It's quite obvious now:
"The they" are preparing for life deep underground.
Placing final ribbons around subterranean cities.
Stockpiling sustenance
Water being siphoned to top off cisterns and privies.
The Amazon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
Superior, Michigan, and Erie are all being drained.
The surface people will be left scrambling for crumbs
in the phlegm of nuclear holocaust.
They'll devolve into hunter-gatherer clans.
To become a twisted reality show for subterraneans.
"The They" who trafficked us and ate our babies
will make a game of it, placing bets at our expense...
on who will perish -who'll be left.
Then, when the earth is somewhat cleansed.
"The They" will emerge to barter with metal from our teeth
pin our cross/bones to their puffy pigeon chests
The rest will serve as sex slaves, servants, and jesters
in the post-apocalyptic bed, "the they" have knowingly made.
I suppose what I've worshipped all along
is the Soul of All Things:
the miraculous in everything
the beauty that shines out
from the heart of God.
I was lucky enough to see it shining
with limpid beauty in one person
but now I realize
that this is the near intimation
of the Kingdom within and without.
I even have some small realization
that it is my own soul and self;
what I, what we all, are made from.
Keep your eyes peeled and your mind open
for that's the only way to catch sight of it
in yourself and in the world.
You have to be a hunter and gatherer of beauty
in the primitive reality of things.
Christopher M. Swan 2011
A rumbling and a shaking
The rain heavy
The thunder roaring
Lightning cuts the sky
Trees sway belligerently
Sand and dust
Break the air
The furious wind
Encourages euphoric whims
The rod is blossoming
Pride is budding
Rumour building
Mischief upon mischief
Pounds on the earth
Mischief upon mischief
Mischief has a staircase
Linear patterns
Cascading virtues in blinking imbroglio,
Masquerading piety in a clinking tunnel
Chanting sophistry in dinky dashes
The glass fell
It could not be held
They broke the serenity
With soapy fingers
They grasped the glass
The pieces litter the floor
Another tried to piece the pieces
Which were precariously shaped
And pricked the gatherer at will
What a cock-a-doodle – doo!
Now I look to the Heavens
I see a land
A faraway land
In the distant horizon
Beyond the seas
A great solace
The people a great people
A magnificent race
Beyond the clouds
Beyond the skies
This land, a lofty land
A magnified edifice
Of kaleidoscopic nature
A worthy conglomerate
Of total bliss.
The moon slides silent on the dew-swept field,
My hand upon the curved and cunning blade,
Its weight both foreign and familiar here—
The long crescent, gentle as a cradle’s arc,
Yet sharp as memory’s unforgiving edge.
I move through wheat as if I part my hair,
Each golden stalk a strand beneath my palm.
The swish and sigh, a rhythm in my hips,
A knowledge passed from wrist to wrist, unseen,
A legacy in muscle, bone, and skin.
They say the scythe is instrument of end,
A harbinger of silence, fall, and dusk—
Yet in my fingers, it becomes a song,
A spindle, spinning daylight into bread,
A lullaby for seeds that sleep below.
The field is wide, horizon swept with hope;
The blade and I, together, carve our path.
I am both steward, sentinel, and stone,
A presence in the morning’s quiet hush,
Reaping, not as death, but as a mother would—
Gatherer of what’s grown and what will be.
Standing on a mountain of a distant place
looking along the valley of time and space,
Death appears as roiling,boiling mist,
we might run in fear and desire to survive,
in the end he will claim us all all on his list.
Their is no escape the cry of those who disbelieved,
offering billions to the gatherer of souls in vain,
what use has death for riches and things,
One that can go where he wills and desires,
Reaping all with his mighty scythe sharp and cruel,
throwing all onto his eternal fires.
many will beg and crawl with words of "Im Sorry ",
Save me please, turn your back and hide your ears,
they betrayed you once and will do so again,
destroyed a world for profit and gain
lied to us over and over caring not for mortal souls.
All those of light fear not we may die ,
our essence though will fly to the stars whence we came,
Those who walk in shadowy dark light,
are forever doomed to endless pain.
andre mcintyre 2024 /6/1.
I envy the precision
of the engineer,
the grounded exactitude
of a trade, to be able
to hold phenomenon within
the spell of an equation,
have the power to make
something from a sum.
I make things from shadows,
the pulled threads
of a mirage and echoes
bubbling up from the bottom
chambers of a void. I work
with the vagaries of whim,
waiting for something to appear
from who knows where,
letting a shape emerge
from beneath a ghostly
gauze of words or reveal
its nature by a residue
of absence left
in the wake of its going.
I am a gatherer of what
is carried on the wind,
the fragrance of flowers,
moans uttered
on lonely shorelines
by the voices of restless seas,
the cry of nightmares,
the crescendos of love,
becoming for a moment
an instrument in some
vast orchestra through which
a divine song is being played.
The McCormick’s chicken gatherer and feeder was only six-years-young
She was awakened daily at four-twenty, which was absolutely no fun.
But it was her duty to gather the eggs from the chicken house.
Sometimes when she entered there would dart out a mouse.
Once there was evidence of a fox in the midst of the flock.
One hen did not fare well, her head lying as if on a chopping block.
Worst of all, one day, the chicken house was in a dire way.
What is wrong, Lucille? asked mother. The chicken coop is on fire today.
Autumn, O Autumn, I have always loved you.
Please forgive me if I've not told you so.
From childhood, you have been most special.
Back then, you signaled cessation from labor;
Farm labor that was very hard, hot, and humid.
Autumn, O Autumn. Is there another as
Productive, quiet, and beautiful as you?
Looking out all around, I see your beauty
In many and variant ways; whether it's the leaves
On the trees or the dust from the harvest of grain.
Or a sea of soft picture-perfect white cotton in the fields.
Autumn, O Autumn, you are indeed the great gatherer of
The seed of sowers, promoter of festivity and celebration.
Your voice shouts from the trees, the fields, the white
Clouded skies. Not the shout of noise, but the sound of
Anticipation, the joys and rewards of hard work and the
'Smile of God' upon your bountiful crops.
Autumn, O Autumn, the sun pauses for your entry. I feel
The tame in the atmosphere, the subduing of your presence.
You have come with smiles and not frowns, with lots of goods
To give to all and not take from any. Your God and mine have
Deemed it so. We are grateful for your season and shall be
Givers as you have given to us.
092222PS
They are frantic
These women who have to decorate for holidays
I am too busy painting to notice
They are getting crabby
For they have back aches and neck aches.
I bother myself in no way.
My husband is a gatherer,
he can gather his own meals.
I sit and paint, until I have my own back ache and neck ache
I take a nap, feeling no guilt
it is my vacation, and I plan to keep myself calm
Not crabby or frantic.
Suddenly I realize I am painting in a frenzy.
Maybe I am as frantic as all the others.
Hmmmmm
Walk on the plantar aspect;
Yonder sole walks through life's traffic
So on these streets he walks alone;
On cobbler pathways made of stone;
Tether bound feet worn polluted soles;
Trotting marching everywhere he goes;
Step by step by step by step lonely traveler;
Trolling throughout the city he goes;
Yet now preeminence instilled solace;
The marathon a walking gatherer;
Hindsight in the back of his mind he knows;
Like in biblical times he's marching the streets of Zion;
Now still he stands he digress;
Embedded of The Souls of his feet bit so gravel;
Feet corns and bunions hurt ;
Done walked miles on this bumpy Earth;
Pathway lit lighted flows;
Marathon Man walk on, he walks alone-
On terrain this worlds track and field so graphic;
Marathon Man walk on plantar aspect;
8/26/21 ©
For A Brian Strand Rime Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
hovering in my garden a hummingbird spins, with
unique plumage brilliant and dazzling, he
makes me stop and watch his floating waltz ...
murmuring to himself he spins and twirls, and deep
inside flowers he sips and drinks nectar and nectar
now, he takes a bath in my garden bird bath, his feathers
glittering in the sun, oh, he is blessed with a long
bill quite sword like - so he can pollinate ... his
iridescent glitter is impressive, and now
rotating this tiny nectar gatherer backs up
dancing for me, then he whirls away dripping sweetness
_________________
July 3, 2021
Poetry/Acrostic/hummingbird
Copyright Protected, ID 07-1358-552-03
ll Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Brian Strand July 3
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
ASSIGNMENT CALENDAR
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS JR
I Know Not Where My Future Assignment Lies
My Journey on Earth, a Welcome Surprise
My next Venture Could Possibly Be
An Endless Journey Throughout the Galaxy
Or Maybe a Simple Plume of Smoke
From a Long Forgotten Crater
The Last Bead of Dew on a Reed
Honey Bee with Pollen on My Breast
Maybe the Loud Growl from a Waking Bear
Other Roles That I Could Play
A Judas Goat at a Slaughterhouse
A Humming Bird Dipping for Nectar
A Puffin on Her Maiden Flight
A Stork Sitting on Her Favorite Chimney
A Gnu Running for Survival
A Peacock Displaying Her Floral Design
A Cheetah Licking Her Paws
A Seal Eluding a Great White
A Great White Eluding an Orca Pod
A Rat Gnawing Through a Corn Bib
A Platypus Searching for Fish
A Termite Chewing on a Roof Rafter
A Butterfly Exiting Her Chrysalis
A Moth Mesmerized by a Flickering Light
A Felon Ordering His Final Meal
A Bengal Eyeing a Firewood Gatherer
Unfortunately I Don’t Get to Chose
Some Will Be Winners Others Destined to Lose
No more hunter gatherer
No more man
No more hunter gatherer
A strategic plan
Like lemmings to the cliff edge
Like lemmings we will go
They didn’t have to push us
We put on a good show
You can see the timeline
You can watch it grow
Being farmed like animals
As we go
Now we’re all alone
Now we’re on our own
Not even human contact
A heart without a home.
No more dominant species
Always was the plan
Ancient long term strategy
Destroying every man
Do we really want this
Are we really sure
Think very carefully
Don’t close the door.
God has been forgotten
As part of the plan
Instead of that I see it’s
Logan’s run for man
Total control
where the state decides
Who lives and who dies
And more besides
Is that right?
Or aren’t we allowed to ask?
grandma bare bosomed and barely covered by frayed crocheted pants
looked like a mixture of parakeet and paragon in a fairy tale’s garment
under cover of darkness she would bare her wickedness and emotions
a mocking bird with a beak full of gold and a never ending feathered quill
fire in her heart and a pen crafted from charcoal and indelible passion
tea leaves suspended in a crystal ball swayed by pendulums of words
stepladder to wisdom swinging from a roped pinnacle at the threshold
from reality to psychedelic hunter and gatherer of mushrooms and magic
candles crafted from Arabian lamps exuded Alhambra charms and Alladin
whose cave was her fortress in the woods of past future times and pastiche
desk like a lamp post overshadowing contours and scripted penumbra
it was never too late to have a happy childhood with a wick as companion
no hermit but prophesy personified she send messages out into the world
parchment of wisdom tied to acorns belladonna berries and butterfly wings
required no answers because questions held stronger without instant replies
the old scribe never died because an oak tree grew unperturbed in my soul
27th June 2020
She gathers their hearts and souls and invites them to her table.
She feeds them with love and laughter and they reciprocate;
It is on this fullness of belly and heart that they go into the world to achieve their destiny.
A bit more joyful than the day before.
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