“The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.” Socrates
Are you not in the least curious
even a tiny bit?
That there is another way instead
of this long fall into deep forgetfulness
to a prison not made of stone,
imprisoned, within our selves
where the memory of other lives
is eclipsed by the drama
of shame, of wanting, of striving,
over the simplicity of
bread, shirt, and roof,
wherein lies the escape.
“We abuse the land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong we may begin to use it with love and respect.” Aldo Leopold
The words dissembled before me,
my mouth moving,
searching for meaning,
glory in failure,
we forgot beauty,
running after fantasy
coated in soft-tongued speeches,
fetid, like an open sewer
wrapped in a bloody tricolour,
the bunting of martyrs,
fugitives of ourselves
on the parapets of love.
“We sense that ‘normal’ isn’t coming back, that we are being born into a new normal; a new kind of society, a new relationship to the earth, a new experience of being human.” Charles Eisenstein
I woke to the strangeness of a patient silence
that filled an obsolete vision of worlds,
I climbed off that clanking thrusting beast
as it lay wasted in my stead
and entered the vast field of joy,
where I saw the end of privilege,
that once would have devoured all the
tomorrows, wasting them on the altar of want,
but now I am challenged,
times are many and the distance is near,
this is the new normal
and the choice is mine,
to accept responsibility
for futures now seen.
Linda at dVerse has invited us to write a poem about ourselves as a flower, what flower we do we most identify with? I have chosen a Spider Orchid.
Photo: One of the several types of Spider Orchid found in Western Australia, Leda Reserve, 2018.
“The orchids grow in the woods and they let out their fragrance even if there is no one around to appreciate it.” Confucius
Shred Of Life
waiting for the sky to cry
and relieve my desiccated bones,
my rice paper skin,
a tenuous life in
an abundance of aridity,
the land of implausible possibility
where nature threatens its own
fragile existence so that
it won’t be disappointed
should its seed never smile
and celebrate a dawn,
yet here I am,
today, perhaps tomorrow,
a glorious struggle,
full of my colour
in a shred of life.
Amaya at dVerse has invited us to write a poem as one sentence about using three rules: (1) The poem must tell a story in one sentence; (2) the poem must explore the theme of the end of civilisation, and (3) the poem must be improvised; all around the theme of the end of civilisation, while including an embarrassing moment.
“This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper.” T.S. Eliot
The Border Collie of the Apocalypse
I walked the lake
as the four horsemen gathered,
portent of distance conflated,
the future was here
but we’re handing it back,
too bleak for our eyes to adopt,
but the dog cared not for an ending,
and treated himself to this walk,
the water was lower than ever before,
fewer birds than last year,
and just as I’m contemplating a
the dog found a friend,
and with his lunge
I’m suddenly airborne
split seconds pass me by
and I land with a thud
pride spewed over the path,
I rise with aplomb and
dust off my ending
as the young one
enquires of my health.
Photo: from hyperactivz.com and the story “Forty Years Ago This Man Planted A
Tree That Created Amazing Opportunities For His Island” by Lauren Fazackarly – The Story of Jadav Payeng who began planting trees at sixteen and is still going.
Please note: this is only one story, there are several stories from all over the world of people doing similar feats to greater or lesser extent.
“Society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they will never sit in.” Greek Proverb
He settled in the dust of his soul,
the sun beating down and
mocking his every effort
drawing his moisture to his brow,
and yet every day he rose and
without fail, made his way
to his field of dreams
that barren canvas of life’s struggles,
of course, without knowing,
passers-by smiled their condescension,
to them he was an eccentric farmer,
while in his own mind he was an
investment banker, and adventurer, a rebel,
and every time he planted a tree he knew
he was painting a masterpiece
whose abstract nature only he could explain.
“Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for kindness.” Seneca.
There was a camera crew,
celebrities of minor distinction,
someone pushing a microphone,
all the while hangers-on milled about,
but when the moment came for
words to be beaten into action,
the curious and the beautiful
faded quietly away into the distance,
leaving only the regulars
to do what needed to be done.