A Song of Earth

A bird AND a plane

 

I wonder if the birds envy the planes,

If their ancestral stories of tell of times long and long ago,

Times when they were closer to God

Than any other being to walk across

This sacred Earth,

A time when seagulls laughed their taunting cry

As shoreward they soared,

A time when the youth were held in line,

And the elders were wiser by far,

A time when the air was purer,

And the sky was bluer,

And when you landed and looked up

And up

And up,

You could see not a paltry smattering of stars,

But rather, the glory of the universe herself,

The face of the Goddess each night revealed,

The broad brushstroke of her lips

Wrapped around the words

Of a love song about her home;

Her eyes sparkling

As she sung songs of Earth.

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The Voyage

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Distant and void,

Frigid and alone,

Far from where they started,

Yet no closer to where they’re meant to be,

Are two lonely little spacecraft

Tasked with filling the silent spaces between the stars

With the riotous song of the human dream,

Themselves dreaming of an ending,

A point in space and time

When they can rest,

And where they can find themselves spinning

Around some distant star unlike our own

On a collision course,

A billion years from now,

When humanity is but a ghost,

Echoing, lonely and lost,

Around the epicenter of a stage called Earth,

On which their song was sung,

Upon which their battles were lost and won,

From whose green and blue depths

 They launched two small voyagers

Just to say,

“We were here.”

Autumn

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Autumn arrived

Much in the same way it always does,

With a blustering gust of wind

And a hint of chill in the air.

 

It came for me

While I was asleep,

The turning of the Earth

And the motions of the Heavens

Colluding to bring about the fall

Of all those brittle, bright-colored leaves

From their summertime stations.

 

Fall entered stage-right, and I?

I stood, enraptured, as She came closer,

Caught utterly unawares by her presence,

Not realizing that summer had gone

Until it was already far too late

To mourn its passing.

Phoenix

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Art

Is misunderstood;

Beauty, she is not,

But rather

The juxtaposition

Of the immortality of God,

And the inevitable impermanence

Of all that is borne of Him;

The flower fades,

The fruit ferments of the vine,

Humanity flares up like a firework,

And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.

 

The fall is not art,

But rather, the art in the fall

Can be found at the very instant

That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework

Reaches its zenith,

And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,

Can rise no more.

Forsaken

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When I stepped out today,

I was not expecting the ocean to look so gray,

Nor the cries of the gulls

To match so perfectly with the outline of distant oceanliner’s hulls.

 

There are birds flying high above,

And part of me wishes Peace would send me her Dove.

Though I am so busy sitting here, writing this poem

That perchance I might miss the omen.

 

The clouds are collecting secrets

On the nature of human weakness;

They are amassing for war at their gathering,

While I paint them and wonder if this is the right moment to be capturing.

 

I am probably giving them more fodder,

But ‘tis true that I am the Mother Earth’s daughter,

And I could not resist the temptation

To watch them as they imagine the world below, forsaken.