only write about that which is eternal

I write this with a BIC pen, with it's open sores

and it's transparent gauge of emptiness. I stepped on one last Saturday. I can still

hear the crack as if the untold-ness of worship was crying out: Malcolm's last speech at that theater in

Chi.

Fred Astaire wanting to sing, not dance, till the end. So you won't believe me

when I tell you this. That once, before the short, Bengali  man gave to me

white, illegible secrets to hand to the pharmacist,

old people went into the woods and dug at the base of fallen trees. Whatever roots or moss

just happened to crawl into their aprons, it was boiled and it's soaked rags

were placed on the stomach of the pregnant child.

Or whipped into froth and placed on the scalp of the dana with ringworm. Or drank

down quickly with sweetened coffee and cinnamon if the fever was a stubborn one.

But afterwards you were cured (saved).

So you went on with life. Mortgages. Bad water heaters. Balding neighbors. Women who wouldn't

plant gardens. You ate pig meat and eggs from chickens who's feet never touch

gravel or leaf. And someone had to confirm to you that "free range" was

a thing of beauty. Then you died.

Reviews

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

This is some real thought provoking work. Not many people here today were lucky enough to witness the secrets of a soon to be forgotten traditional lifestyle. It made me think about how a certain medicinal herb my Grandparents used to treat all kinds of ailments has been replaced by all sorts of synthetic medicines and is now reduced to a supplement used to pass drug tests. This poem is eternal as a sign of the times. You dug deep.

[h d e rushin]

thank you so much Zeitgeist Manifesto for those words of inspiration......and happy holidays to you my friend....dana

[Tom]

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Gizmo321/1404458/

[M. Shepherd]

I often wish we lived back in those times.. we'd have to deal with the immediate uncontrollable death of ourselves but at least we wouldn't have to deal with the guilt of killing everything else in our blumbering wake. While shouldering the burden of the various guilts bestowed upon us by our ancestors and how on earth to rectify all of that. Time were simpler and a little dirtier. Let's all go back to kindergarten and ask ourselves whether or not it's ok for living creatures to be kept in their own feces in darkness. There are a lot of questions we could ask ourselves.

[Ed Hart]

when i die, i'm going to have a memoriem tattooed on my ashes that says, 'here lies ed, finally telling the truth'...you, you will have sprinkled these poems in your wake. and people will sit around toasting your memory...i gave yardage to 'free range' in my youth and a few more decades besides, but there is a certain safety in the confinements of singularities and honest hearts that allows the freedom of range in the gifts of the muse, as you know, more than most...so pleased to be sharing this era with you

[h d e rushin]

dear brother Ed...I am honored by your presence. But I don't know if you've heard it or not......read moredear brother Ed...I am honored by your presence. But I don't know if you've heard it or not......
We won't ever die my friend... thank you my friend.....dana

[Cory Barrett]

Brother,

I'm sorry. I have missed you.

And as you state. Our ears and eyes lead us to the feed from those that are the feeders. Our noses and feet broken. No matter as the pastures are burned down, and the charcoal from them sold to men with more money. Free range is now a privilege, and the rights are no longer under feet.

[h d e rushin]

thank you dear Cory for stopping by my friend.....I can't come by as often as I use to.....But when I do, I look for you..........dana

[Beccy]

Life is the ultimate eternal, though our brief span may perhaps be best likened to how many a new yard brush head can be fixed to the handle.

Once, I suppose mankind was able to 'free range', but today of course those mortgages we collect along the way have a habit of tying us down until we die.

Whenever I read one of your poems I am both enthralled and enchanted.

Beccy.

[Tom]

Fact indeed that most of what modern society now consume as food is factory processed and comes from can or plastic bag!

A therapeutic tonic inducing read in these modern times of mass production!

[h d e rushin]

so true Tom..Even cut vegetables put in bags have a preservative added. And what is chicken now
read moreso true Tom..Even cut vegetables put in bags have a preservative added. And what is chicken now
but an animal so removed from the animal kingdom that he resembles more man than animal?
Everyone with a patch of land should grow a garden. But then again, everyone with a patch of land should believe in angels..............but who am I kidding? Love you.....dana

[Tom]

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Gizmo321/1404458/

[D Connolly]

I like this. It's nice and is making me think about life and history and the future all at once.

[h d e rushin]

thank you D.......for those kind rremarks.....dana

[A hare off]

Reading your work is something I missed while away and here I come in and find I am lost once again in the maze of your thoughts, bumping into solid walls that turn me a different direction, taking lefts when it should have been rights, reading the writing on the walls just beyond each corner I bend and still finding my way out, only to see that the end is definitely the end. An abstractively wild stroll Dana.

[h d e rushin]

i missed you too A hare off. But so glad you stopped by..Thank you again my friend...dana