to hunt for surviving.
Nature are landscapes to be painted, children to be raised, a moment in life that shouldn't be distorted
Nature is ourselves and the world we have to be feeding, to keep on going for generations.
The ones they will never have a future without the nature.
Without the wolves howling,
the bears robbing the honey,
the foxes taking our chickens away.
Without the buffalos grazing on the prairies.
What is nature when you have to see the penguins without ice, and everybody think about having enough ice in their drinks?. What is Nature?
Respect for the new ones to make another move forwards
Relieved from horrible attacks of lions
Elephants, hippos, Crocodiles, bears, wolves
Tigers, cape buffalos and wood bison...
Cows and sheep and goats and rabbits and swine
Chicks and ducks took shelter under humans
Only to die each moment fearing slaughter...!
19 November 2022
The rolling humpback hills
dips down into the valley
Fading off into the horizon.
Giving the illusions of vast herds of buffalos.
Roaming and grazing peacefully
Across the sun lite plains,
Over fertile fields of wheat and wild grasses.
Stretching into native lakes,
Surrounded by tall-growing bulrush weeds,
And cattails gracefully arching into magical gateways,
with every little breeze, your imagination
travels on a journey with mother nature.
Riding the flowing rivers filled with speckled trout shimmering across the sun lite waters.
Up Over the moss, and onto the banks beyond the tee pees into wind swept prairies with herds of buffalos
and dancing with daffodils bending and swaying,
over the grassy hills and dales.
in your imagination
The rolling humpback hills.
Fade off into the horizon.
Giving the illusions of vast herds of buffalos.
Roaming and grazing peacefully across the sun lite plains,
Over fertile fields of wheat and wild grasses stretching into native lakes,
surrounded by tall-growing bulrushes, And cattails gracefully arching
Into magical gateways, with every gentle breeze, your imagination
goes on a journey with mother nature.
Holding hands with the flowing rivers
and with carpets of moss flirting with the edge of the banks
And dancing daffodils that bend and sway,
over the grassy hills and dales.
With orange, yellow, and apricot skirts swirling around
in the summer breeze.
The world is made of diversity and in it
We are to find unity!
The world itself is layered
Its living species varying
From starfishes to buffalos, yet,
It gives all of them
Their due depending upon
What their system needs without ever
Thinking that one species needs lesser
Than another one!
Similarly, it differentiates not
Between humans, giving them
Adaptation facilities depending upon
Where they live and how they need
To struggle for their own survival!
So, we, as elevated conscious beings,
Are to learn this lesson
From the world itself
And we are to behave
As it does
As only there where there are
Feelings of brotherhood and acceptance
Shall we be able to move on
And adjust to the growing hostility
Thrust upon the world by the
Keepers of evil shadows!
Cat food in the kitchen
Bird seed down the hall
Dog food on the back porch
Giraffe food against the wall
We live in a zoo, a menagerie
With opossums and one snake
There is no place I would rather be
Having pets for us is no mistake
Cornmeal for squirrel with fluffy tail
Come visit us, we should charge you a fee
Buffalos arrive daily in the pony express mail
We are loving these animals, husband and me.
The wild belongs to the wild
The world belongs to the world
I stay safe and stay away
Because nature was designed that way
You can’t escape the reason why
All carnivores are so spry
An unleashed paw in your flesh
Is not worth a stroll on a lion's turf
A roar of a lion is not a buzzing house fly
It’s an unwelcome politeness, take flight
If feasting on buffalos is how they dine
Then your blood can only be dessert red wine
Don’t let your flesh invite the canines
Don’t get de-boned just for facebook likes
Lions never takes a stroll in our streets
Why should I trespass on theirs, with camera flicks?
My love for lions is a relationship from a distance
We don’t trust each other but I keep the romance
Drover, ride your white horse...ride it with grit
on the sun-scorched prairies
of the Mississippi Valley:
where no tree is found in a shady spot,
but plenty of wild daisies
and pink roses distract you constantly!
Winter came with snow and haze,
and the buffalos couldn't graze;
now, in the open prairie, they do
and aren't startled by your gallops or
fear being chased and hunted by two
or three lasso-throwing cowboys for
their gorgeous hides to make a fortune...
hear them whistling a Kenny Roger's tune!
Drover, ride your white horse...ride it with grit
through the rich farmlands burning,
until you'll get hungry, thirsty and tired;
sit down by the Mississipi River and unwind,
observe the clearest water flowing
as Mark Twin did while he was writing!
Drover, ride the white horse, ride it with grit...
while thinking how far is your home,
how lonely is your wife holding Jerome!
Copyright ( c ) 2018 by Andrew Crisci
THIS dream.
I am walking through a tunnel between the streets. Air as thick
as my misconceptions of life. The gutters are gone but my fears
fulfill the deed.
A passing light of brilliant orbs dazzle me then I am walking
across a cache of weapons and I see my feet amongst others.
The wolves’ den.
"Who are you?" One asks.
I am a dream walker.
"Are you crazy?" asks another.
No. I am here for reasons unknown.
"Kill him." says the one with shifty eyes.
Why would you wish this?
"He's a pig."
No.
"Bro, do you have buffalos running around within
your head?"
Yes.
"Let him go."
I love you all and please learn from this: if you
do all that is told then you are not living a brilliant
life as you can.
And the buffalos will trample you one soon day.
I wake up.
:: 09-17-2017 ::
Yesterday another adorable child of three died
form contamination...how awful was his death!
The miles-long grassland roams with buffalos;
from the outside, they look healthy and strong!
Buffalos and cows still graze in the poisoned land filled
with barrels of toxic waste from the industrial North;
these criminals bury barrels ten feet underground...
they should be imprisoned for as long as they live!
Let them suffer: they'll see the gliding ghosts
of all the beautiful children who have died;
these illegal dumpings have been going on years;
the one who shed light on it was an ex-convict.
Today his loud cry for justice is unheard by all;
feel the anger, the remorse for his wrongdoing!
Can such an abused land exist in an environment
that can't grow healthy fruits and vegetables?
No, it bears bad crops and skeletal, leafless trees...
specters of future plagues and cancerous diseases;
weeping mothers hold those little angels as they slip
into their eternal sleep...no cry is louder than theirs!
Ghosts of buffalo hunters
on galloping horses
leap across the plains
against the autumn sky,
dust clouds mingle with
specter shapes,
shrouding the hunter and
the hunted.
Spears soar in deadly flight,
aiming at prey who are
singing their death song
while hearts of men rejoice at
the kill.
When amber sunset meets
shadowed earth hunters
and buffalos turn into nomadic
dust devils which join other spirits
as they sweep across the prairie,
leaving the sacred ground as
seen in the eyes of the all-knowing
aged chief.
As we wait for Cruzzatte to anchor the boats
and bring along the men with pull sleds for the carcasses
a teenage Indian boy on a brown pony painted with winged eyes
prances in and out of our slain buffalos, quiver and bow upon his back
the settling haze of violence ebbing around his undisturbed gallop
as if to see and sanction what we've done, completely unfrightened by us
his eyes fixed on me with a grin that says he knows the pleasure of the kill,
he be so errie in his handsome joy of this death scene,
through native sign language the poetry of hands in dance reveals the heart of a tribe,
Drouillard and I determine that his name is Young Wise
and is a member of the Yankton Sioux
I agree to let Drouillard return with Young Wise to the Yankton site
of 60 lodges 15 miles away, he will be a potential hostage
but he has accepted the risk like a family man
and if they harm him we will burn them,
their leadership will recognize the importance of our favor
and arrive at the Corp's camp with chieftains, curiosity and Drouillard by dusk I'm sure,
our respective nations must learn the path to mutual prosperity,
J.A.B.
In this season of dry winter
Cold winds dusty streets dry surface
Leafless willows barren fields birdless trees,
I can’t offer you!
A fragrant rose or a leafy twig of unripe almonds
Or raw fruits of peach or dried Ladhakhi apricots.
Nor can I show you!
Farmers visiting their ripening crops, trout-fishes fluttering in pond,
Sheep herd in green meadows, goats climbing mount,
Or free-horses in vast pastures graze;
Garden of hundred flowers—lovers holding each other close
By the breezy bank of the gushing stream;
Emerald grass shining dew singing birds sprouting bud roaring streams serene shade
Sauntering buffalos sleeping shepherd
And beside surging springs nomads tent,
Or white clouds so-scattered
Floating low in the blue sky.
Nevertheless; today I will!
Present you my voiceless love,
In the form of a long hug, and eyes brimmed with tears.
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