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| Head trip. |
Remember When the Climate Seemed a Permanent Home?
When the very atmosphere wasn't a threatening dome?
When a little boredom didn't cause such demoralizaton,
Or when fueling a trip to granny's didn't cause deforestation?
Can you recall when an outing wasn't a trip to the mall?
Or a time when your life wasn't in a permanent stall?
Maybe you've the resources to recollect
When everyone you knew wasn't a total wreck.
Did you never live through a frightening dream
When that which scared you was not what it seemed?
Clinging from a branch over a bottomless breach
Only to awaken and find the ground within reach?
Is it too radical to wonder, "What's going on here?"
"How have we become helpless pawns of Fear?"
I wonder what's owed to Joy, or how to wield magic
Live a life that's bigger, more exciting, more tragic.
It's perhaps only then I begin to see
My life's but an episode of reality TV;
A veil of banality we call the present
That hides the truth:
I'm less than a peasant.
We scan the Times to see what "Now"'s breaking,
And find, like VW, Toyota's been faking
The scale of harmful pollutants emitted,
As their vehicles' far exceed what the law permitted.
Hence, the two largest makers of ICE machines
Conspire to make our atmosphere like the Pleistocene’s.
Now, when Corporate giants are so intransigent-sive,
To read, "Here's what you can do", is just plain offensive.
So this constant barrage of things I simply can't change
More and more seems meant to only derange
My thinking, disallowing any concentration
On art, on music, on science or exploration.
How sad it is then, that our individuality,
Proves little more than self-chosen triviality.
Each of us, thinking ourselves a clever old fox,
Has sequestered our consciousness in an impregnable box.
What the virus has shown us, is that we need to find
Breathing spaces for both our lungs and mind.
Moments and Vistas that fill your heart
With expansive delight not brought by Insta-Cart.
Remember when the climate seemed a permanent Home?
Recapture that mooring by writing a Poem.
Draw a picture, paint a landscape, do a household chore,
Actively choose what you use your consciousness for.
Is that too mystic, too hippy/occult?
Beyond the pale of what you consider Adult?
Think neither intellect nor objectivity a virtue?
Well, unlike treadmill existence, neither will hurt you.
