Crystal Midden

I dug a piece of ruby red glass out of the ground,
Pulled it up with the dead twigs of last year’s peony flowers.
It was intertwined with them, as if they were holding on to it.
Keeping a little treasure for their very own.

Like arrowheads in the Southwestern United States,
Such finds are fairly common around here.
Not too far from Nybro, home of Kosta Boda.
Here in the Kingdom of Crystal.

Yes, it’s really called that.

It’s hard to tell what this piece was meant to be.
Maybe a handle of some kind.
It’s curved and perfectly smooth on one side,
Sharp and jagged on the other.

This little town used to have its own glass workshop,
But it shut down many years ago.
No trace of it left now.
Apart from little artifacts like these.
It was probably part of a failed piece,
Cast into a waste pile.

A crystal midden, redistributed by bulldozers.
The little broken treasures lost,
Until dug out of backyard flowerbeds.

2020 Vision: New Decade’s Eve Thoughts

There didn’t used to be such things as years.

There were seasons, summers, winters, moments. But these weren’t reckoned in the modern way. Folks knew what to expect by observing the cycles of nature.

The concept of time was not measured by the clock, but was understood to be evidence of predictable change.

At some point, however, we decided to number and to name the natural cycles, while at the same time still adhering to their rhythm. To do otherwise could mean starvation, deprivation, and eventual death.

Great learned men, scholars, and theologians decided for the rest of us when the so-called common era began, based entirely on supposition.

Because of them, we now view time not as the occurrence of change, but as a ticking clock, with its eras and hours, minutes and millennia, days and decades.

Its relentless march resounds in our ears like the pounding of a drum, reminding us with each passing moment that we are that much closer to the moment of our own death.

Yet, we still observe the passage of a year with a celebration, even though one year rolling over into a next one is not particularly special.

Could this be a hold over from earlier times, when surviving a year really was something noteworthy?

Anyway, Happy New Year.
Happy Surviving 2019.
Happy New Decade.

Here, there be boobies

Not literally here,
(Probably)
But at that time,
A warning was requested,
It may seem silly.
(Really silly)
Nevertheless…
It was a seriously,
Curiously real request.
Can I cover them up?
(No, not mine)
The little fantasy figures I drew.
Faeries, elves, mermaids
(Some of which were nude)
Was that something,
I was willing to do,
At my exhibition?
Cover my own work.
Would I mind?
Some people might be offended.
Do I have any stickers,
For their tiny, fantasy, boobies?
I laughed.
Honestly, I thought he was joking.
(Or smoking something funny)
That’s a good one.
But no..
He was genuinely non-joking.
He was a teacher, you see.
And wanted to bring a student group.
(Not kindergartners, mind you)
Teenagers.
Who might ask,
Why are they naked?
(They might not like it.)
Oh, well in that case…
Absolutely not.
They’ll get over it.
But next time,
I’ll post a warning:
“Here, there be boobies.”

MY MOM CAN SAVE THE WORLD

I had myself a thought today,
That my mother,
In her own sweet way,
Could set our world aright,
Save the grace from which we fall,
The internet, comment sections,
Politicians, nasty elections,
Each likewise blight,
Could heed her siren call,
No drama, fight, or fuss,
Just what she hammered home with us,
If you’ve naught nice to say,
Then say nothing at all.

Either One Will Do

Leonard waited for a miracle,
Something divine to see him through,
Now it’s miracle, or apocalypse,
Either one will do,
I feel a sense
Of ambivalence,
Not sure I care, if we make it through,
In these times of confusion,
I just need a conclusion,
A miracle, or the apocalypse,
Either one will do.

A world that’s on the brink,
Well we’ve seen that before,
Still somehow I think,
Right now the stakes are something more,
Potential cataclysm,
Right down to the planet’s core,
Our own narcissim,
Blinds us from what lies in store,

Glass half full, half empty,
This is what I’ve found,
Doesn’t matter which you see,
When there’s no one left around,
You can take your optimism,
Positivity abound,
See life through your prism,
Somehow you still will drown,

Sixteen year olds screaming,
”What the hell have you done?”
You’ve known that this was coming,
That there’d be nowhere left to run,
You’ve mortgaged off our future,
Traded it for Kingdom Come,
Now we’re desperate and unsure,
If there’s naught that can be done,

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-2qdhandA9wawfeqhOV6IkCZd-C-AE9z/view?usp=drivesdk

Process Blue

Invisible processes metamorphic,
Occurring deep inside the earth, formed it.
A deep blue stone of royalty,
That’s known as lapis lazuli.
Where first appeared civilization,
In the Mesopotamian location.
Where slaves were captured, bought and sold,
For some bushels of wheat, or for gold,
And the treasure blue under their feet.
Under the earth, the surface beneath.
Ground into a powder, rare and fine.
Adorned the eyes of pharaohs divine.
Baked in a kiln hotter than the sun.
The process forming a pigment begun.
A pigment of brightest blue ever seen.
That’s known as ultra marine.
It painted the robes of the Blessed Virgin.
And Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring.
Earth’s processes make the prettiest blue.
Which we process further into something new.

Process

~~~¤~~~¤~~~Process~~~¤~~~¤~~~

From a seed, the cotton sprung.
Grew up in soil and in sun.
In the summer heat it flourished
And with water, it was nourished.
Filled up with life, the cotton was.
So it made a little ball of fuzz.

~~~¤~~~¤~~~Processed~~~¤~~~¤~~~

The cotton then was harvested.
Balls of fuzz, spun into thread.
A textile made upon a loom.
All from a fuzzy cotton bloom.
A little plant, grown in the dirt.
Filled up with life from Mother Earth.

A plant sewn into clothes you wear.
Is the life that filled it up still there?

The Procrasti Nation

I am part of the Procrasti,
Which is the designation
Of the patriotic put-it-offers,
The proud Procrasti Nation.
There’s no task that a Procrast,
Cannot put off till later.
I have a much more pressing matter,
One that cannot wait, like…
Looking up the words that rhyme,
With procrastinate.
Abbreviate, attrition rate,
Evaporate, equivocate.
Such procrastination bliss!
I’m doing it right now,
As I’m writing this.
But, alas, this Procrast,
Must get back to work again.
The putting it off comes to an end.