Star Maps

Counting the stars from my Los Angeles balcony—
Nine, I think, tonight;
Just enough for one constellation or
Two, if you're creative.
There are one or two stars
Only seen if you
Remember where they might be.

There is the off-chance you're hallucinating.

Tonight's constellation is Poodle,
After the canine god of Beverly Hills—
Ferociously pouffy.

Remember planets shouldn't twinkle.
Horizon is misleading—
There are towers upon the unseen mountains.
A tribe in Costa Rica saw a postcard from New York and said
They lined up all the stars in
Neat little rows:
Their understanding of cities.

Remember the moving lights are airplanes.

From where I am those stars of Poodle
Point south toward those hollow hills
Where fame and fortune fashion
Empty lives.
After all,
The poodle without fur is just another dog.

Remember stargazing as a youngster—
Backs upon the dewy lawn;
Cool summer nights,
Carefree and wistful,
In the woods away from cities,
Far from pollution—a purer place;
Imagining why ancients thought that
Dippers looked like bears;
Hoping that the bears would know to stay away,
Excited that they might not;
Hoping that a girl you liked would
Like to stargaze too.

Remember that you're hoping still.

An empty person is just waiting to be filled.


22aug15

The Search

Abruptly he stood and stared blankly at his desk. He grabbed his coat and filled its pockets with a pen and paper, a canteen of water, his pipe, and various other things he deemed important. He pulled his hat on with a tug. Then, he wandered off in search of Nature.

He'd heard of Nature before, from his father, perhaps, or his great uncle. But he'd never seen Nature. Sure, he'd seen bits of it on T.V. or heard tapes of Nature relaxing people, but never had he been in Nature.

He had a hard time of it at first. It seemed to him that, as he got closer to Nature, one thing or another would remind him of the human world. Once he sat on a log by a pond, determined he'd finally found it, when a teen on a dirt bike tore over his head and down the trail, hysterical laughing in his wake. In another spot, he watched geese play in a pond, and became very sure he'd got it right this time, when one of the gaggle walked up to him with a candy bar wrapper in its mouth. Disgusted, he wandered on.

His feet ached as he walked, as his heart ached with anticipation of something elusive. Finding a fallen fir, he rested, sipping greatly from his canteen. He had beaten his own path here, more determined than ever to lose society. Looking around, he realized where he was: a clearing amidst a forest of fir. Each tree befriended him. He asked them, silently, how they had come to grow here, how many children each had, and why several of their brethren had fallen to form this clearing. Then, answering his own question, he noticed the stumps around him were clean-cut, and the ax lying on the tree beside him confirmed his suspicions. Taking another swig from his canteen, he wandered on.

Are you there?

Mother Earth, can you hear me?

It's been so long.

You are cold, lifeless in places.

Mother Earth, can you feel me?

These trees are not what they were.

Your rivers are cold, lifeless in places.

Mother Earth, can you save me?

The cars and scrapers and slaughterhouses empty me.

They bring the cold, the lifelessness in your places.

Mother Earth, can I touch you?

I know God is in there somewhere.

He's hiding from the billions—cold, lifeless as they are.

Mother Earth, can I help you?

It's too much, too big a project.

But I want to warm, to bring life.

Mother Earth, I am so sorry.

So sorry that my peers and predecessors have treated you poorly.

I weep over your coldness, your lifelessness.

I become cold and lifeless in your absence.

Mother Earth, can you save me?

Maybe we can save each other.

Mother Earth?

Are you anywhere?

thinking of earth day...

...which was last week, i know, but this poem keeps coming up in my mind. "Paumanok" is a Native American word for Long Island, NY. Whitman wrote a poem "Paumanok," which is what got me started. the events are recalled from stories, probably mythic, told by some of my teachers when i was in elementary school.

---

Oh Proud Paumanok

Oh proud Paumanok, where have you come?

Your shores are black with filth and scum.

Your air, once pure and clean, now chokes,

For all its cars expel their smokes.

How many shopping malls must we have,

Pillars of salt and golden calve?

Paved with some intentions and concrete

To lay on Paumanok one more street.

The parkway Floyd destroyed one town:

Diner and general store torn down.

Housing developers killed the farms

And people flocked here, came in swarms.

Before my time, still on my mind:

No place to hang out, nothing to find.

Fast food places grace town square.

(To call it that is quite unfair.)

The only good this town retains:

The vast Pine Barrens, semi-pure, remain.

The forest largely has been traded

For apartments, offices, humanity jaded.

Of cars and people, the ever-present hum—

Oh, proud Paumanok! where have you come?

Oh proud Paumanok, where have you gone?

Your once bright shores with fishers on?

Once vastly forested, oaked and pined;

Flora and fauna less confined.

Highways scarce and farms abound

And to the north a crystal sound.

Gem of New York! Its tourmaline tail!

Whose men, like Ahab, hunted whale;

For whale-like, fish-like island form

Dropped in the midst of ocean warm.

Or, on winter’s day, Great South froze over,

And sled became an ocean rover.

Across to Fire Island they’d go

To brave the bluffs of solid snow.

Ice cutters out on Lake Success

Or Ronkonkoma “the bottomless.”

When water turned the Yaphank mill,

No water tower stood upon Jayne’s Hill.

When natives paddled the Peconic,

Free was Shoreham of plant catatonic.

There are battles lost and battles won—

But, oh, proud Paumanok! where have you gone?

Oh proud Paumanok, where are you going?

Farmland selling and no more growing?

Corn, potatoes, richest crops,

Vineyards abandoned for blacktops.

Houses building for some higher class,

Cookie-cutter’d, powered by natural gas.

Where from are these people coming,

Living costs rising and commerce numbing?

Mom and Pop have left the isle;

Needs are met in another aisle.

Is there no end to this destruction?

Can there be no slight reduction?

We ask for peace, yet monger war;

We close the window, but lock the door;

We aim to protect, to conserve,

But also we deplete reserves.

Our island Long sinks every day

To know such people claim its clay.

Tribute taken we must replace;

Poor Paumanok lies in gilded grace!

Our island needs us to repent!

To find simplicity! to fix our dent!

This cavity is finally showing—

Oh, proud Paumanok! where are you going?

Kevin F. Story

19 Jan 08; rev. 21 Jan 08

White

Silently the shroud of white

Nestles on the earth

Ornamenting the land with

Wet crystals

Falling gracefully, floating cheerfully

Landing and bonding to form an

All-encompassing blanket

Kept neatly unbroken by feet or shovels

Evoking warmth though ever cold, for

Surely the winter can be both

10 Feb 10

climate change

woe to you who think your minuscule lives could affect this world's destruction. and woe to you who think you could go on usurping the earth without severe consequences.

written by the pond

a few days ago

-----

Give me a place where no one abides,
And I will drink to it;
Drink to the glorious sky,
The earth below it;
Wash my face with reflections,
Facing the wind in the trees.
The swans who bicker
In the flickering light
Join the song.
Flicker thoughts in rays of smoke,
Rings from the sun:
A life rebegun.

remember, remember: a Story, a swan, and a pilferer

After being shocked by a minor explosion in my development (which apparently was no big deal, since the few people outside didn't seem to react to it even though five car alarms did) and rehearsal for DRACULA and giving a voice lesson, this wanderer decided to go for a walk in the woods. Not easy, since I live in the armpit between the Long Island Expressway and Vets' Highway. But in consulting my charts and maps, I found that the Greenbelt trail runs right around these parts. So I went off to find Blydenburgh Park, where everything culminates. But... I parked in the wrong parking lot and found myself instead in Bill Richards Park.

old friend

took a trip to West Hills the other day to show April a spot in the woods. reminded me of this poem i'd written about walking near there, and near where Walt Whitman was born. thoughts?

Walking in Walt Whitman’s Wood on a Warm Winter Day

I.
Standing gazing at the island below
The shopping mall that glitters in his name
Cars that care not on what sacred ground they drive
Above all that
Kissing the sky
Thanking God for the air
Standing tall as giants
Glancing to the west
Viewing taller hills
A world away
At once small again
The roar of traffic in the distance
Reminders of a sick civilisation
Plagued with inequity to divinity
Seemingly striving for serpentine ways