The Poetry Marathon

The Forest Information Network, Hour 22

The forest doesn’t need WiFi

Doesn’t need a clear signal and broadband connection

It speaks via chemicals
Data transmitted via fungal colonies
An underground information superhighway
Mycelium networks under fallen leaves,
Allocating nutrients to every tree

An intricate symphony,
Interconnected mycelial filagree
Every blade of grass, shrub, and tree
Existing symbiotically,
Following patterns established by Fibonacci

Following the golden mean

Ever expanding

Fractally

Wild Corners

Green
Grey, brown
Competing
Colours of life
Sprawl across the map in patchwork patterns.
Blocks of brick flats stand almost back-to-back
But still a patch
Of wild ground
Is found
Here,
There,
Spaces
In between
The managed land
A sudden spark of wilderness breaks forth.

 

Form: Tetractys

Prompt: Write about nature in a city

2019 – Twenty-Two – Prompt 28 – Technology in the Context of Nature – Icarus

There’ve been bold wings built strong of many things
for many reasons meant beneath the sun.
Bones of steel, and alum skins, and wooden
frames for silk. Tight canvas woven in mills.
We have flown around this world on wings
built strong and safe and we have often run
before the wind, before our time, and when
we return to earth, modern are our skills.

But nature doesn’t cause true steel, or bind
aluminum to ribs of lathe. We learned
to fly from birds’ technology and tales
of dreams enough so we don’t reach out blind.

Wax and feathered wings and Icarus burned.
First flight was dreamed, and still so often fails.

(Not my best, but I can re-work it later.  A little over an hour to go. It’ll have to do.)

Peace

After driving 362 miles
down Highway 1 in a rented
Camero, we stopped in the suburbs
of some coastal California town.
We followed hand written
signs on white poster board
that read Yard Sale
to a newer development, cookie
cutter houses with white vinyl
siding on cookie cutter lawns.
Arid. One lone table on
folding legs, also white, standing
on the white concrete driveway.
Women’s shoes of all types,
size 7, lined up underneath, the only
shade to be found. Sun in late
February is soothing. A Hispanic
woman smiled at me from the porch,
walked over. I smiled back
and searched the table for anything
I could want. “How much?” I held
a pink woven bracelet with
a metal plate. “50 cents,”
her accented reply. I gave her
two quarters and turn. Back
to the car. Buckle up. Bracelet
cool in my hand, cool
on my wrist. Metal plate read
Peace. We stayed on the back roads.

19. The Messenger XIX

A host of Angels are surrounding me

They are so many I can’t see

The end of this Angels tide

So many they are around me, so tight

They are singing a wonderful song

Singing they are here to support me

Unconditionally

I just have to ask what I need

Or want, and they will give it to me

Sometimes so quickly

I am not able to see

What they are giving me

It’s a huge responsibility

No more excuses

Angels are doing

The most difficult for me

Making my life so much easier

I can only believe in my own inner power

To create and transform anything

Into whatever I want

No justification, no explanation needed

I can change my mind as many times

And as often as I want

Almost instantly, it is accomplished

What takes more time is

Me seeing it, even though

It’s just  in front of

My nose

In the city

nature here is nothing like the mountains fresh with dew in the morning

air conditioners drop fluid in strange places

bags of garbage rustle with the contents of rodentia feasts

And the jungle of concrete holds secrets they never tell you

Hour 22. (2019)

Concrete Blocks

Layers upon layers of ancient labor

They have obliterated a history

A cruel history

From which blossoms hope

Hope that envelopes gray in green

All the Little Lies

They bunch up to create

a scapegoat for nothing

some bigger story built by

nameless faces and forgotten

shells of people who gave everything

everything for their people

In the end we sit

dust upon the ashes

and any truth we’d once held

we crushed like a baby bird

a young corpse

between our fingers

Modern Nature

butterfly pixels

animatronic flowers

through TV windows

Protected: poem 17 hour 17 (picture poem) secret garden

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