Saturday Haiku: Spoonbills

 

roseate spoonbills
seeking beauty and balance
in a changing world

__________________________

Photo: Roseate Spoonbill Trio 
Credit: Kelley Luikey/Audubon Photography Awards

* This week's haiku was inspired by a photo and article on the Audubon website: "Wandering Spoonbills Tell Us What We Need to Protect the Everglades"

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The Third Station of the Cross: Jesus Falls the First time

[The following is from a series first posted during Lent in 2015.]

< The Second Station of the Cross                                                                           The Fourth Station of the Cross > 

Weakened by torments and by loss of blood, Jesus falls beneath his cross

“It is hard to make a desert in a place that receives sixty inches of rain each year. But after decades of copper mining, all that remained of the old hardwood forests in the Ducktown Mining District of the Southern Appalachian Mountains was a fifty-square mile barren expanse of heavily gullied red hills–a landscape created by sulfur dioxide smoke from copper smelting and destructive logging practices. In Ducktown Smoke, Duncan Maysilles examines this environmental disaster, one of the worst the South has experienced, and its impact on environmental law and Appalachian conservation.” http://legal-planet.org/2012/06/18/how-to-turn-a-forest-into-a-desert/

Relatively early in our nation's entering into the Industrial Age, we saw the sheer havoc and destruction that industry can have on the landscape. The copper industry did much to build the country and move it into the modern age, but Empire often moves with callous disregard for the environment that should nurture all of its inhabitants.

Copper smelting—the process of separating copper from rock—is credited with doing most of the environmental damage in the Ducktown Basin in the 19th century. The process required wood to fuel the smelters, and there was no wood left in the area by 1876. Logs were floated down the Ocoee River from Fannin County, Ga., and about 50 square miles within the Ducktown Basin had been stripped of vegetation by 1878. http://nooga.com/165052/historic-ducktown-basin-a-landscape-transformed/

Ducktown was an early example of the Empire's crucifixion of the environment. Unfortunately, there is still resistance from corporations to make any changes in their practices which continue to pollute, continue to contribute to climate change, and continue to bring damage to the sacred body of the earth, our only habitation.

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A Time of Burning

"Mourning a disappearing world as Australia burns"

(Headline from The Globe and Mail)

A Time of Burning

“Some say the world will end in fire,” the poet, Frost has said.

Though he also offered the possibility of ice,

World’s end was nevertheless the given.

Talking about final days has often been a pastime

for those with time on their hands.

They could speak of it and move on in comfort

just as one may exit the theater for ice cream

after a harrowing horror show on the big screen.

“No Exit” was seen by Sartre

and then seen by many on stage.

Even when the prophets speak

we have always managed to find

at least a restroom

and assurance that the world outside still waits.

There comes a time of burning

when the old ways pass.

Instead of quietly fading

like an old cover from

The Saturday Evening Post,

The known world is consumed by fire.

Angry fire,

Cleansing fire,

Raging fire…

It all depends on perspective.

There was a time

when men at war

under enemy fire

Sang longingly

to keep the home fires burning.

Today 

our greatest hope is in catastrophe.

We could not hear the warnings

while living in ease.

World’s end seemed a fantasy,

or a fearful cry of

Fringe environmental zealots.

If we can survive catastrophe,

perhaps a new day will dawn.

If not,

perhaps creation can rest

from her struggles.

~ Charles Kinnaird

________________________

Photo credit: Adam Stevenson / Reuters - A kookaburra perches on a burnt tree in the aftermath of a bushfire in Wallabi Point, Australia, on Nov. 12, 2019.
From The Globe and Mail, "Mourning a disappearing world as Australia burns"



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Bury My Heart

The following was originally posted on February 10, 2017 as part of the Journalistic Poetry series, “Bearing Witness to the Times.” The Keystone Pipeline controversy is once again in the news as a federal judge has issued a ruling that temporarily halts construction (“Federal judge blocks Keystone XL pipeline, saying Trump administration review ignored ‘inconvenient’ climate change facts”).

(Photo by Robyn Beck/AFP/Getty Image)

Bury My Heart

“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee*.”

Bury our soul at Standing Rock.

Bury our children in the rubble of corporate greed.

In times past,

Those in power 

Sought to remove the indigenous people

By removing their primary natural resource.

Thus began a campaign of slaughter

That nearly drove the American bison to extinction.

It was the logical extension

Of violent disregard

And relentless acts of genocide

Exacted over 200 years of “New World” settlement.

A reprieve was granted.

The bison was ultimately spared

On small parcels of land.

The people were also spared extinction

To live on small parcels of land

Where their children would be robbed of their heritage,

Their elders would be ridiculed,

And their warriors would be doomed

To a life of alcohol and despair.

For 100 years thereafter,

The bison ran

And gained in number.

The people slowly shook off

The manacles of cultural oppression.

Today they make one more stand

At Standing Rock.

They stand as a witness

Against our penchant for destroying natural resources.

They stand as a witness

For human dignity.

They stand as a voice 
In support of the good earth.

While they stand,

They rally a nation.

Yet the well-oiled wheels of an industry

That cannot see its own end

Move to crush the resistance

           to exhaust our resources,

           to pollute the land

           to disregard the humanity it claims to serve.

One more stand

May lead to more burials,

Yet the good earth will remain

Long after our bodies lie in the rubble

Of our own recklessness.

The good earth will flower

After we are gone.

Nature will endure

With or without humanity.

Our song may give hope to the world

Yet the world may one day have to spin

Without our song.

Bury my heart.

Bury my soul.

Bury my children.

                                                ~ CK

                

___________________________________

* “Bury my heart at Wounded Knee” is a line from the poem, “American Names,” by Stephen Vincent Benet. It is also the title of a book by Dee Brown, subtitled “An Indian History of the American West.” Wounded Knee was the site of the last conflict between the U.S. Army and Native Americans. On December 20, 1890, the Wounded Knee Massacre at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Lakota) in South Dakota was the culmination of the Ghost Dance Movement and ended the Indian Wars. 300 Native Americans died that day. Wounded Knee is also the site where the parents of Crazy Horse buried his heart in 1877.

American bison (photo by Skeeze courtesy of Pixabay)

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No Time for Weeping

[From my Journalistic Poetry file:  an excerpt from a post from April 2, 2017]

Autumn Dawn by James Jordan

No Time for Weeping

I can see the day

When trees will weep for spring

And oceans will mourn 

As waves break upon silent shores.

On this day, however, 
There is no time for weeping.

As long as geese continue to take flight

We live with hope.

While the tiger roams the forests 

We find security in life's foothold.

When dragonflies skirt the waters

And trout swim the streams

We can enjoy the journey set forth

Ten thousand years ago.

In the interest of life

We must resist oil barons

And industrial magnates

When they seek to ramp up outmoded practices

That will increase environmental toxins.

When executive order

Sneers at fresh Yosemite air

And disregards the Appalachian quail,

Those who care for life

Will appeal to sound minds and nurturing spirits.

For those who remember acid rain

And watched when Lake Erie caught fire

There is no time for weeping;

There is only time for action.

The promise of a dollar
In exchange for smokestacks, 
Smog and dirty water
Is a fool's bargain.
Feeding the oil-ridden industrial machine
Invites death's entrenchment.

There is no time for weeping

As long as there is a chance

To prevent the tears

Of our great grandchildren.
Vigilance today
Will keep life in the world tomorrow.

                                                   

                                                                                                  ~ CK

-

Respite in Nature

Oak leaf hydrangeas (can you spot St. Francis?)

It is the natural world that gives me hope for the future and comfort in the present. With so much turmoil in politics and in the news cycle, I find my own peace and renewal in nature. Though I live in an urban neighborhood, I like the presence of parks nearby and a vibrant creek in walking distance (I catch sight of a blue heron down there on occasion). My wife and I try to keep nature as close as possible by planting things in the yard to create a “sacred space,” attracting birds and butterflies and keeping us in touch our living planet.

Indeed, it is our natural environment that is our hope and our sustenance. Though care for the environment has become yet another political struggle, may we ever more seek to preserve the earth that sustains us. 

Last week, I took some measures of encouragement by stopping to listen to the natural world from my own doorstep. I shared one of those moments Saturday with the haiku, “Forest Rain.”

The other two events were documented in short poems as well:

Watching Squirrels

Sitting on my front porch

I watch the squirrels

As they scurry around the telephone pole.

They are fatter this year –

A sign of abundance

In the neighborhood.

         *    *    *

Two signs of hope

Up in the trees along my street

I hear two barred owls calling,

“Who cooks for you!”

And the possum on his itinerant rounds

Makes a front porch visit

To the offering of fruit.

5/21/18                  ~CK

May we continue to find hope each day as we nurture this vibrant and fragile earth.

Trees in the ally for a natural space

Four oclocks and lilies

Lilies with birdbath

__________________

Photos by Charles Kinnaird

-

Bearing Witness to the Times: No Time for Weeping

Autumn Dawn by James Jordan

"Trump signs order dismantling Obama-era climate policies"

(Reuters Headline)

No Time for Weeping

I can see the day

When trees will weep for spring

And oceans will mourn 

As waves break upon silent shores.

On this day, however, 
There is no time for weeping.

As long as geese continue to take flight

We live with hope.

While the tiger roams the forests 

We find security in life's foothold.

When dragonflies skirt the waters

And trout swim the streams

We can enjoy the journey set forth

Ten thousand years ago.

In the interest of life

We must resist oil barons

And industrial magnates

When they seek to ramp up outmoded practices

That will increase environmental toxins.

When executive order

Sneers at fresh Yosemite air

And disregards the Appalachian quail,

Those who care for life

Will appeal to sound minds and nurturing spirits.

For those who remember acid rain

And watched when Lake Erie caught fire

There is no time for weeping;

There is only time for action.

The promise of a dollar
In exchange for smokestacks, 
Smog and dirty water
Is a fool's bargain.
Feeding the oil-ridden industrial machine
Invites death's entrenchment.

There is no time for weeping

As long as there is a chance

To prevent the tears

Of our great-grandchildren.
Vigilance today
Will keep life in the world tomorrow.

                                                   

                                                                                     ~ CK

*   *   *

"Father James Martin: Why is climate change a moral issue?"

From America The Jesuit Review:
"So the next time you speak to your legislator or vote about climate change, think not only about you but about the other person. Think not only about your own city but about the cities, towns and villages in the developing world. Think not only about the wealthy but the poor. In other words, think not only about your wallet but your soul."

*    *    *    *

From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

-

The Third Station of the Cross: Jesus Falls the First time

[The following is from a series first posted during Lent in 2015.]

< The Second Station of the Cross                                                                           The Fourth Station of the Cross > 

Weakened by torments and by loss of blood, Jesus falls beneath his cross

“It is hard to make a desert in a place that receives sixty inches of rain each year. But after decades of copper mining, all that remained of the old hardwood forests in the Ducktown Mining District of the Southern Appalachian Mountains was a fifty-square mile barren expanse of heavily gullied red hills–a landscape created by sulfur dioxide smoke from copper smelting and destructive logging practices. In Ducktown Smoke, Duncan Maysilles examines this environmental disaster, one of the worst the South has experienced, and its impact on environmental law and Appalachian conservation.” http://legal-planet.org/2012/06/18/how-to-turn-a-forest-into-a-desert/

Relatively early in our nation's entering into the Industrial Age, we saw the sheer havoc and destruction that industry can have on the landscape. The copper industry did much to build the country and move it into the modern age, but Empire often moves with callous disregard for the environment that should nurture all of its inhabitants.

Copper smelting—the process of separating copper from rock—is credited with doing most of the environmental damage in the Ducktown Basin in the 19th century. The process required wood to fuel the smelters, and there was no wood left in the area by 1876. Logs were floated down the Ocoee River from Fannin County, Ga., and about 50 square miles within the Ducktown Basin had been stripped of vegetation by 1878. http://nooga.com/165052/historic-ducktown-basin-a-landscape-transformed/

Ducktown was an early example of the Empire's crucifixion of the environment. Unfortunately there is still resistance from corporations to make any changes in their practices which continue to pollute, continue to contribute to climate change, and continue to bring damage to the sacred body of the earth, our only habitation.

-

Bearing Witness to the Times: Bury My Heart

"Army Approves Completion of Dakota Access Pipeline Near Standing Rock"

(Photo by Robyn Beck/AFP/Getty Image)

Bury My Heart

“Bury my heart at Wounded Knee*.”

Bury our soul at Standing Rock.

Bury our children in the rubble of corporate greed.

In times past,

Those in power 

Sought to remove the indigenous people

By removing their primary natural resource.

Thus began a campaign of slaughter

That nearly drove the American bison to extinction.

It was the logical extension

Of violent disregard

And relentless acts of genocide

Exacted over 200 years of “New World” settlement.

A reprieve was granted.

The bison was ultimately spared

On small parcels of land.

The people were also spared extinction

To live on small parcels of land

Where their children would be robbed of their heritage,

Their elders would be ridiculed,

And their warriors would be doomed

To a life of alcohol and despair.

For 100 years thereafter,

The bison ran

And gained in number.

The people slowly shook off

The manacles of cultural oppression.

Today they make one more stand

At Standing Rock.

They stand as a witness

Against our penchant for destroying natural resources.

They stand as a witness

For human dignity.

They stand as a voice 
In support of the good earth.

While they stand,

They rally a nation.

Yet the well-oiled wheels of an industry

That cannot see its own end

Move to crush the resistance

           to exhaust our resources,

           to pollute the land

           to disregard the humanity it claims to serve.

One more stand

May lead to more burials,

Yet the good earth will remain

Long after our bodies lie in the rubble

Of our own recklessness.

The good earth will flower

After we are gone.

Nature will endure

With or without humanity.

Our song may give hope to the world

Yet the world may one day have to spin

Without our song.

Bury my heart.

Bury my soul.

Bury my children.

                                                ~ CK

                

___________________________________

* “Bury my heart at Wounded Knee” is a line from the poem, “American Names,” by Stephen Vincent Benet. It is also the title of a book by Dee Brown, subtitled “An Indian History of the American West.” Wounded Knee was the site of the last conflict between the U.S. Army and Native Americans. On December 20, 1890, the Wounded Knee Massacre at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Lakota) in South Dakota was the culmination of the Ghost Dance Movement and ended the Indian Wars. 300 Native Americans died that day. Wounded Knee is also the site where the parents of Crazy Horse buried his heart in 1877.

American bison (photo by Skeeze courtesy of Pixabay)

*   *   *   *   *

From my introductory post:

The best thing that poets can do is to bear witness to the times – articulate what is happening in the moment; speak to the real life experiences of your people.  I am setting myself a goal to write a poem each week that reflects what I see and experience in the life of our nation... if I can write one poem a week there will be some chronicle of our sacred/tested/doubtful union.

-