Long poem by
Denis Barter | Details
With these lines I’ll relate an intriguing tale of dubious accuracy
For I Hope to unveil sordid affairs of more than one conspiracy!
Be warned, that though you might be disturbed by the facts I relate?
They are the truth and nothing more. This I do categorically state!
When they were first perceived, even I found myself somewhat surprised
So without more ado, here’s my beguiling tale, so best be advised
These facts of conniving, collusion, conspiratorial low down dirt,
Are strictly the truth as I’ve uncovered. This I will sincerely assert!
Discovered first was the morning blush, sighted on our Rambling Rose,
Polly Perkins. What happened during the night, no one really knows,
But it caused every beetroot and radish to blush exceedingly red,
Regarding suggestive innuendos made of what took place in her bed,
And to her spending the night with Mr Lincoln. At least she’d the grace
To be embarrassed. This was obvious by the blush that covered her face!
It was thought her capers, were the cause of tomatoes to deepen a bright red hue,
While tender eggplants, observed to be jealous, turned from green to blue!
Next we saw Scarlet Runners and Morning Glories, embraced around a pole,
Having been carefully planted far apart, it showed what liberties they stole!
As for their brazen exhibition of defiance there was little gall they did lack;
Purely by chance we unearthed this twisted liaison taking place behind our back!
Then, when we discovered brazen trailing Verbena had crept into Petunia’s bed,
We realized things were getting serious. Degenerate debauchery had truly spread,
Which was confirmed later when Marigold was seen snuggled close to Daisy.
Not only were we astounded, but convinced our gay garden had gone crazy!
But Marigold has been seen in many other beds. This bold, shameless hussy
Tries her seduction on a variety of vegetables and flowers. She’s never fussy
About the company she keeps. Cohabiting with Veronica and Cleome for instance,
Though Bearded Iris ignores her capricious ways. Discreet, she keeps her at distance.
Along with Ladybird who seeks the company of seductive night scented Stocks,
The Ruby Throated Humming Bird pays regular visits to our Salvias and Phlox.
Even here there’s jealousy seen when she calls on her select chosen circle of pals,
Snubbing Virginia, Pansy, Aster and Black Eyed Susan. Such captivating gals!
Seen within our perennial beds are many plants that require close supervision
Such as Sweet William. One blatantly inclined to wander, determined on scission.
While the haughty but flamboyant, brightly dressed Maltese Cross spreads
Her offspring everywhere. Her loose living ways are what a gardener dreads!
Like Jacob’s Ladder, whose wanton seedlings distress the more sedate plants
And members of more compliant groups - oft overrun by populous sycophants;
Resentful they sulk; fade then leave an empty space, which is all too soon occupied
By brazen weeds and less restrained species, unless strict controls are applied!
Then there’s the Obedient Plant. A flower that prefers its own company when out:
Though one less obedient I’ve yet to find! Raised from permissive stock no doubt?
Datura who is known to keep close company with Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettle
Is bent on running riot! With Aconite - all plants to cause pain and test our mettle!
An exception is dear Black Eyed Susan, who blooms when summer is almost done.
This welcome sight for tired eyes, stands tall; boldly unafraid of anything or anyone,
Exhibits a dash of gaiety when others begin to look tired, drab, woebegone and drear,
She adds a certain dignity to the chaotic abandon seen towards the end of the year!
Furthermore we mention in passing, the seemingly innocent, Herbaceous Garden:
Such goings on! With not so much as “by your leave” or “we beg your pardon!”
When one looks at it more closely, here prevails a true hotbed of seething liaisons!
Basil being the first we’ll mention that is found seeking closer ties and relations.
When others lower their defences, his invasive ways usurp any unguarded spot!
Being ever willing to add his two fragrant scents worth to any pot pourri pot:
Given a chance will associate with Lavender and Rosemary in aromatic conspiracy,
Though he may come to Rue the day should he challenge their proven supremacy!
Our prime concern is to keep the various garden beds neat, clean and pristine,
By removing any offending plant, if their encroachment offends. Perhaps unseen,
We’ll miss an odd weed or absconding plant which strays from its designated site.
But one seen is removed, as will all others which by their location is deemed not right!
We’ll permit no hanky panky, illicit intrigue, nor allow unruly or risqué behaviour,
On such occasions our trusted, stalwart hoe proves our ever ready garden saviour!
There are many times the garden appears a seething hotbed of immoral association
With wicked alliances fostering a confusing cauldron of flagrant prolific procreation!
One might well consider it a rampant breeding ground full of sex and seedy innuendo,
For during the first warm days in Spring and summer it arrives at full crescendo!
Should one place an ear to the ground to listen closely, one might hear the activity
Which takes place around us every day? Nature in gay naiveté exhibits a proclivity
Towards promiscuity, which could well bring discomposure to a gardener’s place,
Were it not for his deep understanding of Nature’s laws, tempered by tolerant grace
Though a garden displays devious contradiction, originating from the damp dingy soil,
It brings rewards to a good gardener with ample satisfaction for his unending toil.
Rhymer. September 3rd, 2016
Copyright © Denis Barter | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
The way of Heaven, and health,
for that matter,
Is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down and the bottom-end goes up.
The extra is shorted, the insufficient is expanded.
(Laotse, "Bending the Bow," pp. 305-6, 1942, Modern Library, Lin Yutang, ed.)
The way of economic paradise,
is it not like the bending of a therapeutic bow?
The top comes down as the poverty-end goes up.
The fattest are shortened,
as the insufficient expand.
It is the way of Beloved Community
to take away from those upstream, with too much,
by mutually investing with those without enough downstream.
Not so with human nature's way:
We take away freedom and power from those without BusinessAsUsual value
And give them as tribute to those with too much.
Who can have enough and to spare to coredeem the entire world?
Therefore the Sage acts and transacts,
but does not possess or dispossess,
Accomplishes but lays claim to no credit or deficit,
Because he has no wish to seem economically or ecologically superior to 0-soul value.
(Adapted from ibid)
Bending this permacultural bow of bilateral boundariesin time,
between host and client,
the bender and the bowed,
rich and poor,
stimulus and co-response,
self with eco-other,
YangYes as NotNotNo YinYin,
Left in sacred solidarity with Right,
full summer's incubating copassionate heat
with deep winter's decomposing cold compost,
until all four Seasons equivalently fulfill,
diastolically complete health management
and co-arising equitable investment,
trough naturally and mutually integrative functions.
When seen together,
through Left's "both-and" ecological
as Right's "not-not" logical dipolar landscapes,
through life's therapeutic/pathological seasons
preferring well-fired water and airy subterranean soil,
C through F closed-fractal
as A through Guanine/Adenine RNA-regeneratively open pregnant octaves,
through annual win-win economic balancing life-health games
reflecting perennial win-lose ecological cycles
of (0)-sum slow revolutionary harmonic cosmic balance,
we can each and all shoot comprehensive conscious arrows
into fertile post-millennial enculturation,
drenched in eco-Earth's self-Ego love.
bow-hunting each moment as my Tipping Point last
and our more polyculturally inclusive bilateral last octave step
toward ego death's eco-ionic winterish rebirth.
This more fully organic mind-culture we are hunting
and farming and foresting,
a rich composting Holding SpaceTime
of (0)-centric positive polynomial values
transporting negative not-not non-named,
ignored, neglected, dispossessed and undervalued Disvalues
of Anger and Fear of Time's Great CoArising Departure,
lurking behind our Fractal-Crystal-TransParent Commons
for recycling cognitive dissonance,
slowly pulling into enlightening days and Transitioning ReGeneration
to explore harmonies of scale and pitch,
and developmental learning stages,
proportional polyculturing designs and cooperative guilds
to optimize Positive Systemic Teleology
by diminishing eisegetical "unconscious" dissonance
from our global cooperative orthopraxis--
jump-starting universal co-empathy.
Dynamic perennial understory,
regeneratively reseeding germination of Healthy SpaceTime's
Zero-Sum eco-logical Four Seasons of growth and decay cycles;
too often confused with stagnant ego-serving Orthodoxy
degenerating Earth's gasping Business-As-Usual breath.
Time optimizes sustainable Ego-Yang's diastolic inhalation
through our Self-Subsidizing Eco-Yin-with-Yin cooperative exhalation.
Yin exhaling is Yang inhaling.
We find only 0-centric difference of identity.
Investing in Ego-reducing praxis for ContinuousQualityImprovement,
Bucky's least dissonant way to improve failing systems
is to optimize their environmental ecosystems,
their ecological balance and holistic harmonious potential flow streams,
especially their root-systemic perennial enculturation environments
to grow more effective year-round economic health nutrients,
collateral correlational evidence for Positive Teleological Value,
and less cognitive dissonant Ways and Means toward profligate hope,
Truth and Consequences for regenerating inclusive faith,
in The Good Life and Death of synergetic coredeemer love,
a graceful co-messianic incarnation
of post-millennial Tao ReGenesis.
including comprehensive eco-consciousness dialogue,
grows from primally rooted regenerative fractal systemic health-practice.
Positive practice intent is not even possible to grow therapeutically
without a Positive Teleological Assumption,
too often attenuated as merely enthymematic empathic-wish fullness.
People harboring insanity, depression, opposition,
high stressed over-populated anxiety,
are less well-oriented to Positive Teleological Orthopraxis
due to a lack of sufficient health-equity practice
unveiling contenting implications within contentious dissonance,
therapeutic relationships of mutual basic co-empathic attendance
and cooperatively active mentorship.
The way of Beloved Climax Community
is it not like the bending of a Full Four Season
permacultural bow facing bilateral namaste
for life as death reborn?
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
arthur vaso | Details
The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope
(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)
She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table
Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons
Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be
Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual
He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above
Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty
She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond
Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose
Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter
The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks
The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?
He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness
They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard
She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings
Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories
She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love,
I am yours eternally
I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me.
Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.
I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
In April of this year I began preparing a new organic gardening patch,
planning to have it ready for next year's expansion from a too-small garden
in front of my recently acquired Connecticut Cape Cod home.
I have neighbors toward southern exposure and behind,
between the Thames River and my sunset-facing backyard.
Here, next to an old, but still purposeful,
fresh-painted forest green deck
lies a mix of some rich dark soil
and some topsoil with unpromising smears of gravel stones
scraped off a dirt driveway
that turned to mud when wet
before I installed a pressed gravel drive last month.
next to the repurposed green deck
lies my new garden incubation project.
I rescued my deck floor last fall
from the bowels of a thorny bramble mountain,
some woody stalks obscenely pushing between heavy 2x6 planks,
now upper faced with unnaturally vivid green stubs
since I rolled my lavish porch paint.
But, the old railing around three sides was beyond rescue.
No longer with us, I'm sorry to say.
A sun exposed potential spot for a garden
emerged from my bramble mountain on the south side of the slightly raised deck,
about eight yards long on each of three sides.
I laid out my cardboard boxes,
stored in the grotesquely damp basement since I finished unpacking
After soaking the cardboard,
I covered it with a combination of compost,
top soil harvested from elsewhere on this property,
and peat moss.
Then I spread four to six inches of leaves over all that.
While I wait for this to transform into healthy nutritional soil,
I have been religiously peeing on the leaves.
At first I only reenacted this baptismal ritual under cover of night,
not so much out of modesty
as motivated by kindness,
as the sight of the elderly pasty white man who just moved in next door
outside exposing his peeing penis
might offend fragile first impressions of a fairly sane person
who might be expected to behave more reliably
with regard to neighborly decorum
and more traditional liturgical events.
More recently I started peeing in a yogurt container by daylight,
huddled up against the back porch door
where at least only my backside could ever become visible
to only the backside neighbor, so to speak,
who seems to be something of an ass.
But then, who isn't?
Then I take my yogurt cup of warm pee
and toss it out across the leaves blanketing my next-year garden plot.
This ritual feels generous,
like sprinkling my soil with nutritional holy water,
of which I do have some, but far less,
yet perhaps a bit too much,
experience as a seminarian some decades ago.
memories of peeing with the other would-be angels.
Now I am concerned that I could use a great deal more urine
for my organic farming purposes.
Perhaps I should come out of my yogurt closet,
send out a note to my nearby neighbors:
"Hi. Just want to invite you to come over and pee
on the leaf-covered triangular spot
next to the south side of my deck,
any time of day or night you wish.
Feel free to include your pets.
Make it a family destination if you wish.
In return for your investment,
I will probably have tomatoes,
and leeks (no pun intended)
not this season,
Maybe some extra peas too.
OK, I'm gonna' stop now."
"The neighborhood that pees together,
So, come on,
please don't leave me standing outside,
preparing for next year's yummy harvest."
So I did.
This invitation has not generated the enthusiastic response I was imagining,
with neighborhood families dropping in
to drop off their deposits
for our neighborhood development project.
it did provoke my backyard neighbor
to jam a note into my otherwise vacant mailbox:
among your commitments to recycling and repurposing,
that you are an Organ Donor.
I certainly do hope whoever gets those organic parts
has a good harvest no later than next year.
Sooner is better."
Now, how could we compost our collective humanure?
Cause that guy behind me seems overly full of it.
Then again, it takes one to smell one.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
The healthiest and wealthiest ecological objective
of designing and playing life
is to optimize potential for continuing reiterative plays and transactions
as long as possible.
such as bottom-line competitive capitalism
diminish down to one supremacist ego-political Winner.
Yet then this relentlessly Might Makes Right game is over,
and so this Winner only wins to lose the entire cooperative gaming network.
NotNot Positive Zero-Sum
double-binding equivalency norms,
such as Golden Ruled,
optimize options of Tit-for-Tat reiterative continuous healthy
and "wrapping in" or "creolizing" inclusive,
delayed mutual reward,
unto perpetuity of this same naturally cooperative gaming network.
Yin-Messianism is too often confused with over-Yanged zealotry,
with Win-Lose Zionism as nationalistic patriotism,
should our nationalistic pretensions of elitism Lose,
such as losing a Vietname War, for example,
then YHWH has also lost,
suffered a demi-death.
Win-Lose zealotry of nationalism will,
if too over-grazing successful,
predict its own idolatrous fall from sacred grace.
Continous matriarchal-cooperative creolism, polyculturalism, multiculturalism
lies between Yin-rooted defenseless messianism
and Yang over-shot. totalitarian nationalistic, defensive zealotry.
It is possible to have a healthy interdependent national ientity culture,
but it would be as matriotic as patriotic,
it would not be discontinuously-supremacist nationalistic,
it would be co-messianic,
multiculturally cooperative messianic,
looking for syncretic uniting nations
nurturing healthy Earth climates
and landscapes with polyculturally regenerative outcomes.
It is possible to avoid messiah complexes,
whether personally or ecopolitically public as naked elitist patriots,
by recognizing we are a co-messianic patriotic/matriotic species
for waging Bodhisattva peace and mutual mercy.
Messiah complexes are essentially and idolatrously egocentric,
about what I can do to save the less free and/or loyal and/or pure world;
co-messianism is about what we are One-MindBody doing together
to co-redeem this creolizing recreative EarthTribe.
"[Elitist-purist] permaculture is not the [polyculturally cooperative game] landscape,
or even the skills of [healthy] organic gardening,
sustainable [ecotherapeutic consuming-producing] farming,
energy [informational] efficient [natural] building
[or eco-international matriarchal-cooperative ownership] development
But it [co-messianic polyculturally positive-healthy outcomes]
can be [cooperatively and transculturally] used
to [democratically] design,
[nondually co-arise] establish,
manage and [co-empathically trust] improve
these and all other [double-binding WinWin] efforts
made by [YangLeft/YinRight balancing] individuals,
towards a sustainable [multiculturally healthy
and democratically safe,
co-redemptive ecopolitical] future."
David Homgren, "Permaculture: Principles and Pathways Beyond Sustainability [of Nationalistic Patriarchal OverYanged Patriotism]
The healthiest objective
of playing long sacred life
is to optimize WinWin relationships.
speaking of an individual organism
and an individual interdependent nation.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
Do you see yourself as more Republican
or leaning more Democrat?
I'm a card-carrying Republican.
Came from a long patriarchal line
of red-blooded Republicans.
What makes you a Republican?
What is Republicanism, do you think?
Well...being against the Democrats, mostly.
I get that.
But, what are Republicans for
that Democrats are at least not in favor of
enough to give it sufficient priority
for you to feel economically and politically comfortable?
Republicans are Freedom Fighters.
Give us liberty or death.
Well, presumably we will all have both,
but liberty for what,
freedom to what,
freedom from what?
and freedom of religious expression
and free from terrorist and socialist threats,
to begin with;
freedoms protected by our Constitution
including its Amendments,
Bill of Rights.
And presumably Democrats are, then,
for enslaved by regulation markets,
prescribed and proscribed absence of religious expression,
because they are all secret atheists anyway,
and more willing to accept terrorism and socialism
as part of Earth's sick political and economic bounty,
and are, at best, ambivalent about freedoms
asserted by Constitutional authorities,
defined by their Original Historical-Cultural Intent.
That sounds about right.
Would you agree that the Preamble
and the somewhat older Declaration of Independence
bear seminal weight
for establishing the Constitution's intent
with regard to protection and promotion of freedoms?
during our pre- through post-revolutionary period,
were originally defined by contrast
against a backdrop of economic and political plutocracy.
Our interdependent constitution as a free nation
composed of States with their own democratically intending constitutions
were statements that we would not be owned
nor tyrannically controlled,
taxed and terminated,
Freedom from plutocratic authorities lies within our U.S. Constitution's definition
as a free union of democracies,
to live in interdependent cooperative freedoms
in which political authority's boundaries
no longer exceed responsive economic co-invested co-responsibilities.
Which party would you argue
is more articulate about sustaining freedoms from plutocratic
power trends and systems and ecopolitical outcomes
of jingoistic nationalism
that disguises triumphalism of the rich and powerful
becoming ever more rich and powerful?
Well, I'm not sure.
That would probably be the Greens
or the Libertarians.
which party is more self-defined
as supporting regenerative interdependent responsibilities
to sustain future generations
of balanced democratic freedoms
from pathological plutocratic authorities
and yet growing freedoms to become responsibly,
co-responsible nurturers and health-mentors
of and for Earth's future cooperatively renewing
That would be the Greens as polypathic PermaCulturists.
So, why aren't you that,
instead of the card-carrying Republican?
Oh, that's your easiest question yet:
Because nobody votes for the Greens,
and hardly anybody has even heard,
much less smelled or seen,
a cooperatively networking PermaCulturist.
Unless you count trees and plants and ecosystems.
But we don't.
They can't vote.
Or do they?
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Dale Gregory Cozart | Details
It is an unseasonable March day.
My kitchen blinds are drawn against the morning sun,
their slender slats like new skin protecting the body's vital organs;
eyelids before this rose-covered tablecloth as though the blooms
are the pale larvae of our future, still coiled and sleepy,
not-yet-flowers at the sill of this too-early spring,
who would murmur, if so evolved: We are not ready to be born.
I perspire at the sudden heat; the ceiling fan beats downward
onto my damp corner, this alcove of waning winter.
But the flowers: the muslin washed to faded smoothness,
the blooms asymmetrical, each calyx waiting like fingers clasped
in prayer to blossom into a new dimension,
a simple heartfelt request to rejoin the living.
And there are rhododendrons, pink with their baby freckles, the tiny stamen-fingers
reaching past those same pliant slats, this time of the crib
of their incubation, to touch softly anything of the strange newness
of their coming fruition. We are dawning, come the earliest babblings;
they know what they mean even if we do not. The first alien syllables
fall on deaf carpeting and the semi-gloss of these pale walls,
absorbed and forgotten in the stiff pleats of similar-colored curtains.
In this house, in these manufactured shadows, I am still of winter,
of our shared grief and shame at our compelling
obscenity of civilization, knowing full well that this structure
stood as shelter against the recent, freezing rains, the showering
silver spears of a marauding infidel, who, as the earlier mulch of autumn,
has come to dust, spent as the bride whose wedding dress
falls away and disappears in the tatter of fallen leaves
that soon dry up and disintegrate. In its place, in the folds of new skin,
comes a house of flowers, plant-life sacrificing itself on the altar,
using its own bodies to erect its shrine.
Suddenly this tabletop, awash in once-vibrant maroons, greens,
pinks and whites, is a crystal ball. In this sphere of the all-knowing
I see things as they will be. This table is a loom and the cloth
a tapestry, each thread a component of the fabric to come.
And the flowers: roses unscrolling; chrysanthemums bursting
into the applause of dozens of tiny hands; hibiscus, the silent trumpets,
all laid out on a bed of stems and leaves woven as the threads themselves
upon which their likenesses have been cast, like a portrait
painted in their own green blood.
But these dragons stationed at the gates of paradise
are only cotton heroes; it is March. It is too soon.
This sudden heat will pass as this day passes, its images
dissolving into memory as a stone obliterates the reflection
alive in a tranquil pool. What I have seen will be, but not now.
I am myself in this little room, the adult who must go
about the tasks of day. But I am also an infant poised
on a threshold, the golden crocus in first bloom, arriving prematurely.
And I am held at this brink of fruition by a body not sufficiently evolved,
being led away by a parent I barely recognize, who cannot offer consolation
as he does not know the vision I have seen.
As we move I look back, reaching with the bulb of my hand
and its tiny sprouting fingers, for the image growing
further out of reach, and I murmur gravely,
half in knowledge, half in absentia, the only word I can pronounce:
Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
I retired a couple years ago
and decided to take a gardening class
because otherwise I probably would starve
even with food stamps,
given my retirement plan
was mainly to live off my still-freeloading adult perpetual-children.
This gardening class cost more than it was worth,
so just about exactly what a reasonable person would expect to invest,
except it was taught by a shaman
who called herself not a witch, but a Permacultural Designer,
and said she was even officially Certified as such.
She actually admitted up front
that we too would be certifiable if, along life's way,
we applied her PermaCulture Principles
of nutritional arts and sciences.
So I planted my first garden
on my new retirement home
about half wooded,
or maybe a third,
actually I have no idea
but I can speak to the prodigious poison ivy.
A few of my seeds actually did not die prematurely
but, due to a series of unfortunate prior pollination events,
overall, the weeds won out
with few exceptions
to the natural law of might makes right evolution.
I thought for a couple of painful minutes
about pulling weeds,
with childhood memories of hoeing the weeds out of my 4-H garden,
I never did better than a red ribbon even with the hoe,
and, in my recently completed gardening class
I had learned the Principle of Greatest Nutritional Effect
with Least Gardening and Landscaping Effort.
I had already efforted the cursed seeds into the ground,
so perhaps doing more would be unnecessary,
who can kill all that kale anyway,
much less actually eat it.
Well, a couple days later I was mowing the lawn
with my electric quasi-powered push mower
and noticed how festively green and lush the garden looked over that way
so I probably didn't need to worry so much about watering.
A few days,
or maybe weeks, later,
I went out to see if there were peas or string beans to harvest yet.
I had considerable difficulty finding them.
The surprisingly anemic-looking lines and patches of kale were visible.
As I had suspected,
that stuff will grow where even a self-respecting weed would not root.
Next week I'm gonna try to seed it down the middle of my gravel driveway
to see if I can create an edible boulevard.
Although, not sure what that diesel school bus exhaust will do for the kale.
Probably the kale will suck it all in
and save it for me later.
After all, that's greatest effect with least effort, right?
Well now it's late July and I finally see the wisdom of Greatest Nutritional Effect
with Least Gardening Effort,
I got hungry enough to start eating the weeds.
I mean, not indiscriminately,
I'm not quite that dim,
although now that I think on it,
it would be easier to just graze on handfuls
or even sitting
in my new weed garden.
I could set the wicker chairs
and the swing out there.
The family that grazes together
stays and shits and starts to stick together,
I would suppose,
avoiding all unnecessary excesses
of hunting and gathering their next meal.
That would probably scare off my freeloading adult perpetual-kids too.
That's called the Principle of Positive Emergent Systemic Effect,
kind of another version of getting extra stuff done without actually doing anything extra.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details
It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence?
Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous. I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful.
Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.
my clean feet
wet with dew –
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes.
Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
a snail inches towards
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web
and my clothesline
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door
refills her new bird bath -
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace.
For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me.
*written May 2013.
I miss my herb garden!
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013