Table of Contents
Tangled barbwire thistles, broken bricks
Glass green emerald shards
Hillocks and mounds
A bombscape field of adventure
Black broken down bicycle
Chariot of fire, armored car
Hurtling through the air
Mud, blue sky, sweat and adventure
At 12 it seemed like paradise
As I patrolled my city block
Bombed flat ten years before
Strange how a war torn field
In a city of destruction
Became my escape to nature
But the thistles, the nettles,
Purple loosestrife in profusion
Were my glory
My whirlwind adventure
And my black rusty steed
It was my freedom from repression
And sometimes, rarely
I went with Margaret there
She was my soulmate
In the forests of a chapel
We built a wooden house there
Like Robin Crusoe in a city block
But this place was behind tall walls
Of decaying brick, crumbling
And within behind the white and black
Chapel
A forest, wild in the city confusion
Dense thickets of young sycamores
That we cut and hewed
And created our seclusion there
A secret place in a secret world
Of youthful joys, native creation
Like a courtier combs through his lover's hair,
So be the wind that gaily brushes the treetops
Of many a wood.
In veined-stitched dresses,
Sprouting leaves dance
On trembling floors of
Engorged limbs shooting of newly born viridian flag's.
As if confronted by royalty, trees bow,
A merciful state.
Fragile in sight.
The wind picks up,
And becomes more fierce, frightful
Like a fighter in a time of war.
And a howling whistles through
The treetops like a flute;
Stirring that of nature who once slept,
Into a child's state of hysteria and delusion.
Soil turns to sand,
And the sand,
Into dust, then water,
Scattering the sea of the sodden ground
To hunt for crevices to hide.
Now alert with confusion,
The trees stand erect and strong
Escaping into the summer's storm
As lightening scratches the blackboard sky
And thunder drums its threat
Across the woods huddled together for safety.
So be, the wind.
The wind, a faceless God.
i - Durer I wonder how he knew to draw your hands. ii - Picasso I wonder how he knew to draw your dreams. iii - Dali I often wonder if he even knows how. My answer keeps changing. iv - artists Artists hold the same raw heart in their hands, licking the blood with lizard tongue, wondering at hot familiar flavors, how each heart tastes like theirs. v - how not to paint The truth is painted on the sky. We paint in colors, going slowly blind. Somehow, sometimes, the animal appears, shimmery, vanishing. vi - how to paint An artist is a beast in rut explaining reproduction. What stays is grunting, the raw, blooded force and stench of marking bushes.
I'm not a communist, I'm not a socialist, I'm an ethical capitalist.
Is that an oxymoron?
Is it possible to be a salesman or a businessman
With integrity?
Or, to put it more simply
Would anyone buy a used car if you told them the truth?
These are difficult questions.
But shouldn't someone be asking them?
We've raised our children to compete
The dollar is the prize
All is fair in love and-just about everything else.
So is it any wonder the field is littered with losers?
Ethical capitalism.
The profit motive works. No question about that.
The problem is
Greed.
Or, more specifically
Greedy men.
And women. Let's not be chauvinistic.
Greed is the knife that stabs deep in the backs of one's fellows.
Self-interested profit for the few too often
Reaps untold suffering for the many
The community of Humankind is laid low in shame
The harmonic balance of the Earth is
Disrupted.
We need people of vision
Powerful and influential men and women who see a future inclusive of all
Those who understand
A dollar lost here and a dollar lost there
Is a victory not a defeat
When brothers and sisters and children yet unborn
Remember with gratitude
The painful sacrifice
And honor the difficult
Choice.
Ethical capitalism?
Is it possible?
Of course it is.
Life is evolving.
New generations recognize
Money is just a plaything
The New Bottom Line is
Humanity itself.
Letter to the Editor: (skyearth1@aol.com).