Seven Generation Thinking
Published in the online journal “What Rough Beast” / Indolent Books, April 2018
We overcome the eddies of gloom
that snag our thoughts in a downward spiral
by radiating possibility.
We treat the poison of prevailing apathy
by taking measured, wholehearted action
towards accessing our collective birthright.
In its death throes,
the patriarchy is exercising
its only remaining power:
the power to destroy.
But given time and our willing help,
Nature can reclaim her dead places
and the soil will once again
hum with the community of living organisms.
The remaining ancient forests
will stand with us in solidarity.
To hell with the hero’s journey!
No one person can save us now.
that snag our thoughts in a downward spiral
by radiating possibility.
We treat the poison of prevailing apathy
by taking measured, wholehearted action
towards accessing our collective birthright.
In its death throes,
the patriarchy is exercising
its only remaining power:
the power to destroy.
But given time and our willing help,
Nature can reclaim her dead places
and the soil will once again
hum with the community of living organisms.
The remaining ancient forests
will stand with us in solidarity.
To hell with the hero’s journey!
No one person can save us now.
Fallow
Published in Forge Journal / 2012 under the pen name Brynn Copeland
In days gone by
Farmers let their fields lie fallow.
A time of rest for the soil,
of decay and then, slowly
renewal.
These days,
the soil must produce endlessly.
With no time to regenerate, it must be forced,
as we are forced in our world
so intent on constant production.
Why follow this mad god whose cracking whip
is driving us to the edge of doom?
Do your bones not long for a time of rest?
Does the whirlwind of your mind not long for a moment’s pause,
to hear the wind in the trees, the questions so long unasked
and the raven’s wise reply?
One day I will play music again,
and the genesis will be organic,
the strains of melody effortless,
with rhythm voluptuously flooding
and feeding me.
But, today, let it be enough that
in soft green grass,
I lay me down.
Farmers let their fields lie fallow.
A time of rest for the soil,
of decay and then, slowly
renewal.
These days,
the soil must produce endlessly.
With no time to regenerate, it must be forced,
as we are forced in our world
so intent on constant production.
Why follow this mad god whose cracking whip
is driving us to the edge of doom?
Do your bones not long for a time of rest?
Does the whirlwind of your mind not long for a moment’s pause,
to hear the wind in the trees, the questions so long unasked
and the raven’s wise reply?
One day I will play music again,
and the genesis will be organic,
the strains of melody effortless,
with rhythm voluptuously flooding
and feeding me.
But, today, let it be enough that
in soft green grass,
I lay me down.
Sequoia
Published in The Furious Gazelle / June 2014
A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path.
When wisely calculated, it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire. Trees dancing flaming insanity light up the night sky. Everything old on the forest floor becomes fuel for the carefree wanderlust of red and orange. The night sky screams as billows of smoke set sail; gray-black waves exhaling into the moon’s starlight ocean, clouds jostling to hold their own against the hot-faced intruder. * Though I did not calculate well the burning that brought you to me I did sniff the winds of change and following a wild impulse, drew a ragged breath, lit a match, and threw it down. Another match I threw, not caring what took fire. Ragged breath turned to scorched sound, white heat laying waste the shell of all patient waiting, proper praying, false illuminating. No pretty contemplation this; only pure agony shrieking light. Gasping on hands and knees, I choke and let go, vomiting strangled metaphors of freedom and beauty and what it means to be at peace in this world. Gutturally chanting, my voice erupts volcanic, demanding that what was torn from me like stitches from a still raw wound be returned. How it comes I care not. But I swear by all that is wretched and holy that I will light up the sky, this time with my flesh and bone if the earth of my life does not quake awake to pure flowering green NOW. Tongue burning, eyebrows singed, naked skin blistering, I listen as the wind blows still. What pain, age, and this wild night has not burned from me crackles and is gone. Lying naked and alone, I sleep and dream of you. * A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path. When wisely calculated it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire. It is said that some seeds, like the seed of the great Sequoia, remain dormant until broken down by fire. This to tell you that such burning is purposeful. This to tell you that grace exists. Your Door
Published in The Furious Gazelle / 2014
It is getting on,
the night breeze whispers, calling me down to the water’s edge, calling me back through time down the lane behind your house. It is getting on. Do not delay, my heart echoes, calling me up from dreaming the dead dream of no life, calling me back to peek through your window, your face bathed in gold from the firelight. It is getting on. I will not wait forever! you told me once in anger when I, in my youthful arrogance refused your love to run after my fame, my fame which fluttered and failed and I too proud for too long/to come home to you. It is getting on. You sit so sweet and still, not knowing that I have come once more bringing with me my angst and anger and unresolved ambition. But the cold December winds whispered your name and like Lawrence’s strange angel, I reach up my hand to knock at your door. It is getting on. Please, let me in. |
The Gift
Published in The Furious Gazelle / 2014
The gift came
not as I thought it would, wrapped in pink cellophane, yellow ribbons streaming, a chorus of glory hallelujahs ringing out. The gift came not as I hoped it would, clarity streaming in like cold spring water, bottled and guaranteed to provide easy enlightenment. The gift came instead wrapped in veils of past shame, of long suffering, tied tight with ribbons of self‑loathing. The greeting card taped to the front is empty; a blank canvas calling for me to begin anew. I tear at the wrapping, throw it to the floor and what has lain so long unopened/ dares to reveal my innocent potential, lost so long ago. The lines on my face tell the story of one who has tried and failed. But the gift tells true. The gift tells true. Wind in the SkyFirst published in The Lorelei Signal / Wolfsinger Press 2009, and subsequently published in Bread ‘n Molasses in 2011
In the chill of November,
The beauty of May, Be it city or forest, she finds her way. Hear the dawn’s hush in winter, See the moon in her eyes, Her map the Aurora, or as the crow flies. The cold air blows gentle as she brushes the lie From a wilderness crying, its wisdom denied. The great oak remembers the strength of her kind She listens and follows the wind in the sky. Her hair streaked with silver Flows thick down her back Each strand tells a story of glory and lack. Of laughter and sorrow, Of love here, then gone A life richly woven, a full-throated song. She sings of the babies she’s caught, that survived. She keens with the night wind for those that have died. And she prays as she runs as the moon rises high She listens and follows the wind in the sky. The shadows they fall away Fall away dancing, Her heartbeat says fly away, fly on the owl’s wing. Be one with the pulse Of the wandering deer The birch tree births memory, her vision comes clear. ‘I carry the blood of the old ones’ says she, To the towering forest,the depths of the sea, And a lone star streaks homeward as the whippoorwill cries ‘I listen and follow the wind in the sky’ Today you may see her In the rise of the sun The halls of the city, a life’s work well done. Let the dark night embrace you And you will see her face In all creatures, all nations, the whole human race. ‘Rejoice sons and daughters like a child in the spring As the mystery deepens the universe sings I am here now within you and as night draws nigh Just listen and follow … the wind in the sky. |
Photo above: Morning Rainbow © B. Glenn Copeland