Too Late For Refuge
We take refuge
where there is no place
that waits for flames to inflame logs
yet keep us warm.
Leaving our breath
to play in broken sanctuary
so our oxygen is not used
all at the same time.
A young woman transpires
to make her way, too stubborn to die
behind barricades of fire.
She wore a summer frock
without shoes,
dancing across the road,
reflected in the window
of the baker’s shop.
Departing with two baguettes,
the girl returns to sanctuary
to breath and survive.
Wise poets create magic
- or so they think,
when baguettes morph into space
with red wine the color
and taste of blood.
Worlds bigger than ours
tower over us
with huge anger
and yet a delicate fragility.
They dwarf homo-sapiens
left behind by stupidity,
without knowing how trees cry
about the travesty of barren oil sands
and coal mines.
Trees have a different music.
Their sophisticated internet
creates majestic forests and fires with the
epiphany of inter-connection,
without corporate domination
building the way of destruction.
Cedar forests
know what is not natural,
to be without pain and desperation
required by Mother Earth
to soothe hurts beyond danger.
A new tapestry evolves
to welcome the rising up of mountains,
forests and oceans and the return
of water creatures.
It masters the unthinkable haunted decline.
All of them watch humanity,
who consume without noticing that
animals leave tracks in the mud.
Ian
Prattis
Ian
Prattis, Zen Teacher, Anthropology Professor Emeritus, peace and environmental
activist, was born in the UK. He has spent much of his life living and teaching
in Canada. His moving and eye-opening books, essays and poetry are a memorable
experience for anyone who enjoys reading about primordial tendencies. Beneath
the polished urban facade remains a part of human nature that few want to
acknowledge, either due to fear or simply because it is easier to deny the
basic instincts that have kept us alive on an unforgiving earth. Prattis
bravely goes there in his outstanding literary work. A stone tossed in the
waters of life.
Tags:
Poetry
We do set ourselves apart from the rest of what lives. We should perhaps be the ones doing the watching.
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