grown things 2

the earth turns and heads south toward the winter....
i am amazed by resilience in life;
a life that is often choked by fumes of carbon destruction, canabalized consumption...
we are eating ourselves alive say the scientists,
hush, hush says the government,
thumbs up say the oil execs,
cry, cry say the mothers at war...
we keep fighting each other with underhanded, subliminal weaponry;
with back handed glances and deeply wounded pasts spat out on the ground.
we are the ones who turn blind eyes to the masses who live in peace until someones says they no longer can,
who go wild with the loss that those other reign down upon them...
blown apart by their grief,
in denial of any advantage even their mass can offer,
assured only in their right to defend and condemn...
but it is those others, the oppressors, who must see the might of human spirit, who must change in their path of ownership and wealth compiling,
to become something better than greedy animals, who feel right in doing all things, even horrible, masty, bad things in the name of commerce.
shame, shame say the shaman
who watch the night sky growing dimmer and dimmer beneath the ugly glow of emperialism;
who struggle and sway beneath the burden of our modern age,
who may yet blow in the breeze and get lost amid the ashes of the human failure.
if even the ashes survive.
god, may we please forget about our own selves for just a moment, step beyond this earthly materialistic rat race, as they say, and find ourselves once more listening to the stars and holding dear to every piece of life we find?
please can we learn that we are not the only ones who are worthy of a place in your heaven, or the chance for a better existence elsewhere, or even right here? that we are not the only species worthy of life and a place on this planet?


who guides the hand that acts willfully or woefully to spite another? can we not chop it off and grow a new hand, which only loves and preens?
am i merely the mad hatter's daughter which my husband implies, who lives only in fairy tales, and cannot truly understand reality?
is not reality, too, fluid and JUST?
how can the world hear my one voice, which speaks through the leaves and dines only on god given things, watches signs in the fire and sounds so utterly lonesome in the nighttime?
...but look
at my plants...
how they dance and sing.