Spring Work (in progress)

In the Root

by hoot

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by MSG

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by Wise Spring Sage

In the root

by Asio

 

Take pause         

February, in the root, 

Menacing pitch clinging along dormant nodes,

A pulsing dark in subterranean decay 

Tlaloc before the sun, 

Inhaling blue-blooded salt, 

Blue -- the frozen cavern stretched 

To the latched gate of a nameless underworld. 

Rooted Cucurbita, Pisum, 

Fractured dendrites 

Shuddered voices of the crystalline, 

Concealed lapis, Gaia’s own starlight,

light -- bodies shattered by Her prism,

Delicate

As snow upon an open sea. 

 

So then, sweep the path home.

A Djinn ascends from a desert night

To a lone fire, burning eye, Andromeda, 

Calling the eastern flame to rise.

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Why search for aliens on Mars

when among the roots right here

is our strange little friend the pillbug 

 

- Diogmites

Soft Boiled Alleles.

by Wise Old Sage

Sauteed alleles, in butter and salt

Or fermented alleles, garlic, time and salt.

Plant peas as soon as the ground can be worked for fresh alleles by

early spring

 

Soft Boiled Alleles.

Minced alleles, with lime and

Pulverized, Smoked alleles, salt.

 

Plant peppers inside and don't forget the blanket, peppers get cold and

don't want to wake up for nothing but the best breakfast in bed. Fresh

 

alleles ready for harvest by late heat

 

of summer: waiting for roasted alleles

Soft Boiled Alleles.

Steaming alleles conserves nutrient content; lather in cold-pressed

allele oils and sprinkle with

salt.

Plant beans when peril by crystal water molecule has passed for fresh

alleles in time with the sun.

Don't forget salt

If you make

Soft Boiled Alleles.

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by Zostera

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by Icelegs

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by North

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by J Oleander

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Frames by Asio

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by Mondielle

January 18: East Ithaca Recreation WayMeesh
00:00 / 13:55

[[Paired with audio recording January 18: East Ithaca Recreation Way]]

 

A recording of a walk. For my context, read the poem. For your possession, never read it. I lay claim only to my words. (I especially own no rights to the sampled songs in the recording.) 

 

me in Me in ME 

by Meesh

 

East Ithaca Recreation Way, 

about half Way. 

I have passed a Runner 

and Couples 

and side glances 

and hellos 

and anxiety. 

i hear waters. 

roger's song. 

i am untethered 

in the groundless LAND. 

I hear Waters. 

loud enough to quiet the rumbles 

 

of me... 

this whole thing is a whim  

no purpose 

just presence 

well, half presence 

half choreography 

of the mind 

could they be the same 

either Way. 

these are the sounds within Me.  

Crunches of Snow and Salt. they are the same. 

Chirps. or Chips. i am not sure. 

Echoes. mine and Mine. 

winds. mine. 

Rustles of Wind. 

Rustles of Leaves. 

Bubbles and Wooshes. 

Stillness. definitely not mine. 

 

these are the sounds within ME. 

mindlessness. 

mindfulness. 

 

 

roger returns. 

he was there the whole time. 

so was me. 

and Me. 

and ME. 

they are the same. 

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by Asio

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‘3 stationary hitchhikers: opportunists or parasites, you decide’

- Wise Spring Sage

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by Wise Spring Sage

 

Within

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The Lady, Worldbirth, The Gorge (clockwise) by Mondielle

Poem for a Blue Page
by G.F.G.

My blood fell violetly
I could see Jupiter- I asked for directions
Turned left at the Argon inferno
And there I was

Sleep
With wistful green lemon trees
And squeaky wheelbarrows to gather my time
I could meander forever

Toothpaste constellations guided me home morosely
My soles were worn white from the ash
But the brown sun was going to rise
Regardless of my journey

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Within the tall grass  

is a beetle’s perspective.

Within that perspective

is a towering forest 

 

- Diogmites

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Two paintings by North

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Departure Color, Within

five pieces by Asio 

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A phenologist

Wants to experience external beauty

Beauty disturbs enduring interest

 

Begin with the amazement

of an observer,

A creature alive inside a stone

Amazement rarely felt,

Worn down

 

An empty shell invites day-dreams,

Simple images

Proposing the inhabited

 

Wonder is exaggeration

We accept slight amazement

To formulate dreams of stone

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Two Paintings and a Poem, by J Oleander

The Carrot by Chipmunk

Photograph by Viper

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Something by Meesh

 

Text by Dudley Patterson, Apache. Recorded in Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache by Keith H. Basso

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Why I go

 

by Mondielle

  1. I go to the forest to remember the things I forget when I leave it.

  2. I go to the forest to find the lost script. 

  3. We fill each other: the forest is my library and I its patron. Dew-beaded leaves and jeweled beetles are the footnotes of a Greater book, the work of a force I will never articulate. 

  4. We fill each other: I am an empty vessel, a framework craving the curve of the fiddlehead and sunlight played by finger-like branches; branches played by hands of sun. 

  5. I eat it, I sap it up. I reconstitute my cells with the greens and reds and oranges and tiny whorls of complex organization. My own clumsy patterns relish the existence of order, and I, the consumer, the perceiver, the insignificant steward, am full. 

  6. The oak is large because the fern is small, yet the fern dwarfs the duckweed... everyone does that.  

  7. The winter is taken on faith. Who can assure the spring? Who can promise that the DNA of millions will rush into new caverns of green and froth and pour forth songs and life and rustling and beating?

  8. Why does the human spirit hinge on this so?

  9. Does the Forest exist only because I can point to it and claim it fills me? 

  10. Does the perceiver create the subject with his art?

  11. Roots stretch like tributaries, like capillaries vying into the grand membrane of life; like lightning on its path of least resistance.

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Cities

 

by Mondielle

The sky and the river were cut from the same fabric that evening, separated only by a thin stretch of  sleeping trees on the opposite shore. 

I’m not sure how long I’d been walking in those woods when the light began to sink into the  river. The trees could have been a row of houses - they were dense, ghostly pillars elegant and dormant, but all cities look that way when they’re sleeping. I branched off from the road to follow a deer trail, and I was studying the patterns of ice crystals that broke and skittered under my boots when suddenly, I found myself in February. 

I whispered the word: February. But it was barely audible over the chuckles of the unfrozen  brook winding between tall trees. I perched myself between a jutting rock and tree trunk and  watched the shards of evening light refract off tiny, icy bubbles and then appear again, farther  up. Playing. Captivated, I let my eyes unfocus, and the lights on the water turned to golden orbs  each time the sun momentarily betrayed itself from the overcast sky. What brilliant architecture. 

“Where am I?” I mused allowed. 

“February,” answered the tree I was leaning against. Her skeletal branches overhead shook  themselves in the chill wind. I looked up at her, disbelievingly. 

“You said so yourself! You said, this is February. Don’t look at me the way,” she retorted,  defensive. 

“I didn’t ask When I am, I asked Where I am. There is a difference.” I regarded her quietly. All  summer glory was hushed beneath her rough bark and unborn buds. She was young: forty rings, I’d imagine, but still old enough to have a good concept of space. 

“When? Asked the tree. What do you mean, ‘when?’ What is when? There is only where, as far  as how you are.”

 

“What!” I retorted, “Do you not know of seasons? Surely you must! You blossom in the spring, rage all through the summer, and bear your fruit in the fall. What do you mean, “what do you mean  ‘when?’”. 

The tree looked down at me cryptically. 

“There is only the warm and the cold and the rain on my body,” she said. “If it is warm and  raining, I collect sun and I give fruit, and if it is cold, I sit and wait to converse with strange beings such as yourself. Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t you cold?” 

“I’m escaping.” I didn’t have a more rational reason to give her. I started my journey without a  plan. 

“Escaping from what?” She asked. 

I situated myself more comfortably between her roots and let my thoughts percolate. 

“Society, I suppose. Noise. To-dos and have-nots and almosts. Disappointments. Strange ways of  behaving.” 

“You are leaving your kind because of your responsibilities?” The tree asked sharply. Her roots prodded into my spine. 

She continued: “Does the ant leave his colony because he no longer wants to carry food? Does the crow  renounce her parents because she does not want to know her brothers and sisters? You are the  strange one, I think,” the tree said.

“But I am not like the rest of them – people, I mean,” I was a bit offended. “I prefer to be in  nature. Here. Intentional. Where I can watch the water, learn hawk calls from the jay, and not be subject to smoke.” 

“I thought you said we were in February.” 

“We are!” This was the strangest tree I’d ever met. She couldn’t tell the difference between time and space, and she was acting as if I had it wrong. 

“Well, are we in February or in nature?” she asked, speaking slowly as if I were a child. “I have heard of neither. I’d think after hosting the crows for forty-nine years I’d pick up a few things.” 

I had to set her straight. I couldn’t believe I was the first creature to teach her the ways of the world. “Well, we are in both February and - well, yes. We are in nature.” 

“Then tell me where one starts and the next begins, why don’t you. I’ll stay rooted in  my sandy soil. That is where I belong, and I am certain of that. You, I suppose, are free to spend your sun wandering aimlessly and spinning strange tales and telling good folks they aren’t where they grew.  Where is nature, by the way? Is it beyond the clay? Past the loamy stretch? I know that bit goes on for a while.” 

“Nature isn’t a place. It's the opposite of society. It’s the wilderness. You must know… ” 

She looked back at me blankly. 

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. You have a very strange spatial perception, young one. You should talk  to the crows. Or the warblers. They could teach you a few things.” 

“I think my ideas are just fine,” I retorted. “You’re lucky, you know. To be out here. And not to be in there.  In the park. The trees in there, I’m sure, would much rather be in nature.” 

“My brothers and sisters? If they’re breathing, they’ll survive. If their roots are firmly planted  and they experience the rain, they’ll be fine. A thing must be said about the quality of the soil,  too, but we are mostly resilient. We take what we can get. Isn’t that how most people are?”

 

“I suppose.” 

The tree thought for a moment. “So. You are leaving the city, you say? I don’t think you can really leave the city. Well, you can leave mine, perhaps. But then you will be in the city of the pines,  and perhaps then the mountain laurel, and we all know how that goes. That goes on a long time. And  the deer, well, they have cities all over everyone else. So do the ants. Is there no city in the wilderness?” 

“You are describing the wilderness. The deer and ants and trees are all in the wilderness, a place where there is no order. Like here.” 

“There is plenty of order here, young one! You, I’d say, have no order, leaving your own city.  All of those things you call wilderness are there, too. You know - speaking about cities is silly.  Perhaps we should speak about the soil beneath. I wouldn’t do very well in the clay. That is the true order of things.” 

“You just think of it differently,” I told the tree. 

“I suppose,” she repeated. “Why do you want to be different from your own kind so much,  anyway?”“They destroy cities without… any sort of regret,” I informed her, hoping she’d understand the word. “They are changing the way that our very world functions.  The seasons - and you may have to just assume they exist - are shifting, the earth is warming, the oceans are rising. You’ll be moving north soon.” 

“I’m not moving anywhere.” 

“Your kind will. And my kind - well, if they continue on like they are, they will probably not  survive the next thousand years.”

 

“Perhaps they won’t,” said the tree. “I watch the ants, you know. It starts with a few. They build a  hill, then another. Sometimes they build in me. And if they do, they partition off my branches into cities. Empires. Sometimes the colonies grow very large. They fight, they steal each others’ queens, they run out of grubs. They starve. They do this again and again. I am still here.” 

They haven’t riddled you through, yet. 

Not yet. 

I suddenly felt very cold. The tree was quiet, and I heard a jay somewhere behind her in the dark woods. An  alarm call. The night had descended while we spoke, and along the road, tall highway street lamps made a sparse path back towards civilization.

I should head back, I thought. I’m sure I shall return, though. And you… well, you’ll be here. Yes.

Perhaps.

As I made my way back down the highway, I thought of the thin concrete, and underneath it, the sprawling roots. And the larvae dormant under February’s grip. Underneath that, I imagined the loam and the clay and the bedrock interlocking silently, and far under that, the heat of the Earth stretching all the way down, unbending, down and then up, to another tree, another season, another city.

painting, an ink, a fabric by Tuesday 

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Reflections; A Distorted Mirror, Replaced by a Plane Mirror

Jessica Ash

How should I spend this day?

Crossed off to-do lists piling up in my agenda 

working on inspired passion or out of obligation

Am I in the right place?  

Who decides what I do from here?

My brain is clouded with extraneous thoughts 

Inhibiting my daily, nighttime reflections

 

But, 

In this moment

the distant sound of laughter among groups of newly freed students brings me an odd sense of stillness

Inner peace

“You are free,” I hear through a whisper

Emanating from the back of my mind 

I ended the journal entry early 

 

The next morning 

The sound of construction vehicles begins to circulate through my room, 

The sound originating from outside of my window

The walls are reflecting the light from the morning sun

Fan whirring

Roommate stirring

Coffee pot brewing

Another day of interrupted zoom class 

My sense of inner peace is shaking 

 

Self-reminders: 

Notice and become consciously aware of your thoughts in this moment

Realize the places you should put your energy and where you shouldn’t

Follow through

A new level of self-awareness is in store, adopt it

 

A reminder pops up on my phone

It’s from my Holy Bible App 

It reads, “Matthew 6:34: Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. ... Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

That saying begins to resonate with me again, “you are where you’re supposed to be." 

Marigold Shade by On the Loose and Asio