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Friday, 27 January 2017

Three poems at the end-of-days (era of trump, trump, trump): Katherine L. Gordon

Record of Final Entries

They passed a decree approving torture,
another banning houses of refuge in the cities,
yet another silencing any climate comment.
Record our final moments of hard-won civilization
before the books are burned, or:
stand together against oppression.
It has been done before, costly in blood-blows
to those who dare, but a redemption
of the fading finer facets of humanity
that still cherish love and peace,
not through weakness but that nascent knowledge
that truth and beauty
might not be extinguished
in the rising dark.

Piping At The End-Of-Days

Should there be a lament?
Perhaps a Pibroch to merge the wild hills,
the mountains, the rising seas,
with bewildered humans
at the end-of-days,
to finally sound the heart of Nature
so bruised by mankind,
waiting now for our demise
to return to living forests,
fish-flowing seas.
We were not long here
but left the planet poorer for our presence.
We could drown in dollars,
profits that killed imagination and sustenance,
with leaders who led destruction,
forbade any knowledge of it.
Who will mourn us
when like the many before us
we become fossils for a next evolution to discover.
Too late to stem the seas, the bombs,
the pollution of our waters of life,
our corroded air, our last gasping angry breaths
while deserts consume our food and all land is paved.
We build walls against a horde displaced,
but inside them the last of even good humanity will die.
Let there be piping
as the flowers turn to dying weeds.

Image result for piper at the gates of dawn pics

The Silver Pipes of Ur

Buried some five thousand years ago
with their gallant piper,
the music that called the forces of creation
to rouse or soothe a seeking human,
passed down in many forms throughout
the lands of our beginnings.
Music the blood-bridge between earth
and the heavens that kindle it.
Forgetting this connection led us astray,
gold, goods and land forged the wars fought for them,
doused the fire of spirit-paths,
we can no longer know or find ourselves.
Who will pipe farewell for the refugees,
the starving and displaced,
those walled out by tone-deaf leaders?

Katherine L. Gordon

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Jan. 28

Hi Chris and Katherine,

Powerful poems. Thanks for sharing...

The world is crazy...

Take care.


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