How To Be a Dinosaur (WC)

 

(April 30, 2021, Great and Holy Friday in Orthodox Church. Feast day of The Passion Icon of the Mother of God, of Saint Marie Guyart of the Incarnation, Saint Apostle James (brother of Saint John) and Blessed Hildegard the Empress, and Saint Onenn of Brittany. On Jewish calendar is 18 Iyar, the Haisidic holiday Lag BaOmer (above). Image from here.)

How To Be a Dinosaur*

Well, it's easy. 

Eat only what you can taste.

Close your eyes to listen deeply.

Look at what's in front of you, not on a screen.

Mull things over. Tell stories. 

Write letters. Actually mail them. So

someone can hold them. Hold the 

hand of someone who needs you. 

How to be a dinosaur? 

Well, it's not so easy. 

Talking with someone he's checking his

phone. Wishes you'd text him instead. He's

got things to do, moves faster than you. 

After all you're only a dinosaur.

Why be a dinosaur?

Well, it's bound to be asked. Truth is,

the world needs something. Something

real to hold to. But don't worry we'll 

be here. We're easy to catch up with. 

After all, we're only dinosaurs.

*For my Joseph-- my favorite dinosaur

Where Wolves Have Slept (JM) (published version)

(Joseph MacRae, published in Mindful Poetry Moments, third edition, edited by Stacey Simms and Eddie Gonzalez, The Well (in partnership with NPR's On Being Project), 2022. From April 28, 2021, a response to prompt James Wright's "A Blessing", from On Being/The Well's Mindful Poetry Gathering.)

Where Wolves Have Slept

(Alaska journal, Noyes Island, 1993;

after James Wright)

It was hidden in plain sight.
On ground still warm, as

     morning wakens

     where wolves have slept

     a tuft of fur

     left in wild deerhearts

It is a blessing.

Where Wolves Have Slept (JM) (expanded version)

 (Joseph MacRae, 2003)

Where Wolves Have Slept

(Alaska journal, Noyes Island 1993)

How welcome is dawn on a day off!

To walk this beach, dew still fresh. Dew

holding wolf tracks, leaving the meadow. 

It's straight ahead, just a few steps up,

overlooks the beach. Lively deer hearts

everywhere. Everywhere but two bedded

bowls, deer hearts pressed to the ground.

Wolf beds, still warm! Must have heard me

coming, and left two sets of tracks in

the morning dew. And a tuft of fur, right

there. I pick it up. And put down words,

to remember:

Morning Wakens

where wolves have slept.

A tuft of fur

left in wild deer hearts.

 

Audio Axioms (WC)

 

(April 25, 2021, Palm Sunday (with its singing of "Hosanna in the highest..." above) in the Orthodox Church. World Day of Prayer for Vocations. Feast day of Saint Mark the Evangelist. Poem is today's NaPoWriMo poem. Image from here.)

Audio Axioms

(after Jane Mead)

You are no better than anyone else, and nobody else is better than you. 

--NASA Mathematician Katherine Johnson's father's maxim

Do you hear the outstretched earth?

Art around, doves sound, through my window. 

River near, is silent here. Silence louder than the cars 

and murmurs. Meanwhile--Joseph, buttering toast in 

the kitchen, pouring his tea. With honey of course, he's

part bear. Growls of contentment. Quite the symphony.

Do you hear the outstretched earth?

Your own note, no better than any other.

And no other note any better than yours.

*From prompt: freewrite as inspired by Jane Mead's The Outstretched Earth, from Lisa Freedman 's Breathe/Read/Write, April 23, 2021.

The Mountaineer Tree (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, poem revisted in response to prompt (Phillip Metres' One Tree; from On Being/The Well's Mindful Poetry Gathering), April 21, 2021)

The Mountaineer Tree

On the five mile drive,
at Point Defiance,
the huge Mountaineer Tree standing quiet.
Four hundred and fifty winters, it's understood,
he has stood like a silent sentinel.
I have passed this tree many times,
never stopping to admire.
The Red Man say "Wise old tree will talk,
Share with you much wisdom,
only White Man never ask"...
One day as I passed, I took the time to  stop and ask.
Like a spiritual voice, from the bowels of the Earth,
it came to me, from the tree,
in a voice that only I could hear.

More than four hundred fifty winters
I have watched over this Sacred Land.
In the springtime of my life
this was a quiet and beautiful land
ruled only by Great Mother's hand.
Baked in the sun, caressed by wind, washed by rain,
teased by lightning from the sky.
Only the moon and stars shone at night.
My only visitors were of the earth.
A quiet land.
I once remember
the song of birds, the call of animals,
the Red Man quietly paddling his
hollowed canoe.

As summer arrived with new and strange
beginning,
witnessed the first wooden ship,
sailing in on evening tide.
As men claimed this land, in foreign names,
in the name of Crowns, of Kings and Queens
across the sea!
From distant ports they came to trade.
Ships sailed in, and ships sailed out,
bringing new people of different color.
The air now full of new sounds, sounds of chopping,
of huge trees falling to the earth.
Of men at work, and beasts of burden,
carving a new civilization,
from a wilderness land.

Then came merchant ships, lumber schooners,
ships of war, and fishing vessels large and small.
Later came new sounds. Steam ships,
their whistles echoing across the waters.
The sawmill's song, as steel teeth and
timber meet, as steam locomotives
shake the ground.

My season turns to fall. The land and sky,
no longer free.
People and machines are moving faster.
The air is no longer fresh,
the water no longer clean.
Man tries to rule with fire.
Many brothers and sisters visit my park.
Some come to admire the beauty of nature,
others come for amusement and pass in haste.
Some come to play, and carve upon my bark.
throw bottles and waste against my feet.

I am strong. I have survived, through storms,
forest fires, and the hands of man!
I will be a mark on this land for
many more winters...
When the Great Mother takes back her land,
I will be here.
Long after I die I will stand like
a proud buckskin.
When I decay and fall to the ground,
my stump will stand as a tombstone.
My epitaph will be,

I have served this Earth.
I have taken care of her.
I have been the home to many of the
Great Spirit's creatures.
Listen to me brothers and sisters
of the Earth:
Be like a tree and serve your
Mother Earth!

Sailing Upon a Mystic Ship (JM)

(Joseph MacRae, 1992)

Sailing Upon a Mystic Ship

Sailing upon a mystic ship

upon an endless sea,

of emerald and blue.

Passing nearby stars,

onto the distant planets,

passing galaxies

into an endless journey.