For five years, until I was 13, I lived on the shore of Lake Macquarie, 150 kms north of Sydney, a childhood paradise. I had total freedom to explore lake, bush, swamp, little rivers and inlets. Maybe that shaped my love for the natural world and its teeming abundance of life. As I have grown older, I have come to view the earth as a spiritual place, sacred, the abode of life-giving spirit. At the same time, I am often horrified by the contempt for the earth we humans too often demonstrate. I seem to often return to these themes. I blog at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au
I scratch beneath the skin of ground.
feel a heart in rhythmic beat,
vastness, strength and pulsing life
in the soil beneath my feet.
I see an exhalation of breath
scud clouds and sway leaves,
form ponds, rivers and lakes
from deep communion with the seas.
A wind song is in my heart,
a slant of light inside my brain.
I know scents more rich than wine.
I absorb steady soft soak of rain.
Yes, it holds me in its arms.
I hear many blended notes rejoice.
To songs of cricket, bird and breeze
I add my own still small voice.
It sustains me, gives me life,
richly enfolds me all around.
See, it will hold me in its arms
even when I lie in the ground.
First published at “The Poeming Pigeon. Poems from the Garden”.
At the Hustings
Citizens, I say to you:
Shed no tears for children caught in war.
There is no money in that.
Think not upon your children's future.
Take your profit here and now.
Ignore questions about neighbors.
Your responsibility is to yourself alone.
Poverty and inequality are always with us.
Your wealth is only yours.
Fools worry about the state of the earth.
I say you cannot bank beauty.
You cannot live on bread alone,
The only real wealth is money.
I set you free.
a mere commodity.
Gather to yourself
Exploit, exploit, exploit.
First published at Rats Ass Review
Island of Songs
Fraser Island sweetly sings
from serpentine streams so clear,
so unclouded and untouched
they could be water or air.
Music murmurs in mangroves,
cobalt blue of upland lake,
banksia grove, pandanas palm
and forests of coastal she-oak.
The eastern wave always sings
as she washes from her sand
the tracks of 4 wheel drives
that deeply scour the land.
Even though tomorrow
the traffic will resume,
following the tide will sing
her lyrical cleansing tune.
Yes, all day long strange music
ripples or crashes in the sea,
and high in towering treetops
come songs of exquisite beauty.
Published at whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com
© 2017 Neil Creighton
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF