POEM: Caitlin Johnstone
Going Rogue
It is true that this civilization is made of lies, was grown by lies, is powered by lies, is controlled by lies.
And it is true that this civilization is woven from violence, was birthed by violence, is sustained by violence, is preserved through violence.
Going Rogue
It Is True That This Civilization Is Made Of Lies
It is true that this civilization is made of lies, was grown by lies, is powered by lies, is controlled by lies.
And it is true that this civilization is woven from violence, was birthed by violence, is sustained by violence, is preserved through violence.
And it is true that this civilization is built on exploitation, is run on exploitation, exists to facilitate exploitation, is the product and the producer of exploitation.
And it is true that this civilization is flying facefirst toward collapse on myriad fronts and that any attempt to draw attention to this gets met with a "that makes me uncomfortable" hand-waving dismissal.
But it is also true that a staggering beauty rips through it all like a thunderbolt, continuously and pervasively.
And it is also true that there is a boundless intimacy hidden beneath all things that, if you like, could be called holiness.
And it is also true that the self is an illusion and that all that arises is innately free and deliciously purposeless.
And it is also true that science is in its infancy and that what we know is a tiny minnow in the vast ocean of what we do not know.
And it is also true that the universe is oh so very much bigger and oh so very much older than our tiny primate brains will ever be able to comprehend.
And it is also true that it is possible for the human organism to undergo a radical transformation in the way that it operates, from contraction around the ego illusion to a life-sized expression of the unity of all things.
And it is also true that the ability to see beauty in everything is a skill that can be mastered, and that a failure to appreciate the beauty of any moment is simply a failure of perception.
And it is also true that you can tell you're approaching clarity in this sense when you are able to see beauty in the billboards and bustle of a busy city just as easily as you can see it in the forest.
And it is also true that we are never meant to stop growing and learning, and that being the same person you were five years ago is a signal from life that something's not right.
And it is also true that our society's measures of success and failure are made of the same madness that got us into this mess and should therefore be ignored when crafting a beautiful life.
And it is also true that you can continue falling in love with your romantic partner for as long as you're willing to grow and expand, and that the honeymoon never needs to end.
And it is also true that your sexuality can be a powerful tool for healing, creativity and growth if you can succeed in making it conscious.
And it is also true that none of this erases the harshness of our situation and we must all be very tender with each other as we plunge into whatever comes next at this unprecedented point in human history.
And it is also true that you should be tender with yourself as well, because it is only by loving ourselves deeply that our hidden endarkened bits can be coaxed into the light of truth.
And it is also true that you are doing your best, and that any mistakes you have made up until this moment were only because you did not yet have sufficient consciousness to make different choices.
And it is also true that you are crackling with beauty, and it would be a damn shame if you never let yourself truly see this.
And it is also true that humanity itself is crackling with beauty, and that the only thing worse than our species slipping away would be if it slipped away without really seeing and appreciating itself.
Caitlin Johnstone, Copyright 2022, from "Going Rogue with Caitin Johnstone" on Substack
POEM: Marjory Wentworth
Holy City
Let us gather and be silent together like stones glittering in the sunlight so bright it hurts our eyes emptied of tears and searching the sky for answers.
Holy City
Let us gather and be
silent together like stones
glittering in the sunlight
so bright it hurts our eyes
emptied of tears and searching
the sky for answers.
Let us be strangers
together as we gather
in circles wherever we meet,
to stand hand in hand and sing
hymns to the heavens and pray
for the fallen and speak their names:
Clementa, Cynthia, Tywanza,
Ethel, Sharonda, Daniel,
Myra, Susie, and DePayne,
They are not alone. As bells
in the spires call across
the wounded Charleston sky
we close our eyes and listen
to the same stillness ringing
in our hearts, holding onto
one another like brothers
like sisters, because we know
wherever there is love, there is God.
Marjory Heath Wentworth, Copyright 2015
POEM: John Rowland
Daybreak
When I was five
I awoke at dawn to listen
to birds sing reveille
from the giant mulberry tree
dominating our back yard.
Daybreak
When I was five
I awoke at dawn to listen
to birds sing reveille
from the giant mulberry tree
dominating our back yard.
When I was twenty
I awoke at dawn to study
mathematical mysteries from
the previous class before
we went even deeper.
When I was thirty
I awoke at dawn to shower,
dress in appropriate costume,
ride my charger into battle
against demons of the factory.
When I was sixty
I awoke at dawn to discern
the anchor held overnight,
swim naked in the sea
then watch the pelicans
hunt their breakfast.
Now over seventy.
I awake at dawn to welcome
one more day. I think about
all those who’ve passed on
while I ponder Billy Collins’ words.
POEM: Walter Bargen
Manifest Breakfast
In a house buttressed by books and slanted morning light
slicing across the grain of the kitchen table, Lieutenant Colonel
George Armstrong Custer’s 1876 orders to pursue the Sioux
Cheyenne, Sans Arcs, Blackfeet, sits beside…
Manifest Breakfast
In a house buttressed by books and slanted morning light
slicing across the grain of the kitchen table, Lieutenant Colonel
George Armstrong Custer's 1876 orders to pursue the Sioux
Cheyenne, Sans Arcs, Blackfeet, sits beside an emptied bowl
of Grape Nuts. The document is randomly punctuated with crumbs
from half-burnt toast, difficult to read the general's elegantly looping
Nineteenth Century signature and the limits of force
given Custer's command.
My wife has printed over in her typewriter-meticulous style a grocery
list
of olive oil, cilantro, garlic, tortellini, supplies for this evening's
company,
but not the 7th Cavalry last seen surrendered near the banks
of the Little Big Horn.
There's also a lengthy paragraph to herself, notes on rehabbing
the upstairs bedroom and the rest of her destiny. She's scribbled
calculations, an attempt at reviving a diminishing back account,
and an addendum to the Christmas card list, and it's only February.
This morning my wife sits down to rewrite Custer's orders
to pursue the Sioux.
Walter Bargen, copyright 2007
POEM: Wendy Lee Hermance
Bicycle Ride
In the mornings I’ve noticed
smells are sharper.
The trash is not yet set out.
Nothing is ripened by the sun.
The air is fresh, untarnished
by exhaust fumes
Bicycle Ride
In the mornings I’ve noticed
smells are sharper.
The trash is not yet set out.
Nothing is ripened by the sun.
The air is fresh, untarnished
by exhaust fumes.
A thin, polished mahogany man
with fuzzy, Malcom goatee
bicycles by, his white t-shirt just
pulled from plastic, I see. Passing, he
nods, perfuming the air
with a trail of Cashmere Bouquet.
I ride a half a block in his blessing.
Orange Monarch butterflies fizz
over garish, yellow lantana out
front of the Comfort Inn Motel.
The powdery pollen
flutters up my nose.
On the pier a morning fisherman
in pressed khaki slacks casts
his hook in flaccid water. His cologne
is heavy with sandalwood and musk.
He´s hoping to pull a wild fish
thrashing, its blood and guts
still satisfying on his hands.
Before the dew is stolen,
when the world is round again,
the cyclers trace its image
with looping foot-to-pedal.
Before the march of atrocities begins,
it´s good to see a butterfly´s wings.
It´s good to wish for one full day of peace.
Wendy Lee Hermance, copyright 2020