Your poetry grabs at my heart.
For us humans, worldwide I suppose, we’re faced with an epidemic of fear, solitude and darkness, a swarm of information, bullying, idiocy and frankly a lot of bullshit I don’t have the nose to look at, squarely.
Where’s the love, I wonder?
Could you even fit the millions of protesters on the globe stage? How would you dress us, and what do you even tweet?
Life on top of a mountain: It’s never unsafe to walk through the woods, hear the rattle of a snake. I’m grateful for the warning signals. In Cragsmoor we have black bear, craggy rocks, gardens, birds and worms, messages inside the footprints in snow, and if that isn’t enough to feed hungry humanity, we have a library with books.
HERE is where I love. NOW is time to talk COURAGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE - to give the Noble and the Kind their due freedoms.
Disabling rants scare me. A presidential regime is rising- pulling us downward - at an alarming rate, gaining momentum and the forces of humanity seem crippled, ineffective, by the misuse of power. He needs attention so that all of us see, know and hear.
Maybe even the snakes.
He doesn’t rattle.
But they do.
Listen, Shakespeare, to the rattle. I hear it, snaking through Perdita’s gardens. Let’s hear it for crossbreeding, for honing life and our world and our people:
and let’s call it the art of nature.
But nature makes that mean. So over that art
Which you say adds to nature is an art
That nature makes…..we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobler race. This is an art
Which does mend nature – change it rather, but
The art itself is nature. (Polixenes: The Winter’s Tale.)
It’s Natures Bastards telling the stories of who goes to bed with whom…a garden bed, a straw bed, a bed of honor and love, a bed for the world to cultivate, for better and better. We are all Nature’s Bastards.
All in good time.