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.’
Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.
The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.
A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.
Darling, I know something about love.
It isn’t dressed in hazard red.
It isn’t laced in road closed puns.
Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.
There is a dusting on the road…
a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.
Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.
But than again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.
Sometimes, I wonder too much…if I wonder too much. Live life within a dream. Or, at least, a daydream.
How lucky am I? To look up, as well as, down.
As if my grievance with nature is that of anxious inspiration.
As if these walks were cheap snippets of temptation.
“You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
Sifting thru the rust and the budding weeds.
This is the place to be when wonder begins to seed.
Rummaging, romping, romantics of the forest.
Decadent in their delivery.
Seeking clustered acorns
spurs of last year’s wood.
Never any thought to…rest assured.
Organic manner of giving the land a manicure.
Wall to wall.
Rushing waters so fast they imply a stall.
Winter’s root seems to have loosened her pace.
There is abrasion to her typically, smooth surface.
Everyday, I pass by a downy path.
I can only assume it leads to a dark tundra of creations unknown.
the wild-birds echo a refrain to their song…
I am in their home.
Puffs of once frozen,
Have turned into slushy, sodden, remains of the days.
The earth has bared all the select, segments, she will.
I turn a footprint towards the path of no end.
Smiling to myself,
this courage is just pretend.