ISO Hymn for a Green Sheep Year

Maybe this is the year that packs so much punch

we turn elemental, simple start of water,

walking across sky, walking with snow,

soft groans underfoot - unfolding in white orchids,

unfolding with aroma of lentil stew,

sometimes stiff like a cold river making

its meander around alabastered maples,

sometimes turning glorious into a verb,

sometimes turning us into meadow of mud and moss –

sometimes into moments subtle as February.

You stand agog with the hunger moon,

still fluffed up in pink crystal.

I want to skirt night's edge,

listening for the hymn that binds us.

listening for the sound of green wood sheep,

bleating to the wide smile of a gray day.

Sometimes the day rings deeper than our laments

about Monday's forecast and daylight savings time.

Sometimes we want to hold the ocean, yes, maybe this is the year.

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2020 Pandemic Journey Day 44

May 4, 2020 Today’s idea – What has the fog of our modern conveniences begat? I read an article last night published in 1950 by Berton Roueche’ titled The Fog . In October 1948, a toxic smog settled on the borough of Donora, PA. This town is tucked away on a meander of the Monongahela River in the Allegheny Mountains. During that time, it was home to three huge mills, a steel plant, and a zinc and sulfuric acid plant. The towering factory stacks of these industries pushed out thick plumes of coal smoke all day and all week. Also, given the town’s proximity to the river, boats and trains added their emission to the cocktail. To seal the deal, Donora sits in the topography of secluded bluffs and hills that allow for little or no wind to carry the smoke and fumes out of town. So the place was known to be a smutty, smokey mess, tolerated by residents who referred to the sulfurous stench as the smell of money. On this weekend in October, a thermal inversion put a tighter li...

Covid19 Journey Day 20

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Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

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What the Muses Leave Behind

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