Yule Be In My Heart ~

DeadTrees1

It’s that sad time of year
When all through the streets
Lay the Christmas trees, cast away,
Along with their wreaths.
The joy that they gave has been tossed in the pile,
And won’t be rekindled for a very long while.
The glow of the lights no longer draped on their frames,
They lie on the sidewalks, forgotten and lame.
What happens to thee, my fine firry friend?
Although some would claim it was already the end
When you were cut from your roots to adorne holiday homes,
Now you lay without purpose, without tinsel, or pine cones –
Along with the packaging stuffed into bags,
You lie there like trash, to be heaped with the slag.
At least on a bonfire you’d light up the night
And go out with a glow, as should be your right.
But you were a tree that got shipped to the city –
So you’re destined for landfill – oh what a pity –
Well I, for one, my dear Tannenbaum,
Will carry your image all the year round;
In my heart you’ll stand tall, smell sweet, and be green,
Bedecking my memories of Christmasses been.
The branches I’ve saved will make sweet incense,
And well into summer emit your fragrance –
I shall honour your life force, and all it betokens,
Keeping faith that your offspring ever will grow again –

 

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The Sink Mouse

Still groggy from bed and dreamings,
I went into the never clean kitchen to make my morning tea.
As I was about to turn on the tap, my eyes focused in on the
ever-present bowl of old water and dirty silverware left in the sink, as per usual, by the houseowner.

There, perched along the handle of a spoon,
round mouthed, gasping for air, clearly bewildered,
was a bedraggled little baby rodent,
a mouse – a meecelet, as tiny as a recent born, looking,
with its hair all wet, as if it had just emerged from the womb.

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Repulsion and compassion welled up.
Clearly something had to be done.
But what?
The front door is across two rooms, down stairs, and through two doors, so…
The only other option was the window.
I took the screen off, opened the pane as wide as I could,
put my hands in plastic bags, gingerly lifted the mouse and spoon out of the bowl and carried them over to the window.

Realizing there was no ledge, I hesitated. I thought: I can’t get through the house with this mouse on this spoon handle, and it’s just one floor down, and very grassy back there, so…I just have to let it go.
And I did; I turned the spoon over and off the mouse went.

It bothered me.
About 15 mins later, I got some cheese shavings and went to see if it was alright.

I walked around to the back of this duplexcomplex, not sure which window to look under
because they all look the same.
It turns out, right beneath some of the windows,
carved out of the grass, are semicircles of ground covered with rocks.

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I have no idea why this is, but of course, the window in question turns out to be over one of these, and it was there that I found the little thing, quite motionless, head to an awkward side.

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I got a stick and nudged the little body gently, but there was no sign of life. I sprinkled the cheese by its nose, just in case it was only out cold, though I was pretty sure it was dead.

How miserable.
One minute this tiny meecelet winds up nearly drowning in a strange and murky body of water; then it gets lifted out of that only to be tossed out a window and hurled to its death on what are, relatively speaking, boulders.
What a traumatic existence…

Maybe it had some happy days before the bowl; we’ll never know,
Maybe while it was shivering there, it was thinking back to the love of its warm Mother, back when it stayed where it was put..
How did it even wind up in that bowl?
Did she or he follow after Mom and slip into the bowl and
since nothing could be done, was left behind, all alone?
Did he or she go off on hers or his own and get lost?
Did she or he come in a bag from the store, when perhaps even smaller…?
The poor little thing…

Such is life.
Born into someone’s arms, you might slip into some inescapable predicament; and perhaps be lifted from that only to meet your death.
Sort of like boarding the transports, thinking you’re finally escaping the ghetto, only to be gassed on arrival.

Sorry little creature.
Sorry I was too nervous to think of a better solution –
like putting you in a jar with a little cheese and setting you into the bushes outside.
Chances are damn good you’d have gotten picked up by some bird, or pounced on as a
mere appetizer by some other four-legged creature – and
unless you knew your way back to a hole, a safe haven, right quick,
I think you were doomed, and only didn’t drown before you were given one last fling,
so to speak…
Sorry.

Filthy Money

Filthy Money.

Without it, you are seriously compromised; without it you will most likely be screwed right out of your home/family/health/teeth/life. You must find ways to make money.

Depending on how and by whom you ‘get paid’, you might have to sell your self, your family, your soul. Money puts a price on everything.

 “Well , you’re getting paid, aren’t you?”

 Once you pay someone, they must do whatever you say; you can write off their humanity, their significance, their content; they owe you some part of themselves, because you paid for it:  Money bestows ownership.

I shared a backyard with a man who asked me to look after his garden for a few days – said he’d pay me.  I said I didn’t want pay; I appreciated the garden, and would love to help out.

He told me he wanted it watered each morning.

Now he was a morning person, with a typical morning person’s prejudices; but I am a night person (don’t let the nsa find out – ) and had to work half of the days in question; so I offered to do mornings on some days, and after work on the rest.

He said No; He wanted it done each morning; I wondered why we couldn’t compromise just for those few days; he said it had to be each morning, and that’s why he was going to pay me, because he wanted the job done his way; no compromises, no discussion.

I said “…and that’s why you pay people: so there’s no discussion – “ which led him to install an entire irrigation system, just so he could have his plants watered exactly when he wanted on those few days.

Money is power, right?

Money is reductionary.

When someone pays you, they can wash their hands of you – like blood money:  “We want this amount for killing our brother.” “Deal.”

(Good thing you had enough money, otherwise they’d have to kill you).

How much blood does a paycheck buy?

How much is my blood worth?

How much is my blood worth to me?

At one job I had, there came a time when I said I did not feel my work was appreciated; I was loudly told that I was paid more than some of the others, AND I had Health Insurance!  Wasn’t that enough???

I acknowledged the generosity of that, but said it wasn’t the same thing…

One year, I volunteered for a sort of apprenticeship with a potter.  In exchange for my assistance, he would teach me things, and provide our lunch.

At the time, my shelter was provided, so I was ‘free’ to work for knowledge and food, rather than for money.  If that potter had been a boor who talked to me like I was his piece of shit servant, I was totally free to leave.  He had no hold over me, and no monetary claim to my selfhood.

What we wound up having was a relationship based on mutual agreement, and mutual respect.  Though we were at different points of learning, and I looked to him as a teacher in his craft, I still had the right to be treated as someone of equal value.

Money…filthy stuff.

It sullies everything it touches;

It cheapens and demeans;

It negates the spirit.

***

It was the low drone that stopped me,

like a tamboura, sounding through his small acoustic amp.

It pulled on me like a string,

pulled me back from going through that turnstile,

and said to me: Why hurry?

Why not listen a bit…

 

I stood off to the side,

and despite the flow of people,

I was moved to move…

 

His music was between him and the moon

and the Hearts and Spirits of

whoever would hear;

and I was lucky:

I heard…

 

I fished a paltry dollar out of my wallet,

held it folded tight in my hand,

and remained awhile longer…

 

I didn’t know how deep or far his

music was going to take me –

From I don’t know where,

to nigguns, wailings, my life

someplace,

one place,

cement, grey

woods, stripes, grey

skies, barbed wire…

Just then, I was swept up by

streams of colour reaching into the skies…

And as I danced there, freed from gravity,

the moon came into me, the moon that was

glowing overhead: a waxing fat crescent…

 

Then it all resolved into a single note,

and a pause wide enough for me to

collect myself and walk toward him.

 

By the time I got near,

that piece of paper in my hand

was lint. Meaningless.

What I wanted to give him was

a crackling fire and a bowl of

hearty warmth amidst smiles and laughter.

I surely had no words.

 

He said:

That is the best: When there are

Only eyes and no words.

 

He pointed to the moon,

beaming directly down the stairway

he played at the foot of. I said

I’d seen it in his music.

I babbled fragments about dance, art, writing, feeling…

I would like to say more, some other time.

 

We shared our names.

He said his was from The Land of

Jerusalem; I said There are many

languages in The Land of Jerusalem.

 

Then, the money: burning, withering,

with a purpose, in my hand…

Oh, how vile;

Bringing it up,

Pressing it toward him,

Even touching it near such sacred sounds…

 

He protested;

I, knowing he was right, but knowing

Money is important in this life, said

it would be as if I bought him

a nice warm drink –

 

But his hands were up, and I was

filled with the futility and

potential insult of it, and

so grateful he stopped me;

Stopped me from negating the

Truth of something pure,

something real.

 

The sting of the gesture is hard to shake off.

 

He dissipated the crossed energies by

putting his breath into his instrument,

immersing himself and me and

the moon into music…

 

I stood still and silent,

allowing the tightness in my

chest to release; then curtseyed

and headed home.

As I turned I saw

my little pink card in his box.

 

Money:

Filthy,

filthy stuff.

Monsanto Murderers

What more do we need to know???

“Far from being ‘magic seeds’, GM pest-proof ‘breeds’ of cotton have been devastated by bollworms, a voracious parasite.

Nor were the farmers told that these seeds require double the amount of water. This has proved a matter of life and death.

With rains failing for the past two years, many GM crops have simply withered and died, leaving the farmers with crippling debts and no means of paying them off.

Having taken loans from traditional money lenders at extortionate rates, hundreds of thousands of small farmers have faced losing their land as the expensive seeds fail, while those who could struggle on faced a fresh crisis.

When crops failed in the past, farmers could still save seeds and replant them the following year.

But with GM seeds they cannot do this. That’s because GM seeds contain so- called ‘terminator technology’, meaning that they have been genetically modified so that the resulting crops do not produce viable seeds of their own.

As a result, farmers have to buy new seeds each year at the same punitive prices. For some, that means the difference between life and death.”
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1082559/The-GM-genocide-Thousands-Indian-farmers-committing-suicide-using-genetically-modified-crops.html#ixzz1Hjt4s8BQ