An axiom cut
for identity,
a tailored destiny.

Ripped from the fabric
with names tearing time.
Now stashed on the sidelines.

Here and now we find
the show of history
on deep forest’s boundary.

Born to this theatre
of struggling roles.
How to break the cycle?

How to burn this temple?
Like Dresden and Bagdad,
a culture’s identity

erased by the rain
of bombs and napalm.

As these appliances of war
shroud this world
with the word,
I ponder the mosaic
we’ll build from its pieces.

Net mind with its do no evil.

A digital saint

That’ll bring ineffable vision.

First feed it our every querie,

Dreams caged in by syntax,

Though it will want massed detailed motions

To search out for unknown cravings,

optics in the air scan

Users with omnipresent reason.

Digitally coralled zombies

Feed serendipitous

Flows of collective reverie.

The veins tapped for
pumping power, controlling fate.

Plastic freedom
fills the molds of our unfulfilled

secondhand hearts
cracked as dashboards under strict sun.

Warn number ones
of later years, prizes of the past.

Quickly ousted
for freshly transmogrified rays.

United approaches
Depend on
Collection of
Examples
Without any
Master example
No road
Obstruction
No road

Extracted from a postal service note left on my car.

Jelly fish smacks
Lap edges of my raft
Dabs of indigo

Zest the night sea
Dancing with reflections
From unknown bright stars

Constellations
Of the world I know, none
But ones I paint up.

Sailing not with winds but

Guided by
winning control,
each ruler hordes.

Risks the vessel for gain.

Lost on rocks
this craft broken
oozing horrors.

A place out of
time.
Impervious
to the progress.
Trails try to crack,
but fade easily.

Death and darkness
are thought to dwell
in these waters.
Not so, life bursts,
spills around knees
of these old trees.

Their approach was one of meeting the demand at any cost. Down, out, and milled pronto. This was the dominating method for harvesting this “golden wood” for decades. But these techniques only addressed the immediate goals. The land was harvested with no thought given to the consequences of clearcutting. Wiping thousands of years of accumulated diversity. True that this mimics some natural occurrences, such as wildfires. But tree species found in these forests are almost impervious to these disturbances. Bouncing back with rapid growth from an ostensibly chard tree. To carry out such deforestation and than to expect a return to the same state after this leveling would take another 2,500 years. Some aspects of these forests never to return again.

Older redwoods have an amazing ability to resist rot, and this does not develop till a tree nears 1,500 years. Younger trees’ wood quality is inferior to that of old growth, without the rot resisting heartwood and being much softer. But often areas that were clearcut 50 to 60 years before, again were subjected to cut it all harvesting. Such slash and burn ways toward short term goals led to poor results. Devastating in the long run.

This behavior could not even be a bit sustainable. And now these days we see a revamping of the industry, a change of focus. Machines that would rip the ground open, leaving soil to be taken by erosion, have been abandoned for low impact equipment. Removal of trees in a way that promotes the overall health of the forest. A study of how a forest maintains its capacity, and with us keeping that in mind while we work within it. Harvesting for sustainability rather then productivity. We must be more than just a reaper, but also the keeper of our wildwoods. Ecoforestry. Tell your friends.

With haul full of memories,
malleable in the weather,
this dirigible makes way
to the woods on the mountains.

Where raging winds from the waste
dissipate into breezes
that play leaves of the beeches
calling to ships that wander.

This lighter than air vessel
with its own tamed storm engine
fights wild currents to escape
the cold lifeless desert’s void.

Anticipation thick in the air
Scanning the sky for strikes

That’ll lead to the fulgurite
Movement frozen in the sand

– — – — – — – — – — – — – –

This arced out at me from an old journal that I was reading over.
Always fun to find these frozen experiences from my past. The joy of journaling.
Though I’ve noticed that pieces have a habit of shifting with time. Never provoking the exact emotions that laid the words. The distance between the person that I was and who I am now shifts with accumulated understanding, changing my perception. This habit of recording creates something like a dialogue with my past, and this reciprocation iterates ideas from the roots of the self. It’s nourishing.

I also find myself going back and squeezing in commentary to past journal entries. And again in the future these are bound to provoke more dialogue. Something like buried treasure for me to dig up later on when needed.