2016 01 05
Walking around the lake in evening dusk,
Louise pauses on narrow shore to watch
swans and ducks gliding on algae-green sheen.
"When my computer screen bleeds news of war
burning in conflict over distant lands
where people have fought for ten thousand years,
I must escape bubble of doom that swells
around my head with suffocating fear,
and walk outside walls of civilized life
among placid groves of old dreaming trees.
The trees care nothing for our swirling wars
for we are nothing but wind in their leaves
blustering on by in temporary storms,
while they stand peaceful in sunshine and rain,
staring at infinite skies of blue light
or singing hymns with innumerable stars.
Humans always seem to be fighting wars
and building secure houses with locked doors
while stabbing spears of aggressive control
in soil to display flags of ownership
over land that will swallow their cracked bones
and devour their brains like birthday cake.
To live we must kill other living beings
and devour their bodies to consume light
of sizzling stars that animates our souls,
thus we have evolved from algae in lakes,
transforming through course of organic bodies,
plants, fish, lizards, mice, monkeys, men, and angels.
Are we transforming from these hideous shells
of hungry flesh, blobs of chemical lust,
to shimmering specters of glowing plasma
who live by drinking nothing but sun rays?
Or are we stuck through all eternity
to live in clumsy bodies of desire?
Or perhaps we will replace bones and flesh
and throbbing organs with bodies of metal,
encasing our brains in walking machines
so we live forever as we exchange
aging body parts for latest updates,
immortal robots with angelic minds?
When I was young, I wanted to write novels,
and earn worshipful fame of admiration
for composing intense tales about life,
but I got pregnant in college and worked
thirty years writing human interest features
for my city magazine to pay bills.
Who am I in this vast nation of people
who compete each day for money and fame?
Unknown nobody, happy with my life,
I write novels nobody ever reads,
though I published them as ebooks last year.
Would my stories outlast life of my flesh
if they were printed on paper transformed
from old dreaming trees, or will blinking words
on shining screen beam rays of light in eyes
of strangers who will absorb my lost dreams?
I live forever in the leaves of books."
Strolling on winding path among tall pines,
Louise pauses at sight of gleaming sun
over distant hills, so she holds phone high,
snaps photo of her face, which she uploads
for all her friends to see her smiling face,
then walks back home to drink coffee and write
while frogs by the lake sing to silent trees.