The following poems are selected from the 47 poems that constitute Ch XI of
The Last Human Spring by L.S. Heatherly. More poems and writings 2009 to present:
Ecolove: Ode To True Humanity
Why do we love thee, old Humanity?
That we may find the ways
To clear our fields of being.
We love most deeply,
You, before the violations by history,
The you, searching for the us
That pure Living Nature meant to be.
We love, yet still,
What you are, and will be,
The stuggling you within us,
As we push through
Storms in human time, place and being,
The pollutions of our culture,
The miscarriages of history,
Their misfortunes for personality
Suppressing the growth and fulfillment
Of our hearts and souls.
We love thee
As we both have left
To go the real journey,
To hunt and gather the sweets
Buried by the debris of exploding novelty,
To devour these recaptured lost nutrients,
To reclaim some growth-destiny denied.
We love that we fight the last fight
To Regrow whole self and being,
To cleanse and heal the Home of Life;
As we, re-embraceing you, our true Humanity,
Struggle to purify senses, mind and living,
As our spirits recover lost union
With Earth's Being and Humanity's grace.
* * * * * * * * *
Rachel Alexandra, Filly of Joy
We, too bored with usual Summer play,
Stalked filly rumors, filling the stands that day,
Closed in, on post time, to watch Rachel Alexandra, a filly, the girl,
Meet colts, and Belmont Stakes' Summer Bird, the boy.
Post parade, horses, humans, and leather: the usual story.
Rachel running, ears pricked, then flying home: pure Glory!
With Borel, Asmussen, Jackson, grooms, and fans aboard;
Sans ploy, one filly carried all into history, all into joy!
Wagers? Payouts? Few were minding that store:
As this filly had won for us all, so very much more!
Copyright L.S. Heatherly 2009
* * * * * * * * *
Alien From Nowhere
How long this beer can has been here
Is what the human mind first ponders.
Wedged in sand and rocks of washbed
Fifty miles from its world of nowhere.
The store that sent it loose in human hands
Occupies a lot in nowhere, to the shifting sands.
Judging from its faded luster and bent condition,
Its been here maybe twenty years, not twenty million,
Alien to this bed carved in mineral and life,
It has no role in this play of wild fruition.
It speaks of 'civil' beer where none will hear.
It hurls questions piercing hope for reconnection
With one resurging, primal pilgrim pausing here.
Destined to be silenced, but for a moment
It names the creature that dropped it here;
It answers the last question it raises;
"What creature breaks this joy with crumpled spear?"
One of no participation: One Homo Alienus,
Alas, no Killroy; but, in fact, "Killjoy was here."
* * * * * * * * *
To Speak the Body of We
Language says to Life,
Give me your sounds of atrophy and pain,
Your sounds of growth and joy,
Your sounds of struggle to be --
Free of pretense and greed --
Sounds of your primal, pure identity.
Give me sounds of life attaining being,
Echoing 'round and on to speech
As life evolves its charted strife
With soul, into self-conscience being,
As caring leaves the self of I
Joining the cause of We, in social life,
Searching to speak our needings' Why.
And the body of life and being,
Organism-Earth, says to Language,
You are not needed here,
But are welcome, if you come to speak
More deeply than "Lsten to me":
To know the condition of your being,
To speak the body of We.
* * * * * * * * *
Junk World, Flash World
See the Earth becoming a junkyard.
Disguised as 'progress',
The being of Nowness
Emits its throw-away mentality,
Clinging to ego-life's desires,
Throwing out beans of Life
With the shells of a culture
Built only for its flash in time and being.
See us flow in history's shallow being.
The river of life leaving its banks,
Flooding us beyond spirit-soil to empire hills --
To empirial power girded with steal and electrons,
Where sterile housing tracts and media towers
Scarcely tap Earth's spirit-juices,
And flash out the electric message --
That electronified mind can electrocute
The Old Spirit, and create a new 'Second Nature'.
See babes torn from arms and teats,
From wild things, touchings, growth sucklings.
Yet, Dick and Jane wade a creek, climb a tree,
Seeking, clutching for the lost Tree of Life.
See adults stuck with sci-technic toys, commercial pampers.
While deep thinkers are searching the wilderness.
See pipes suck water through the empire hills
For a culture bleeding nurture
From geometric seams and mathematized schemes
That deny deep Life, Soul, and meaning --
And deep destiny from a gorge called Olduvai,
Through a long green valley call Eden.
* * * * * * * *
The Question of Being Alone
People awake with sighs or moans
and see the artificial rooms we've made.
and hear the sounds of electric technics,
And ponder the question of lone being, of being alone.
Some scientists say we are alone.
Some, searching the skies, say we are not.
But, the rooster and a thousand other critters
Annouce to all sentient souls of Earth,
That another day is born from night.
But we do not see these Others awake.
At break of day, a hundred social mammals
Announce the light in their being's way
To all old souls -- ah, even we --
That precede man-made life in rooms.
Sculptured walls scalpel our dissection
From those Beings with once we grew.
Yet, pure soul-dreams awake us to see
Through the modern myth, We are alone,
Through the cyborg-Cyclopsean searchers,
Through their mechanical eye blind to spirit-world,
Through their hope to announce, We are not alone!
And through the illusion in the announcement.
Copyright 2001-2016 L.S. Heatherly