Archive for poem

The Ruin – Medieval Poem

Posted in History, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Pub Library, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on June 21, 2020 by Drogo

The Ruin” is an elegy in Old English, written by an unknown Dark Age author of the 8th or 9th century. It was published in the 10th century Exeter Book, a large collection of poems and riddles. The poem evokes the former glory of a ruined Roman city by juxtaposing the grand, lively past state with the decaying present. The section has a large diagonal burn from a kind of branding in the center of the page. The burn has rendered many parts of the script illegible. This is a possible reconstruction interpretation:

This masonry is wondrous; fates broke it
courtyard pavements were smashed; the work of giants is decaying.
Roofs are fallen, ruinous towers,
the frosty gate with frost on cement is ravaged,
chipped roofs are torn, fallen,
undermined by old age. The grasp of the earth possesses
the mighty builders, perished and fallen,
the hard grasp of earth, until a hundred generations
of people have departed. Often this wall,
lichen-grey and stained with red, experienced one reign after another,
remained standing under storms; the high wide gate has collapsed.
Still the masonry endures in winds cut down
persisted on, fiercely sharpened, fate honed
Nature she shoned and men atoned.
Thing of ancient skill worked
Thing of crusted mud fallen away
spirit mourned, put together keen-counselled
a quick design in rings, a most intelligent one bound
the wall with wire brace wondrously together.
Bright were the castle buildings, many the bathing-halls,
high the abundance of gables, great the noise of the multitude,
many a meadhall full of festivity,
until Fate the mighty changed that.
Far and wide the slain perished, days of pestilence came,
death took all the brave men away;
their places of war became deserted places,
the city decayed. The rebuilders perished,
the armies to earth. And so these buildings grow desolate,
and this red-curved roof parts from its tiles
of the ceiling-vault. The ruin has fallen to the ground
broken into mounds, where at one time many a warrior,
joyous and ornamented with gold-bright splendour,
proud and flushed with wine shone in war-trappings;
looked at treasure, at silver, at precious stones,
at wealth, at prosperity, at jewellery,
at this bright castle of a broad kingdom.
The stone buildings stood, a stream threw up heat
in wide surge; the wall enclosed all
in its bright bosom, where the baths were,
hot in the heart. That was convenient.
Then they let pour hot streams over grey stone.
under the vaulted roof and open sky,
until the ringed pool once hot,
grew weeds where the baths were.
Then is that ancient wonder gone?
Nay, here, that is a noble thing,
to the house, city, and castle ruin!

Tweedle-Trump & Tweedle-Dem 2020

Posted in Critical Commentary of Civilization, Ethics & Morals, Jokes, news, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 4, 2020 by Drogo

Corporate Politics Has Failed Democracy

Our two party system is like Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.

This is true more now than ever, as both corporate candidates are Trump and Biden.

 

Candidates paid by companies that interfered in our elections to get Trump elected, will lose to Trump the epitome Capitalist. Our intelligence agencies and corporations interfere in our elections far more than Russia or other foreign agencies; because our agencies and corporations have more control and more money. Bloomberg and Steyer are boring billionaire Capitalists; so although they are richer than Trump, they do not have Trump’s popularity. Trump’s popularity is based on being a corporatist who sometimes talks as a fake populist actor; which is mostly a result of his insane personality and flamboyant attitude despite being deeply flawed ethically.

The best lesson so far from main-stream politics seems to be that there are two primary common traits for being an establishment candidate for president: “Get paid by corporations to show up, and have dementia”! Whether Reagan had dementia during the Iran-Contra hearings when he claimed he “cannot recall” things in court, or whether that is just a time tested strategy for how criminals avoid prosecution is not clear. But regarding Trump and Biden in 2020, it is clear that they are demented in what they say and what they do. So as long as you do what you are told, you can show up and say stupid shit all the time at work, and do stupid things that get you into law suits. Vote for tweedle-dee or tweedle-dumber, those are the options corporations give us, both will do what the bosses tell them, not what we want. It gives us hope that yes anyone can be president, as long as you just do what the people with money want since the parties are identical that way.

Occupy, Code Pink, Extinction-Rebellion, Justice Democrats, and the Sunrise movements are leading the mass progressive charge. True social protesters and environmentalists do not take orders from corporations, political parties, or government agents of any countries. Activists like Jill Stein and Greta Thunberg are our only hope to have candidates for a better future. They may have to run as independents or third party ‘greens’, but it is only by their leadership that public opinion will change society. Our heroes show us that only by standing up against those in power, and taking action for ourselves, will we have power.

Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dumber will always be “the lesser of two evils” options when we leave politics to corporate representatives.

 

Some say, compar’d to Trump

That Biden is but a filthy dump.

Others aver, that he to Biden

Causes the racial gap to widen.

Strange all this Difference should be

‘Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee’!

 

[based on Byrom’s folk epigram 1805, from ‘Original Ditties for the Nursery’]

 

In Garden of My Mind

Posted in Organic Gardens, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Spiritual, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 29, 2020 by Drogo

I did alot of digging and tilling by hand for years.

I also trimmed hedges and trees since i was a boy,

because it was just chore maintenance for our yard.

Then i earned a living working on organic farms; 

until i realized i could not competitively do hard labor anymore; 

and wanted to focus on other jobs like teaching and the military.

I prefer only working with plants on my terms now;

I enjoy nature in between indoor work, without a boss.

I worked so many years on gardens that i did not “own”, 

and then to have my own taken away from me with the sale of our house, 

has made me not want to get attached to gardens anymore.

The ways of working and designing for others only gets me so far.

It has come as a shock to me, to realize how attached I became to wanting

To be the master of my own garden and designs, or else to let it all go.

If i was able to walk out every morning into a garden that was mine for the rest of my life, then i would want to again shape a garden. 

The wilderness is a huge natural garden,

which requires less work to enjoy than a manicured artificial garden.

My efforts now are for the preservation of wild organic nature.

I am focused on protecting Nature for all to use, since i don’t “own” a garden.

I never want to leave the garden in my heart anymore, 

so i live with that state of mind as my goal.

–  Drogo

drogo in g2002

Clouds Are Real

Posted in POB Audio, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 29, 2019 by Drogo

mega cloud 2bmega cloud 1cmega cloud 1a

We swim in oceans of emotions, and we sail in relation-ships;

no more voting for corporate pricks;

we think and feel, and vote for those with appeal;

because clouds are real, clouds are real, yeah clouds are real.

*

[ Audio recording of poem sung as a folk song ]

 

 

*

Space Drogo – lyrics

Posted in Memorials / Obituaries / Epitaphs, Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Song Lyrics & Analysis, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on August 30, 2019 by Drogo

Space Drogo, always doing things with space!

Space Drogo, out to save the human race!

Space Drogo, the great king of the Appalacia,

Space Drogo, you betcha – he’s here to save ya! Space Drogo!

Always on a mission, space Drogo, flying in good condition!

Space Drogo, now you now his name!

Space Drogo, life will never be the same!

SPACE DROGO….. SPACE DROGO!!!!

– Lyrics by Andy Sweeney 2019

Turn Back Time In Your Mind

Posted in Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 23, 2018 by Drogo

You can turn back time,

the kind that’s in your mind;

remember back to when you were happy,

loving nostalgia is not just sappy.

feel the feelings, desire the emotion

memory is like a magic potion

find how the actions affect your mind

relive the experience in your own time.

Walk down the steps in the sunshine

sleep in the hammock under the pine

sit on the dock in the moonlight

meditate until your mind feels right.

-Drogo

[Spell for healing melancholy; inspired by 21 Pilots]

Ritual components for the Memory Recall spell: mugwort, sage, thyme; antiques, personal artifacts, place talisman; as well as nostalgic music and a candle.
Light the candle, smell the herbs, repeat the poem.

Who will resist the King?

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on September 30, 2017 by Drogo

Liberty Poem

 

Who will resist the King?

When he orders your money be spent on weapons to kill?

Rather than health or education

Who will resist the King, when the King comes calling?

Who will take to bended knee, when the King comes calling?

Who will bow down, and humbly offer their neck,

rather than follow dictated orders?

Who will refuse to obey our sovereign lord,

who claims to have won the right to rule?

When he cares for no one with less money?

Who will resist the King?

When he issues the order to arrest your friend?

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest your brother or mother??

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest your lover.

Who will resist the King?

When he orders to arrest you???

[ Audio Reading of the Poem ]

[ Audio Reading of the Poem set to Music (O-Fortuna) ]

trump and P

Social Anarchy Dream

Posted in Philosophy, Politics, Psychology, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2017 by Drogo

Poetic Essay by Drogo Empedocles

Social psychology is affected by our social subconscious, metaphorically translated from and by cultural myths, regional legends, and local lore. In Jungian terms, we have collective dreams….. The split in philosophy between science and psychology is largely ignored by the masses, due to politics and economics. Our current political-economic model of Capitalism ensures that the masses remain subjugated, and the masses are increasingly aware of that. When having a car becomes required for lower class jobs, having a car is no longer a luxury, it is a burden of responsibility. Each new mandatory requirement of society, becomes a shackle upon humanity. If some of those shackles can be removed by government, it would be possible to have real democracy. That would then bring up the need to define democracy relative to our needs; which is the question of what natural or civil rights are, and how they should be allowed to be expressed by law.

But of course some say government is always a problem, and less of it is better than more regardless of population; yet I cannot stop thinking that with more population is more government needed? Indeed perhaps every citizen should be an ambassador or counsel for council some times. One might call that social anarchy.

Poe’s Source of the Raven?

Posted in Poems, Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Rhymes & Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on October 3, 2016 by Drogo

“Col. John A. Joyce,
Sturtevant House.”

New York, July 4th, 1878.
My Dear Colonel: As you requested I send a literal translation of ‘The Parrot,’ a poem written by my grandfather in 1809, for the Art Journal, Milan, Italy. He was an etcher and writer for the paper.
‘The Raven,’ by Poe, was taken almost bodily
from ‘The Parrot.’

Who is the plagiarist?

Your Friend,
Leo Penzoni.”

The Parrot

by Penzoni

I sit and pine so weary
in midnight sad and dreary.
Over long forgotten volumes
of historic love-lit lore;
And while winking, lonely blinking
I thought I heard while thinking
A rush of wings revolving above
my oaken door,
“What’s that,” said I, disturbing my
melancholy sore —
‘Tis my lost one, sweet “Belmore”

The frosts of wild December invoke
me to dismember
My tired and tortured body on this dreary,
dastard shore,
And I trust no waking morrow
Shall rise upon my sorrow.
With all its hideous horror that now
thrills my inmost core —
For my brilliant beaming beauty,
beatic, dear Belmore —
Lost, gone forevermore!

The rustling purple curtain waves
in and out uncertain.
As weird wizard voices croaking
sardonic laughter o’er and o’er;
And with startled heart still heating
my lips kept on repeating —
“Some spirit seeks an entrance through
“the window or the door,
“Some ghostlike, lonely stranger
knocking at my chamber door” —
“Simply this, and nothing more.”

Startled “by this ghostly vision, with
desperate decision
My soul exclaimed, “sweet madam,
pardon I implore.
Yet your face it shone so brightly
and your footfalls tripped so lightly.
And you came so slighly stealing to my
rustic, artist door —
‘Tis a wonder that I heard you; wide,
open flung the door —
Horror, blackness, nothing more!

Loud into the blackness calling with
heart beats slowly falling.
With haunted dreams of doubting no
Artist felt before;
But the vision quickly vanished and
all but silence banished.
And I only heard that heaven-lit, love-lit
word “Belmore” —
This I murmured when sweet echo
answered back the word — “Belmore” —
Barely this and nothing more!

Startled hack so lone and sadly, my
soul revolving madly.
Once again I heard a rapping more
impulsive than before;
“Come in,” I kept repeating, and from
the door retreating
To the window, that I might the
curious nooks explore.
While my troubled brain endeavored to
reveal the noise, explore —
“Gusts of wind and nothing more!”

Open wide I flung the shutter when
a Parrot with a mutter
Flew into my lonely chamber as it
did in days of yore.
And it seemed to be quiescent, somber,
and evanescent.
As it sat in lonely grandeur above
my chamber door.
Perching on the bust, Minerva, above
my oaken door.
Perched and blinked and nothing more!

And this croaking bird is leering,
demonaic appearing.
With feathers ruffled ragged round the
countenance it wore;
Though thy beak he like a carrot, you
surely are a Parrot —
Croaking, grumbling, screeching Parrot
from some sandy tropic shore;
Tell me now thy devilish purpose
on this red, volcanic shore —
Cried the Parrot, “Nevermore!”

How I sat depressed, divining to see
some silver lining
Through clouds that hung around me on
this vile, detested shore.
And my soul with grief was haunted
while there I peered undaunted
To hear a bird with crest, and word
above my oaken door.
Bird or brute upon the marble bust
above my chamber door —
Utter name of “Nevermore”!

But the Parrot perching sadly on the
marble bust spoke madly
As if this dark, weird word was his
only stock in store;
And he merely croaked and muttered
While he preened and snapped and fluttered,
As I grumbled, growled and uttered —
“trusted friends have gonie before,”
“Soon, oh soon this bird will leave me,
“as sweet hopes have gone before” —
And this bird shrieked “Evermore”!

Shocked and stunned hy such replying,
can it be the bird is lying.
Or is it willfully determined to he a
babbling bore;
Yet, perhaps it knew a master whose
life was all disaster.
And sorrows followed faster than was
ever felt before,
‘Till the echoes of his sorrows, sad re-
frains forevermore —
Fearful echo — “Nevermore”!

Yet the Parrot still is screeching, to
my seared heart sadly preaching;
Defiantly I faced the bird and bust and
gloom, and door.
Till on the carpet figures, wrought
up into cold rigors,
I frantically demanded what the bird
meant by its roar.
This horrid, raving, somber, ruffled
bird of the days that are no more
Meant in screeching — “Nevermore”!

There I sat in mortal terror, de-
nounced by many an error.
With the Parrots flashing eyeballs
piercing to my inmost core.
And I mused there, deeply pining, weep-
ing, crushed reclining.
by the curtain’s silken lining and the
lamplight glinting o’er,
Beneath its mystic radiance shining
o’er and o’er —
Roared the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Then around me whirled a vision
from the land of the Elysian,
And the air within my chamber fairly
shimmered on the floor,
Wretched Devil! who hath sent thee
to a land where no nepenthe.
Or solace can be given for my lost
and, loved Belmore
Sure I never can forget her, ever
present, bright Belmore —
Growled the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Parrot, prophet, thing of sorrow, is there
yet for me a morrow
To linger any longer on this sin-
cursed, stormy shore;
Shall I never know a pleasure en-
clasp again a treasure
On this damned, detested, dastard and
this lurid, shocking shore;
Is there any peace or pleasure, oh, tell
me I implore —
Croaked the Parrot — “Nevermore”!

Croaker, Dastard, Word of Evil, Prophet,
Bird or Screeching Devil!
By the stars that shine above us
by the God that all adore.
Tell this soul, whose hope is riven,
if in some celestial heaven
It shall clasp an angel Beauty, who
is known as rare “Bellmore,”
And entwine his arms around
her, my ethereal “Belmore” —
Pipped the Parrot — “Nevermore”!.

Horrid bird! I shrieked emphatic,
and wildly, loud, lunatic,
I flung the pratting Parrot through
the night’s dark, shoreless shore.
While its gilded feathers fluttered, in
the darkness still and muttered —
“I’ll not leave thee, doubting Devil, but
“remain above thy door —
“Sink my beak into thy trembling
“heart, and torture more and more” —
Shrieked the Parrot — “Evermore”!

And the Parrot still is posing,
winking, blinking, dozing
On that marble bust, Minerva, Just
above my oaken door.
And his hellish eyes are beaming
Like a Devil who is dreaming.
While the sputtering, fluttering
lamplight paints his shadow on the floor.
And my soul-lit spirit writhing in
that shadow on the floor —
Dead and damned — “Forevermore”!

(Signed) Penzoni.

THE END.

*

Note: This source was ‘debunked’ as the artist and publication cannot be verified; and the ‘translation’ has rhyming words which would not have rhymed in Italian. It would have taken a talented poet to find words in English that rhyme as well as the original words in Italian, and also mean about the same…. which is not impossible, but certainly doubtful upon meditation.

Habitat Fragmentation and Land Ownership

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on February 21, 2016 by Drogo

Essay for ON THE WILD SIDE January 2016

Our land is more valuable than your money. It was put here for us by the Great Spirit, so we cannot sell it because it does not belong to us. As a present to you we will give you anything we have that you can carry with you; but the land, never.”*

In this present time civilization humans are finding themselves in the midst of more than one environmental quagmire. How to get control of the plastic and junk in the ocean ? How to keep air clean enough to breath in China ? How to rid old pipes of poisonous lead and our water of pharmaceuticals waste which go into toilets ? Am I getting too personal ?

Actually, everything we do and have done in the past are exactly what professional scientists/ecologists are dealing with now. If there ever was a field in which our children will find ready employment, it will be as research problem solvers and maybe even politicians who care about cleaning up our messes. The question we all have is, however, how did we ever get to this point anyway, and what can we do about it as individual home owners, as people who care ?

To their credit, in 1621 the people native to America, the “Indians”, after prayerful consultations with their elders, dieing and weakened due to disease brought here by previous white explorers, and weary of warfare, decided it was in their best interest to make peace with the Pilgrims. In spite of the Mayflower crew robbing them of their seed corn and burial treasures, they made a pact together that would endure long enough to get squash, beans and that same stolen corn planted, harvested and then shared.**

Peace, for the natives, was the best and most productive remedy, even though strangers were encroaching on their land. Interesting…and perhaps something we can learn from during this present time of anxiety about refugees. Unfortunately, back then that fragile peace did not last very long. There will always be the good mixed with the bad, the greedy mixed with the philanthropists, and I assume this is how it will always be. Nothing seems to have changed since the beginning of time.

Of course, as years passed and more settlers arrived to colonize America, the natives were totally kicked off their land. The settlers had brought with them an entirely different ethic of land ownership from Europe, as well as military hardware far more effective than the natives hand crafted bows, arrows and spears. Over the centuries their precious land has been stolen, divided and subdivided…fragmented… sold, and some of it has sadly been misused and polluted.

I am fortunate to live in a sub-division of a beautiful old 200+ acre homestead here in the Catoctins, Due to my love of and concern for diversity in the natural world, I am allowing my 11+acres to not only feed me, but to feed all my other “relations”. The native idea of “other relations” extends far beyond human relatives and includes the wonderful diversity of flora and fauna which most of us care about…bees, butterflies, birds, wildflowers, trees. etc..These are things our children are learning to care about in school, and as wise elders, we should also.

As home owners, and landowners, we can begin to bring these various fragments of land together by allowing native plants to grown, by creating native wildflower gardens on part of our lawns, and planting native trees. That way, the habitat fragmentation which has been going on since the pilgrims settled at Plymouth Rock can be somewhat remedied. If you ever feel like giving up in despair, there is one very real thing you can do, and the opportunity is right in your own back yard, or front yard too (why not ).

The vision is to create a beautiful tapestry right here where we live of yards and properties dedicated to the health and well being of our earth. It already looks like a quilted pattern here in Thurmont, but the work is not yet finished. If anything, the work has just begun !

I belong to the Green Team here in Thurmont and am heading up a project along the rail road tracks which will not only beautify our town with wildflowers, but create habitat for wildlife. I am presently seeking volunteers to clean it up a bit in February and then spread seeds. All this must be done before March, as seeds need the time to stratify (to get the benefit of freezing weather), so as to enhance their germination.

If you are interested in helping me with this project, please do be in touch with me at songbirdschant@gmail.com. If not, then consider doing something on your own little fragment of land, no matter now small. As I always say, “Every little bit helps !”, and THANKS !

* Response of a Chief of the Blackfoot Nation when told to put his signature on a land treaty in Montana; from Touch The Earth by T.C. McLuhun

** as documented in Mayflower by Nathaniel Philbrick

– Christine S. Maccabee

Don’t Ever Tell Me

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on February 21, 2016 by Drogo

 

Don’t ever tell me the past is past, it is over,

so move on, get over it, forget it;

for the ancient glacial rocks at my doorstep,

making walls and lining garden paths

would not be there were it not for the past and

neither would I in the form I presently exist .

There are ancient trees the world over,

like the Redwoods which stand yet

as monuments to past centuries of change

scars where branches fell,

and circles in their wood which tell their age

as well as years of drought and rain.

Don’t ever tell me the past is gone, so get over it,

for I feel as old as those trees, those rocks ;

My body with scars which speak of history and

my stories which you may hear if you listen.

Feelings too run just as deep as a trees rings do,

for my present is built upon my ancient past.

So don’t ever tell me the past is past,

so get over it,

Because I really couldn’t even if I tried !

– Christine S. Maccabee

Always Remember

Posted in Poems, Rhymes, Riddles, Uncategorized with tags , , on February 5, 2016 by Drogo

Always remember

how truly beautiful

life is.

There will always be

death and decay

trials and

tribulation;

But always remember

to witness the red sunrise

to enjoy the cardinal

at your feeder,

to brave the snowstorm

in all its glory,

and feel the peace

of the sky at dusk,

the warmth

of home.

Breath it in,

see it,

feel it

and

Always remember

how truly beautiful

life is.

–   Christine S. M.

ON THE WILD SIDE

Posted in Organic Gardens, Poems with tags , , , , on October 24, 2015 by Drogo

ON THE WILD SIDE for September, 2015

by Christine Schoenemann (Maccabee)

Misunderstood but Beautiful (Part 2) : Tall Natives and Useful Pests

I just got in from collecting Japanese beetles from wild Evening Primrose flowers which are growing throughout my property. By 7 a.m. the bees are already busy on the yellow flowers, and the beetles are just waking up. Slowly I knock them into a container of water, careful not to interrupt the bees. Two things are accomplished by my doing this twice a day. First, I am saving the flowers from being devoured, and second, my chickens enthusiastically consume the crunchy bodies of these pests. Useful pests, I call them, providing extra protein and minerals for my birds.

The wild Evening Primrose used be seen in areas along roads which have not been mowed, in vacant fields and ditches if they are lucky, and in my gardens. Sadly I see very few of them this year, beyond my gardens, due to herbiciding and lots of mowing. I imagine most home owners would not like them since they grow much taller than the greenhouse cultivated primroses most gardeners buy. Perhaps this aversion is due to an over civilized fear of wild natives. Well, I have no fear, just curiosity. I have never seen my primroses grow as tall as they are this year which is most likely due to all the rain we had earlier this summer. My tallest plant towers above my head at a record breaking height of 9 feet. Now that’s tall !

For some reason I have a particular interest in tall, gangly, misunderstood plants. I suppose that is because I see their value for our pollinators, but mostly I believe it is because I admire them. In truth, I am blown away by the diversity of wild flora which are indigenous to this area, and have made it my mission to preserve as much as I can here on my property and elsewhere when possible, before they become extinct. I know my worry is legitimate since every year it seems many rare plants (see list at bottom of this article) have just disappeared from places I have seen them in the past. So, I am writing here to clear up misunderstandings about our interesting wild neighbors, and possibly to save them

Teasel, another plant which is normally not permitted to grow in typical gardens, can still be seen in areas along the highway and other unused places. It is not a thistle, though it looks like it. In my gardens I pamper it. It has multiple uses, primarily as a producer of beautiful lavender flowers which bees love. It is also an interesting component in dry plant arrangements which I make. Stately, but prickly, they are to be handled with care, preferably with a gloved hand. Presently I am cutting some of mine down now that they have flowered as I don’t want the seeds to scatter everywhere in my main garden where I also grow vegetables. I plan to scatter some of the seeds in the larger meadow before winter.

By far the most misunderstood wildflower of all is Golden Rod. I have learned through my reading that it is not the pollen producer that affects most people adversely. Ragweed is the culprit as it has very nondescript flowers and blooms at the same time as Golden Rod. Very sneaky of Ragweed, I would say. The pollen from Golden Rod is too heavy to be carried very far by the wind whereas ragweed pollen is very light. There are 16 species of Golden Rod throughout our country, and I happen to have about 4 or more species on my property. They are beginning to bloom, and I eagerly await the show ! All my various wild aster will bloom soon as well, so between the two of them my bees and butterflies will be well fed before the killing frost. Along with all these pollinators you can be sure I will be rejoicing as well !

The other day I nearly hit a Monarch butterfly which was caught between a road, parking lots, stores, and large grass deserts with no flowers in sight. It seemed confused and did not know where to go. This is a perfect example of a growing problem called “habitat fragmentation.”. Good-hearted people who plant flowers in their yards are doing a great service, but these same butterflies and bees we feed frequently must travel far and wide just to find other flowers to feed on or appropriate plants on which to lay their eggs. We all know the need of Monarchs for Milkweed, but there are many others, such as the larvae of the Fritillary butterfly for violets, the Checkerspot for Trutlehead flowers and the rare/endangered butterflies in the Blues Family for clovers and Lupine flowers.

Lately, and even over many years, I have been reading writings by prominent mystics and naturalists who all sing a similar theme song. This song is one of praise for creation and its awesome diversity which can aid us as humans to connect more intimately with ourselves and the Creator. This goes for everyone, even atheists and agnostics, for “things in nature are optimal teachers to help us discern how to be ourselves. We have been separated from the source of our identity and have to fall in love with it all over again “. Thus writes Belden Lane in his book Backpacking with the Saints, an amazing read full of wisdom.

And so, this Sunday morning the natural world is the temple in which I worship, today, and everyday. For me, and so many others, the amazing diversity of life forms on this planet are not only an expression of the infinite nature of their Creator, but also an expression of amazing love, without end, unless we humans choose to continue to destroy it. We always have a choice.

Some local natives which a rarely seen and loosing habitat: purple Swamp Milkweed, Goatsbeard, Moth Mullein, Bergamot, blue Lobelia, Vervain, Obedient plant, Deptford pinks, Cardinal flower, wild Columbine, Cinquefoils, St. Johnswort, Yarrow, Sweet Cicely, wild Sweet Clovers,etc..

GARDEN HELP (Shadow Black Cat)

Posted in Organic Gardens, Poems with tags , , , , , , , on July 10, 2015 by Drogo

by Christine Schoenemann (Maccabee)

*

Wishing for a shadow

as I do my morning chores…

Another “me” to follow

lifting buckets of manure.

Like a streak my little black cat

races past me down the path.

I smile…

he makes me laugh.

After watering I go into the house,

and there he quietly sits,

My shadow…

beside his dinner dish.

My garden help,

little Black !

Lucky One #5: Now I Know

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on May 31, 2015 by Drogo

The Lucky One #5 “Now I Know”

Now I know why I’m so lucky

Why I still have all my limbs

Though there is still pain

in my hands, shoulder and knees.

Wartime warriors missing limbs

Missing eyes and faces

Missing out on life

as I so luckily live.

Now I know why I am being preserved

Still healthy and vital and increasingly free…

So I can preserve and protect

The natural wonders around me.

Now I know

why I am getting stronger…

so I can be strong

for others !

– Poem by Christine S. Maccabee