through the ashen dissolution
wander, wander, spin and toil
in the shadow of Celestia’s
we wonder at the craft
of shade’s eternal touch
molding of the breathless
ageless and the fallen
twilight needling the roots
into the next night’s cycle.
Twilight hush amidst the room;
a voice, rising through the shadow throng
commits the universe to notes
and I, swooning through the grace of logic, rise
drifted on the captivated stars
onto the mystic sea, glittering in
transcendental mysticism fires
that will not be bound by flesh:
a word, they say, a notion
but in that heaving sky
the rush of majesty;
souls which lie
Michigan at Sunset.
silver remnants in the fog, the misty air
wrinkled by the drip
of swelling rivers, drunken lakes
which feed the tears
a lone wolf cries from the river bed.
Coyotes yip nervous cooperation
about the scent we heave,
fear of the bear baring our skin.
As we lie in our tent,
we listen to the trickle,
wonder if this place could survive
Renoir’s painting of cabbage roses, Roses in a vase (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A Rose is
made of blooming
through the pollen
on the giving
braving the thorns
in a blush.
(Friends! Countryfolk! Hear my plea–if you enjoy what you read on this blog, I implore you to help me cast off some of my poetry into the great starry beyond. While that may sound strange, I’m a participant in the “Going to Mars with Maven” contest, in which winning haikus may get the honor of spaceward journey headed for Mars…care to help a dream come true? Than vote here: http://lasp.colorado.edu/maven/goingtomars/entry/?22335)
(Enjoyed what you read? Join the discussion and keep up to date on the latest happenings at my Facebook page!)
Welcome to Waterworld!
Water. Water everywhere! While many things have been occupying the eyes of the nation this week (and rightly so–many tugs of the heartstrings have gone to many corners of the U.S. these past few days), but locally, nature has been at the forefront of things.
Michigan, my home, is a land of water. It surrounds us. It pierces into the very heart of our state in its many rivers, lakes, and ponds. This is, truly, the Great Lakes State. Yet this week the state has been rocked by record rainfall. The end result: flooding. Massive flooding. And when I say record-breaking, don’t mistake me: the Grand River, in western Michigan, was predicted to hit a 24.76 foot crest today. Compare that to previous floodings here, as listed from the Grand Rapids Press…
24.76 feet on April 21, 2013**
19.64 feet on March 1, 1985
19.54 feet on May 27, 2004
19.50 feet on March 28, 1904
19.29 feet on March 8, 1976
19.25 feet on April 3, 1960
19.25 feet on September. 4, 1986
18.83 feet on March 3, 1982
18.60 feet on June 9, 1905
18.5 feet on April 18, 2013
17.87 feet on February 25, 1997
17.84 feet on December 31, 2008
Flooding is not new here, but bloody hell, this one takes the cake. Large swaths of the city of Grand Rapids and western Michigan are going underwater. To prove that point, I took a little photographic adventure. Here are just a few things to show you what we’re dealing with up here. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
No walkway for you.
At least the cops get to bust out their boats!
Waiting. Watching. Wondering.
Under the Sea.
Kayak business? Probably booming.
It was such a pretty house, too.
Beach? What beach?
And the real kicker? More rain is expected to come…
born of flesh
borne by earth
choked divinity caught at the thresh
lay numb beside the kindled hearth—
fall down, fall down,
let vaulted rain yet drown—
the wriggling flames
of dancing dreams
cannot survive the niggling games
blacktop shadows wove within the seams—
lie down, lie down,
buried by the wetted crown.
The lake is empty.
Roots have left this shore.
Freedom to be free,
containment shattered by the waves of yore–
all of It will cease to be
before they see that less is rarely more.
Empty Lake Bed, (from iDesign iPhone Wallpapers)
“We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.” ~ Native American Proverb
Nothing clears the mind quite like a weekend in the mountains. A (surprisingly) stifling heater in the cabin didn’t hurt of course, but it just made the impact of walking out those doors and into the sunny, snow-struck earth all the more striking. Now it’s back to the real world. At least I face it refreshed.
Sitting on his stool
the old man strains notes
convoluted and convalescent
in the grey-grey dawn,
the pitter-pattering pour of
earthly power, reverberating
like the subway’s urbane roar.
Blinded in years,
He is the maestro resurrect
On the days when the long rain fell.