FTW (2019 Poem 22)
What a surprise to find you here
Though where you came from isn’t clear
All alone, seemingly aloof
Hiding from the common people
Over here by the church steeple
Lurching on this concrete roof
Sugar maple for the win!
Unnatural
When you see more
Experience less
When you scroll more
Read less
When you talk more
understand less
When your real friends decrease
Virtual accounts increase
When you eat more
Taste less
Then you are on a journey away from nature
You are doing something wrong
Because then you are living less…
Hour 22: Honey Hive
Honey Hive
Oh perfect, coordinated machinations
Colony in tandem, unison
Self-regulating, cultivating, communicating, replicating
Glowing hexagonal precision
Electric buzz of glass wings
Over factory conditions
Yellow gold waxen beauties
Building the future
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