This miracle planet filled with life irresistibly arising from the inanimate, a chunk of motley stardust learning how to see itself. How did awareness blossom, escaping from crucibles of mathematics, physics, chemistry? What does the planet think of its experiment now that it is overrun with undisciplined, invasive monkeys?
Under the street lamps
my triple shadow
lengthens, fades, disappears.
A puddle of dark
clings to my feet
like the looming shadow
of someone behind.
past veils of city lights
my grateful eyes accept
a gift of ancient photons.
Light has no mass here
else Earth would be fat
of four billion years.
Light only glimmers, flickers,
sparkles through chinks
in our drafty universe,
hinting at ineffable glory
I am a human being. My birthright is the Earth. I have the right to breathe clean air, drink pure water, eat nourishing food. I have the right to sleep in safe shelter, and live with people who love me and I them. I have the right to enjoy the gifts of this planet: animals, plants, rain and sunshine, pristine landscapes and beautiful shores.I have the right to see the stars through the transparent lens of our atmosphere, a window open to the wonders of the universe.
How dare anyone take these rights away.
A declaration, to be followed through: to write and post a blog entry at least twice a month for the duration of 2018.
You wake up to find your house on fire. Desperately you run from room to room but there is no way out. When you think all is lost, when you are screaming for help which never comes, a stranger smashes down your door and hauls you to safety in the street. The cool night air relieves your pain. You have no clothes, no shoes, your house still burns. But the stranger has thought of everything. He hands you a bundle of things rescued from the flames, and soon you are ready for your journey, clothed, with even your watch, a hat, and the comforting feel of a fat wallet in your pocket. You turn to thank your saviour but then you see it is not only your house which has burned but the whole city is ablaze. Only the stranger knows a safe way through the conflagration so you are in his hands.
My name, he says, is Methyl/prednis/ol/one but you can call me Pred. I am your friend.
Your dangerous, two-faced, necessary friend.
Soon after you start your escape together he points at your coat pocket and says, let me see your wallet. And because he is strong and imposing and has saved your life you hand it to him. Later he decides he fancies the coat itself, and later still you have to give up your belt, and then, although you need it against chill of winter or heat of sun, your hat. Worse is when he takes your glasses and now the way becomes blurred. You know you are near the outskirts of the city and hope you can shed this acquisitive companion but then you see that even the suburbs, and the countryside, are dotted with small fires. As if to emphasize your need for him a cinder lands at your feet and as the debris underfoot flares up Pred stamps it out. He’s with you for the long haul.
As you continue on your way time seems to change its nature. You have to live each moment as it comes, not daring to look too far ahead, afraid of how long this unwanted unplanned journey will be before all the fires are left behind. And every so often Pred asks for another item from you. For a while you limp along with one shoe until he evens you out by taking the other. But what good are shoes without socks, he says. Soon you have nothing left, you are as naked as you were when you were pulled from the fire. But you notice your companion seems less substantial now as though he is fading out of existence and you dare to look ahead.
There is a village nestled beside a lake. You can walk down a hill to it, over a sward of soft, cool, green grass. In the distance is the sea.
I’ll leave you now says Pred. Although he is nearly transparent his voice is as strong as ever. Without a hint of irony he says, go rest in that place, get yourself a new suit of clothes, you’ll need it. He notices you still have your watch. I’ll have that off you, he demands. And with it go all the days and months and years during which he was your thieving guide.
You walk away from him but turn to say goodbye. He did save you, after all. Just before he winks out of your life he says, his voice strong and real, maybe we’ll meet again some day.
From an early age I visualized life as a path. Why would that be? It implies that everything is set out for me and I have only to walk along the prescribed route…. And yet, there have been crossroads, roads taken, others left unexplored. Today I look at that thought: life is a path, and see that path dwindling, a narrow track leading into a bog, and eventually disappearing.
In light June drizzle
hawthorn blooms; at winter’s end
passing robins feast.