Flame of the Bovine

The hills of Jackson County

slowly rolling into fluid fields.

The tall grass wind-ripples

from pebbles untossed.

A single oak shades a cluster of cows,

and in the near corner,

miles removed from the combustible,

a solitary fire hydrant

stands guard.

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Embrace the rings of time mourning decayed & neglected ancestors & ancestors long razed before their knotted eyes.

Embrace the carbon dioxide eating, oxygen-belching, green & throbbing air filter.

Embrace the public toilet of drunks & homeless men with bursting bladders of cheap wine & schwag beer & stale coffee.

Embrace the sanctuary of creatures hiding from other creatures.

Embrace the large oak outside your bedroom window in which cardinals, mockingbirds, perky robins flutter & twitter each to each in harmonious disarray waking your soul from night.

Embrace one man’s target for pellet gun antics of children & aggressive urges of war & bloody competition.

Embrace another’s unsolicited source of bleach-white coffee filters & flowery paper towels used to wipe drool from kitchen tables.

Embrace the obstacle of chugging bass-filled, fume-choking vehicles of metal-fiberglass-plastic & rubber-tired transports.

Embrace the fading field founder with parasites great & small eating its core from the outside.

Embrace the rough-skinned tablet scarred with the initials of arrogant lovers declaring undying adoration to the ego.

Embrace the overgrown broccoli floret of the greatest tossed salad unknown to man.

Embrace the shade giver of picnic lunchers who litter the roots with superfluous plastic packaging & paper.

Embrace the shelter of potheads burning kind bud into ash until the bark bites back & the smoke clears revealing a space for God to sit cross-legged.

Embrace the sole source of joy for the overworked, underpaid executive staring bleakly & blankly through the solitary 12th floor porthole.

Embrace the pre-lumber of timber planted specifically to be shelved on display in a home improvement store near you.

Embrace the endangered haven of endangered creatures & flora dripping with rain on cloudless tropical days.

Embrace the fantasy strike-zone of bored & lonely boys with large baseball stones in their dusty hands.

Embrace the producer of rich citrus & fragrant blossoms & wavering leaves & songs of birds & nuts.

Embrace the haven of lovers & campers & hikers & bikers & picnickers & frogs.

Embrace the object immovable in bondage with lead ball mountain bike chained to its ankle.

Embrace the decaying & suffering acid rain riddled & noble product of seed.

Embrace the bearer of nuts & seeds & the freshest fruit caressed by tooth or tongue.

Embrace the embracers.
Embrace that which they embrace.

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The crux of so many of the issues facing humanity is our loss of rhythm, our collective insomnia regarding the cycles of nature and of the universe in general.  We exist in cocoons of concrete and metal and plastic, utterly forgetful that the Earth continues to grow, thrive, decay, and rebirth on a constant and continuous basis.  Squirrels and rabbits and maple trees and daffodils remember.  Tulips and bears remember; they know instinctively that, as daylight grows shorter and nights grow longer, there will be less warm weather, less sunlight and food for several months, so it’s time to hunker down, conserve energy and wait it out until springtime arrives.  Then time for rebirth; flowering, pollinating, mating; fill up the belly, raise the sap.
Meanwhile, when autumn arrives, when winter arrives, the humans continue to toil away, making things, consuming things, expending energy, attempting to behave naturally and normally, interacting with each other as if we are supposed to be awake and alert.  Ridiculous.  As in “worthy of ridicule.”  Perhaps what is truly lacking is our awareness of our connection to the Earth.  All things physical on this planet are derived from this planet; picnic tables, coke bottles, laptops, french fries, even styrofoam and, yes, humans too.  The cycles of nature are in our genes and we are out of rhythm.  Does the city-dweller have an awareness of the equinoxes?  The natives in the tropical regions are conscious of autumn’s arrival despite the absence of leaves changing colors, but are the suburbanites in Florida aware?  Our bodies remember, our heart remembers; but our ever-distracted brains forget.  As we continue to use the Earth as something to extract from and manipulate, we are going against our innate systems, creating evermore discord and disharmony within our own beings that it becomes increasingly more difficult to achieve harmony with our fellow beings (not just people, but animals, insects, and so on, but that’s another rant).  It’s at least part of the intangible restlessness that every single human feels deep, deep inside; an unnameable irritability and sense of unfulfillment.  And it’s what blindly drives us on our endless pursuits, seeking some way to scratch that elusive itch and satiate this incurable hunger.  We are out of balance, and this imbalance creates such inner turmoil that we lash out in the most convenient manner possible:  at each other, thereby perpetuating the chaos within ourselves and each other.  This is not to suggest a return to a totally agrarian society (though I’d find that immensely more preferable), but a means to balance our modern pursuits mindful of the universal rhythms and cycles, to be in balance with “it all.”  In the end, the moon cares not that its tidal influence affects our jet-skiing.

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I am not the raindrop’s daughter.
I am the morning’s winter daylight call.
A fraction of pressure,
a rushing reminder.
A joke;
a half-thought.
But when the scattered bolders beyond
behold the wisdom,
thin lightning drops drape my mind.
It’s a seeming,
a mere,
a reflection so dear,
that thoughts radiate and escape.
The odds are great.

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Fall fell last night
leaving wet leaves layered upon layers,
thin as filo, only not as brittle.
The little seed pod that snaps
and pops underfoot, weary under
the moist sticky organic pastry blanket
reaches down through the green shafts
into the soft soaking soil searching
for its solitary silence.

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Eyes Closed

Where does vision go with eyes closed?
My eyes still “see,” but what am I looking at? I suppose I am “looking at” the inside of my eyelids, but I don’t discern cells, or membrane, or anything like that; maybe tiny capillaries if I am in the sunlight. But I “see” many, many things, regardless.
I see sparkles and flashes of various sizes and colors and intensities. I see globular clusters of solid color – often purple – drifting and transforming; changing shape like amoebae. I see dim and hazy objects & shadows, recognizable forms moving and floating against a background of darkness. I watch shapes mutate into vivid faces and people that are unfamiliar, walking and working and running and such. I see sharp geometry in the forms of multi-colored lines and grids; spheres and angles; fractal and wavering.
And yet I strive to see nothing.

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Gazing across the dim lake
as the lightning bolts split into fingers of light.
Stretching & sprawling,
spiderwebs crawling across the horizon.
A spurt;
a sharp expanding spark.
A flash;
low rumbling in the dark.
A mouthful of water drips from the dark sky
through the surface of a silvery lake.
A drop,
and a plump drop plops
down through the trees.
Quickly the breeze –
the breath of the trees –
picks up from the East,
a forceful exhale
as they stretch out
to give us more shelter.

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