Tag Archives: Nature

going up the hill to the house, we

 

going up the hill to the house, we
saw flowers that she loved, and picked them
black eyed susans, sweet williams, daisies, columbine.
we gripped them in our plump warm hands.
by the time we made it, panting,
having stopped for toads and all the small things,
we presented them to her half-wilted.
“ragweed gives me allergies” she would say, plucking one of them out.
the rest would go in a vase of honor on the kitchen table
a small token of each others’ love.

going down the hill to the creek, we
see flowers that she loved, and pluck them
dandelions, sweet williams, violets, asters.
at the bottom trickles clear water
over mossy gray rocks
and we tip her ashes in.
they are white
like her hair
pure white
like her devotion
white like the sugar in her blood
white
like the angels she adored.
they swirl the water opaque
atop it we scatter the flowers
a painter’s palette of Missouri colors
blackberry, butter yellow, sap green, slate.

the sandy ashes sink.
it takes a full hour for them to wisp away
grain by grain into the gentle landscape.
we’re used to waiting for her.
no matter how we tried to rush,
she always did move slowly,
tasting her fine wine time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

A thousand orioles picked us up

 

A thousand orioles picked us up
And dropped us off on the cliffs of Moher.
The surf is white the stone is beautiful
The overcast makes the green glow with health
I see you you see me
We’re in synchronicity
Now how to get back to the city
Off these damn cliffs of Moher.

A thousand orioles congregated
They built a nest for you and me.
We can’t afford a roof
Instead this is what our love hath wrought.
Let us sit together
And suck eggs.

Ireland is falling into the ocean
Rock by rock by rock
We think we’re living
But we’re dying
The sea is rising
We’re compromising
Rock by rock by rock
Rocking in each other’s arms
On the motherfucking
Godforsaken
Desolate cliffs of Moher.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Our deadline

 

Humans shine brightest under pressure.

It’s not until we have a deadline

That we pick up our feet

It’s not until we get cancer

That we start to live

Maybe

When the world is on the brink of dying

When the atmosphere is choking us

When the plants wither

When disease blooms

When we are all facing starvation

Then we will rediscover world peace

True stewardship

And the meaning of community.

We will see our clear place in the world

Through dying eyes.

Perspective will heal our greed

For one last generation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

A nice peaceful lunch

 

I went outside into the courtyard at work to do some nice quiet pencil drawing, to regain confidence. My whole creative life is just one long interrupted battle with perfectionism. Why this should be, I don’t know. We’ll save that subject for a million whiny poems. But drawing in pencil is always easy, and a nice reminder that I can indeed draw.

It was very windy. My hair kept fluffing into my face. Normally I’d stick a pencil in there to hold it out of the way but, well, I was using it to draw. Minimalism has its pros and cons.

hair.png

Just when the drawing started to come together and I started to sink into the Zone…

IMG_20190419_134054769.jpg

CLANG!!!!

I nearly jumped out of my skin. A large empty metal trash can, the classic kind that I can’t believe people still make and use anymore, fell over right in front of me. The lid blew off and the bag, being empty, wind-socked out.

I decided to do the responsible thing and put it back. I was the only one in the courtyard, and who knows where that lid could blow. So I walked the trash can to a good snug corner and tried to put the lid on it. Had some trouble. The bag was so fluffed out and would not un-fluff. I eventually just gave up and forced the lid over the bag. It was at this point that I started to giggle.

IMG_20190419_133921197.jpg

(I know I just said I was a perfectionist. I vacillate back and forth between “not good enough” and “hell with it.” Guess which this doodle was.)

Slightly discombobulated, I sat back down to draw. WhoooOOOoOOOsh, said the wind. Pbptpbptpbt, said I with a mouthful of hair. The trash can remained firmly ensconced in its new corner, and said very little.

Behind me there was a loud, loud, gunshot CRACK.

THE FUCKING TREE WAS FALLING APART.

 

IMG_20190419_133936922.jpg

So it wasn’t the whole tree but it sure sounded like it. The drawing is more or less to scale. The dialog is also accurate. It might not have hurt me a whole lot if it landed, but oh my bajeezus. That scared me good.

So… something didn’t want me to draw today. I went back inside where the angry gods couldn’t attack me anymore!

HAPPY EASTER YOU SONS A BITCHES! May God and nature smile kindly upon you and not send vengeful winds your way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

« Older Entries Recent Entries »