Cope with Hope

If you’re seeing a mountain of disparate and conflicting information about which you can’t form a single unified narrative right now, that’s okay. That’s what we’re all seeing.~Caitlin Johnstone

Dawn’s sleepless hour, a storm
and I rise to cook while there’s power.
Sunrise reveals feathered pairs plot
ways to sandwich nests among the riprap,
squat to plan which escape their babes
might take. The mowing crews will bring
heartache–if you believe as I do
that life wants to live–you
vanquish the fantasy of control
a tranquil shore where humans never
go, immersed in screens of fear
or pacing with leashed dogs
on the tarmacadam road adhering
to austere demands. Am I a ninny
longing for hugs? A show of hands,
remember when we traded germs
quite freely? Abnormal now confirms
this is a war and my body
is the battlefield, and I must yield.
Even when they don’t have a clue,
I must be used, tossed like a test
(will I protest?) I do not know.
I’ll say it loud. And yet I love
and I am proud to live in connected
respect. I reject this abject
fear and misery. I’m here to question
every single thing you’re telling me.
I’m free to loosen my creativity.
So I rise up. It’s spring.
It’s time to plant new living things.

 

Inspired by: Ninny, Fantasy, Vanquish and Sandwich.

Also by Charles Eisenstein’s thoughtful essay about what’s going on right now, The Coronation.

Bugging Me

My brothers hid to fling grand-

daddy-longleg spiders in my hair

to my horrified screaming dance.

I learned

their sticky legs

curl-caused panic

to the tune

of laughter so hard

the boys fell onto the grass.

Fool, my mother said later,

they do it to hear you scream.

The rules of engagement

clear, I enacted an impervious

shell:  Spiders are my friends,

I said, so calm, thank you

for reuniting us.

I was ten.

Their faces fell as I quenched the

joy I felt as malice,

assuming nonchalance

over my inward shudders.

Let me confess right here,

I still quiver when extracting

tiny legs from my locks,

although they say today there is

ninety percent less chance

of contact, the pesticide companies

capitalizing on our squeamishness

and my brothers have

grown rich in their application

of poisons

for that country-club-illusion

monoculture.  The hives have collapsed,

the bats and swallows hunger,

our tricks turn on us.

We follow the money with

that taste of toxins,

aware

the way ahead is obstructed,

the shell is cracking,

and the names of what we know

are humbug.  Our inter-being only now

becoming clear

in these last days of the surd

edifice of man.

 

 

 

Inspired by: Fool from three places!

I Ought To Be Committed

I hereby relinquish my claim

to someday, that nebulous

dream that keeps me in thrall.

I commit to the pleasure

of this morsel, closing my

eyes in ecstasy,

relish the finite bite

of now.  I’ve missed so much

nourishment, lost to pages

and shows, words and sounds

that false security

shielding me from the very real

dangers of this exquisite

moment.  Here now

I run like a three-year-old

to kiss a tree,

laughing at the branch

caught in my hat.

I spread myself out

as an offering to this ancient

dog to sniff, tail wagging,

saying, I love you, too,

hosting the planet

as I learn

to savor

anew.

Inspired by Commit, Finite, Security and Someday.