Spring beckons in Arcadia
vernal equinox
zero point of sidereal time
maybe of time itself
Pan
demic* in his appearance
has put down his pipes
There is to be no playing
for the apocalypse
Too riveting it’s gaze
even for a God
who has seen it all before
Too mesmerising its own song
as it whistles nonchalantly
into each isolated nightmare
Whipping away
the veneer of security
the thin veil of believed control
the door to the abyss
how to sit with chaos
fear
death
destruction
the end of life as we knew it?
book your online class now!
limited space
virtual connection is the new real
or is it?
beneath the covid hum
beneath the chatter of our times
beneath the wheel of life’s turning
is it we only who are crushed?
perhaps it is life itself that is flattened
a levelling of the land on a scale never witnesssed before
wry smiles from the ghots of Walwyn, Overton, Lilburne and Prince.
in all endings a beginning
Kali Yuga sees and seeds a future unknown but possible
inevitable
for some
here in the eerie silence of metropolis the wind can now be heard
there is a sound of breath landing in the body of the planetary family
a sigh so deep it echoes a collective memory
a recognition
a knowing
a connection
a family
death will take some and indiscriminately too
but a hope is being murmered here on the land
a song of faith
of trust
of goodness
of us
darkest hours and dawns
can we?
The pipes the pipes are calling.
Written for the prompt at Earthweal
*Adjective
demic (not comparable)
- (rare) Of or pertaining to a distinct population of people
- (ecology) Of or pertaining to a deme
- (dialect) Dysfunctional; broken
Pan is dancing in the pandemonium, shrill on the pipes of pandemic … He is oddly paired with nightmare and masturbation, sweeps wide in the panorama and has a fine nose for panties. Our rustic rube of a primal cousin, satyring and satirizing the mess all at once. An ancient Roman writer thought he heard a voice: “Great Pan is dead” — but you never know where the lil’ bugger is wont to suddenly waken with an uproar. Priapus was his son and wardened gardens — nailing the bums of garden thieves with a phallus big as a donkey’s: I can’t help but think he’s sent pandemic our way for poaching the wild one too many times. Goosing us where it hurts most. I love the dancing here, the beat and thrum of what is and inside of that. Great to see it and you at earthweal. Stay well, keep dancing — Brendan
“There is to be no playing for the apocalypse”. Awesome. Lovely to read you, Paul. “How to sit with chaos”……….by now, I am well used to acceptance of what is, so much we cant control. I note that “hope is being murmured on the land” – as skies clear. Will we emerge from this more enlightened? I do hope so. I hear those pipes playing.
As they say, “We gotta flatten that curve!” Even God begins and ends with a monosyllabic hum—
Good to see your writing again, Paul.
wheel, indeed. something Vedic about this, Paul. Also, good to see you ~
great stuff Paul. Good to read you again. hope all is well.