Friday, August 03, 2007

After Wolf Blitzer shuts up...

Storms and hurricanes

Powerless against bright beauty

The cocoon opens

Copyright 2004, by Joseph Rohrbach

The bridge fell down.
all things we make
are imperfect.

The talking heads are talking
fingers are busy being pointed
the missing walk invisible among us
and I'm too tired to grieve.

Here is a little meditation time from my garden.

he cups the butterfly
with crumbling fingers
there is no place to hold
only cradle in fingers
made of tear
she loves her
and kisses softness
and slowly mends
with these brittle fingers
mends the holes and tatters
one at a time


We were questioned
as to whether or not
we were sheltering butterflies.

Harboring these artistic
creatures in our homes
as if anything or anyone could capture
living gossamer.

Long has it been known
that the universe of butterflies was powerful and pervasive
and extended beyond
simple physical life.

People only saw the beginning stages
from caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly
without realizing that after butterfly there was continuation
of life immortal.

Larva is Latin for ghost
From ghost to ghost.

Have you ever wondered
even for the briefest of moments what happens
after butterfly?

When the last bee died,
nobody noticed. Nobody put on black
or made a dirge for the death
of honey. Nobody wrote an elegy
to apricots, no one mourned for cherries.

When the last bee died,
everyone was busy. They had things to do,
drove straight to work each morning
straight back home each night. The roads
all seriously hummed. Besides,

the pantries were still packed
with cans of fruit cocktail in heavy syrup,
deep deep freezers full
of concentrated grape and orange juice,
stores stocked with artificial flavoring.

When the last bee died, nobody saw
the poppies winking out, nobody cried
for burdock, yarrow, wild delphinium.
Now and again a child would ask for
dandelions, quickly shushed: That pest!

And everyone is fine. The children healthy,
radish-cheeked. They play she love me/not
with Savoy cabbage leaves, enjoy the telling
of the great myths, peach and peony.
No one believes in apples any more.

End Notes for a Small History
Betty Lies
"Southern Poetry Review"Summer 1998 Vol. XXXVlll, No. 1 page 33

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