If ecstacy could languid be
In leisured measured pace,
As in a roll ‘neath lazy waves
Or torpid liquid space.
If lack of frenzy hindered not
A fervent, vivid joy,
Or hampered passions reaching high
In somnolent deploy.
Perhaps such glee see manatees
Through languid, liquid eyes
The world as vast and slower bliss
Than quicker sights apprise.
And if indulgent wisdom comes
Through pacing down our lives,
Perhaps in rest are lessons taught
Our frenzied lives deprive.
Must come a time when all we see
Is nature cast in steel?
No creatures left,
Of means to bless or heal.
A zoo without a life or soul.
A sterile, puerile space.
Of life’s abundant grace.
Perhaps we’d still post happy smiles,
Just pass another day,
Our children shriek
Amidst their bleak
Though bright facade’s decay.
I fear too late we’d mourn that choice,
Too late we’d count its cost.
We’d come to rue
Our metal zoo,
And grieve at all we’d lost.
Yes, rather a cliché s title and picture during this cicada swarm summer, but there seems little more relevant image at this moment of din outside my door.
Had I a life beyond my own,
Alternate senses, fancies grown,
I’d glimpse green leaves ‘gainst bright blue sky,
Ride wind blown twigs,
Tread currents high.
Had I daft dreams beyond cave nights,
Winsome hopes, un-sown heights,
I’d shed this skin too small to hold
Wild dreams, vast visions – rare and bold.
Had I a chance to draft new mark,
Undo dark years of burrow stark
I’d trade those years of darkened maze,
For these few brief and frenzied days.
Surface, visible – vibrant life
Moss, dwarf iris and more.
Underneath, hidden – rock’s veiled essence.
Inner strength or sterile core?
We plead for substance,
We weep at barrenness,
I disregarded Eleanor,
She much regarded me,
Amidst the trope of our desire,
I dazzled her; she frazzled me,
We danced a rumba sheen.
But never found that comfort place
To right our wrongs between.
Too late, I flew a flag of truce,
Surrender in my eyes,
To find she’d fled our pied-à-terre
Defeated by our lies.
Tree ear listens, subtlety hears,
Furtive rustles — false dawn nears.
Rat snake’s slither,
Screech owl’s feather,
Prey-fraught field mouse fears.
Midst the silence spacing these,
Arboreal battle rare eye sees.
Push for sun and water feints,
War that no surrender taints
With efforts to appease.
Carpet moss down tree ear creeps,
Bryophyta stealthy keeps
Intentions cloaked by time and space,
Victory march at glacial pace,
Tree ear listens , nothing— sleeps.
Beauty in a butterfly’s wings…
Congrats to XinPei Zhang on an Olympus Image of the Year Award 2020…
Portal colors of architect wonder,
What meaning lies beneath?
If non-primates set their marks upon this world,
Their views, their memes, their sins.
Would they a lady’s slipper see,
Or different worlds within?
Perhaps instead, a feline grace,
A fleeting hippo muse,
A mantid’s dream,
A raptor’s edge-sharp hues.
But in their darkest dreams and fears,
In their most dismal hours,
I fear they see a primate face
And feel a primate’s power…
At sunrise, glorious sunrise
it’s a big catch!
A big catch of sardines!
On the beach, it’s like a festival
but in the sea, they will hold
for the tens of thousands dead.
Earth dreams left burrowed deep behind.
Coupling song midst brood-world trees,
Mortal sirens the far beckoning stars…
Here in the Smoky Mountains cicada Brood X is prepped to shatter our evening quiet once again.