Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave
and eats a bread it does not harvest.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking
Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Gibran, the Garden of the Prophet
Nothing more colorful than, a gray flannel day.
Blistering winds with more shine than a lucky penny.
A spring Nor’easter.
A gathering of the personal army.
Crossing drawn lines in soiled, slush.
Gathering all visionary perseverance into a tight bun.
The loose ends of the earth our mine to own…
Under the written gun.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
I maintain that there is a desperate social need for the creative behavior of creative individuals…
In a time when knowledge, constructive and destructive, is advancing by the most incredible leaps and bounds into a fantastic atomic age, genuinely creative adaptation seems to represent the only possibility that we can keep abreast of the kaleidoscopic change in this world….
Unless we can make new and original adaptations to our environment as rapidly as our science can change the environment, our culture will perish…
Not only the individual and group tensions but international annihilation will be the price we pay for lack of creativity.
Carl Rogers, Humanist, 1973
The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. The age of perpetual need lay at our feet. The good earth, in retreat.
My looks have hardened over time. But not so much that I still cannot see we are killing the forests…for a tree.
As snow melts away toward another day.
It is hard cajoling…ignorance out of the way.
So much more than, poetry that litters the land.
Repercussions that will out live ‘what we have come to understand.’
An elder once disposed upon me. An ominous premonition:
“I will not live long enough to witness climatic chaos. And, I am very thankful for that.”
Reflecting back to that cynical conceit. From a man…with affect so flat.
Just one thought…
‘It is often bumbling errors that turn into trashy fact.’
I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.
But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.
And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!
I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind…
I don’t like to look out of the windows even–there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast.
I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did?
- the Yellow Wallpaper/Charlotte Perkins Gilman