Long Marshes Poems
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Listen my children
and you shall hear
of the midnight ride
speeding greed will steer.
Just as our cooperative economy
is fueled by gratitude,
our competitive WinLose economy
is fueled by greed.
Other parallel points of contrast
ecologically and logically follow
in their own sweet and sour time.
Cooperative industry,
business
tribes
governments
systems and networks
enjoy organically limited slow-growth
in comparison
to capitalism and elitism and egotism
fast-growth
toward insufficiency of Earth's carrying capacity,
and Yang-dominant WinLose evolutionary enculturation
of Yang-Yin divisive survival stories--
Mom and Dad never could get along--
secularly supplanting sacred
Yin/Yang health/wealth thrival stories
of slow Paradise
revolving seasonally appropriate deep-ecological development,
listening to both redevelopment Left
and reverting-reverse-time decompositional analysis Right
of restoring nutritional-slow
and toxic-fast
health trends.
Further,
and don't fall asleep yet,
we're just getting to the best part,
slow grown cooperatives toward abundance
are dominated by matriarchal/patriarchal integrity stories
more than fast-paced
overshooting patriarchal Westerns with shot gun dissonance,
the chaos of believing and teaching
that justice is what comes out of the end of a rifle association,
incommensurability of values
across economically healthy corporations
as also ecologically wealthy organic-flowing incorporations,
both born of FatherSun
deductive LeftBrain enlightenment
and MotherEarth
inductive RightBrain polyphonic feelings
of color and sound
music and dance
in octave-fractal
slow-growth marches
toward salt marshes
predicting oceans
of YangLight
slow-breeding Yin-tides of revolution.
Matriarchy,
where what is embedded deepest
is also ethically and aesthetically highest
richest
healthiest.
Listen my children
and you shall hear
of the midnight ride
speeding greed will *****.
And everyone died alone unhappily ever after
as before.
aristocratic antelope alarms and annoys
blue-eyed baboon’s billy goat buster
causing confusion, consternation and crying
distressing and disturbing deliberate donkey
egg-producing egret elevates enthusiasm
forever frolicking in farmer fred’s pastures
giddy goats gallop in garnished with garlands
happy horse henry hypnotizes henrietta’s hens
intense iguana ignores idiocy of inmates
jackals justify jack rabbits jelly-like jeers
kangaroo keenly kicks off kingly kibitz
luxurious llamas lollygag in the lounge
mischievous monkeys march among marshes
nervous newts nibble on nutty Nutella
obnoxious oxen opts out of outrageous opportunities
preening peacock praises his pompous president
quivering quail questions quaking quasar
rustic rooster ruffles robin’s restlessness
sassy songbirds swizzle and sway toward sand beach
talkative turtle trains tarantula to twist and turn
understudy Ulysses utilizes universal unitedness
validating vocabulary of vicious vultures
wandering weasel wants to find his wishes
‘xacting ‘xtra ‘xhibitions ‘xperiment on eagle’s nest
yellow yak yawns next to yipping young wolf dog
zealous zebra zips into view of aristocratic antelope
You flit around the marshes and in places warm and wet.
as a beetle you’re about as bright as any bug can get!
You have a tiny flashlight built into your small tummy,
but for foes, your bio-luminescence is not yummy!
Though when a creature tastes you, they’re sure to spit you out,
There’s something even better that your light is all about!
You’re looking for a sweetie when you flash your little glow,
and when you synchronize in groups, it’s like a disco show!
How I loved to chase you when I was just a kid,
and I’d catch you in a jar with holes poked in its lid.
That wasn’t nice of me. It must have caused you fright.
You were only lending magic to my summer night.
How I miss you, lightning bug, known as firefly.
And how I wish that I could see you in this western sky.
Even in the Midwest state that I left behind
I hear you are becoming more difficult to find.
Too many fields paved over; no places you can hide.
Too many lights from people and too much pesticide.
People use their headlights; this is confusing you.
Your blinking light gets all mixed up. You don’t know what to do.
Fewer are the places where, dear firefly, you can stay.
How sorry we will all be when your magic fades away!
Written July 16, 2016 for the contest of David Lindsay
If only I could sketch landscapes and moors.
I'd paint hillsides yellow and fill them in gorse.
I'd use a fine needle and the core green pose.
In between, stitch a line of grass on the floors.
The dales would have a purple heather carpet.
And line up the woods with their lovely lilac bells.
I'd blend bracken and heather colors like shells.
A green-purple seascape on my fair fabric scarlet.
I'd stitch a pile of daisy chains using soft white wool.
Along meandering hallways and beautiful meadows.
I stenciled the marshes as clean glass white yellows.
Buttercups and deft water lilies along the wild pool.
Red, yellow, and orange flowers bloom freely.
On a colorful canvas, my own stunning tapestry.
Written: April 09, 2023
Beaming sculpture whittled by awning clouds over blue sea
Ethereal beauty tinged in brown, green and yellow shea
Aerial bliss, flaunting on leaves-sunkissed
Under and over my wings, I breathe your scented mist
Talons I sprawl, your branches I grip
Yonder sanctuary, your soothing shield I trip
Amongst beauties of nature, your heights majestic
Narwhals of blue seas, unicorns of Atlantic
Dying depths of roots underlying masses so cryptic
Marshes of hidden paradise, your abode of beauty
Attached is madness of ethnic humanity
Desecrating pristine ages of dreamt forest
Nesting on mantels, burning unrest
Eaves of succulent leaves, carved barks and branches
Streaming on saps and man's cold blood
Sweet and sour blend of beauty and madness
In deep of forest he roams with might
A silken coat flaring through eve’s air;
When moon casts boldness on a steed’s rite
To journey free… far as runes declare,
My horse totem enkindling power
Directing flights in my younger days --
Where carousels merry blessed the hour
This kinship granting me strength, ablaze:
Flows his mane of auburn, a crown’s hue
Resting kindly on marshes of land;
A character known just to a few
Is grace of friendship time could withstand :
My spirit guide runs wild, yet he’s tame
For vision of light two of us hold
Through tenderness or speed, we inflame
One hearth beaming on raced dreams…consoled!
~o~
For Dear Heart's Spirit Animal Contest
6/3/2020
Springtime rain brings fresh array
of flowers east to west.
The Rockies’ red and purple tufts
of mountain pride are best.
And mats of foliage named moss pink face south to get the sun
while buttercups put forth large blooms
so not to be outdone.
Then comes the rain to bleak terrain
where gloriously unfolds
alongside barren roads - in patches -
desert marigolds.
Mojave yucca, blue lupines,
and sego lily whites
with Indian prairie fire flowers
paint the deserts bright.
And common flowers of the fields
in every place abound.
Sweet Joe-Pye weed; Black-eyed Susan
push up from the ground.
The California poppy makes
a patchwork orange and blue
while dandelions most unloved
will countless seedlings spew.
In southern marshes blossom too
the water hyacinths,
making of the waterways
pesky labyrinths.
In northern streams grow pussy willows
naked with no petals,
and somewhere on a touch-me-not
a bumblebee now settles.
Blossoming in woodlands now
are flowers in the shade,
but most prefer the sunlight of
an open forest glade.
The wild columbine dressed blue
and handsome in the breeze,
fragrant like the violet,
gives nectar to the bees
All across the country
there awaken everywhere,
each in their appointed region,
wild flowers fair.
Daisies, clover, daffodils
and lovely Queen Anne’s lace.
They briefly stay, but we can see
more fully nature’s grace!
(now for PD's Contest on Best Flower Poem)
For Constance La France's mini-contest: Wild Flowers
John B. Jackson
1880-1911
Norma knew.
Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts;
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb,
As we sought out promising locales, and
Our clever quarry, from points near and far.
From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe,
To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon,
We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find.
So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma?
I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach.
Norma was ready and loaded for the kill,
As I drew a long bead,
Held my breath, and pulled the trigger.
She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action,
Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke,
With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval,
Flying all about, and interspersed asunder!
That single memory was on my mind,
Before slipping eternally through the veil.
I remember closing my eyes, and there she was!
Appearing before me as a haunting ghost,
As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern,
My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel,
Cruel and heartless and mean,
For destroying “God’s creature.”
So, it was on that same day I put Norma away,
Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence,
Under the rafters of my humble bed;
I said a final goodbye and adios amiga,
To my once ballistic sweetheart,
And the love of my wild, youthful days.
Never again did I kill any living creature,
And found an inner wisdom I could never explain.
But, truth be known,
I wish I had Norma now.
Here in this dark cold grave.
I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger.
The gentle pull of her icy hammer.
And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power,
Of her fiery, exploding steel.
For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull,
And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill,
Tasting many a delicious quarry.
It’s true, my friends,
Norma knew.
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.
It shall not come
Darkness hovers above the glade,
ripples cease as reflections run for cover
behind hazy marshes, stale and silent
air permeates morning’s fabric
Beams dim, lost luminescence
pains shadows searching for meaning
in a crooked branch, leafless and lifeless,
protruding from bleak crevices separating
Whispers from the opaque world faintly call
in voices of the past, echoing what was lost,
a rhythmic pattern of sorrowed reminders
endlessly ripping me apart
I fall to my knees, pleading with the sky,
desperate for some light, a mere flicker,
my heart begs the stoic horizon…
knowing it shall not come
I walked through the forest
or perhaps a small batch of trees
to find the creek
I waded into with my clothes on
and my shoes off
to find nothing but chin high water and stars
The water was cold and before long
I was shivering yet I kept my gaze
above to the stars, planets and the waning moon
This would be my end
my transition to the other side
filled with demons, hellfire and eternal pain
My pain and sorrow is too much
so I put my head beneath the water
and challenged myself to take a breath
But I couldn't do it
I climbed out back onto the marshes
Drenching wet, smelling like the ocean
And I began my walk back home
in the middle of the night where the stars
did nothing but laugh and mock me
It's okay
I'm stronger now
and I won't let the demons take me back to that creek