To the nature spirits in memory of Findhorn and Roc (2)
Around the kitchen table we discuss
What to do, where to go, when the animals signal
That an aberrant act of nature is on its way.
Never why, for what is the point?
All the hard work of a lifetime
Lost in mere seconds, security, sense of order.
Perhaps the cast iron bathtub remains
Remindful that purification might be on purpose
Who knows? They can track them
And tell us on the Weather Channel
But only your cat or dog knows the true direction
Of a tornado's intent, their wilderness intact.
No wonder the South still holds
onto God
God only knows who will come next to His Court
Spinning tales of earthly woe and deliverance
The wilful and the weak alike at His Mercy
The Wizard of Oz lies at the end
of a twister's tail
Waiting to impart mysteries to ponytailed girls
He has lured into his funnel to the sky
But even he appears not to be aware of why
Of course, science knows why but
not whyfor
Knows the makeup, the costume
But not the exact play of the monster missive,
Another spiral message from the old gods
Perhaps they watch from above down
through
Their tunnel telescope into our kitchen sinks
Amazed at the waste and corruption we slough
Off in the name of advancing civilization
And in fine celestial anger without
recourse
To the New God who lead us this way into the desert
They turn round the dial to ten or so
And their cosmic backs on the consequences
Like in the old movies of Zeus and
Jason
Juno and Medea and the warrior skeletons
Come to life to fight battles out of time
Humans are a helpless lot against such Games
When their spaceships land in our
backyards
We cannot speak with eachother out of ancient awe
We have this certain feeling they walk amongst us still
Assessing our secret wishes to serve, our selfishness
We can only watch tornadoes safely
in our dreams
Or on video, hoping we won't be online next
Or maybe we can cater to unseen elementals
Catching their drift as they play next us in the moonlight
And like our ancestors before the
Fall
Place dishes of fresh white milk out for the faeries
Dress our boys in pretty blouses to confuse the pixies
And prick up our ears when elves are mentioned
Whatever we do, life is a risky
turn of affairs
In the lands where tornadoes hover and spin
Seeking out human sacrifices
1 This poem was written days
after experiencing an excruciating dream about tornadoes and several conversations
with Southern friends accustomed to living with them.
2 The Findhorn Community (my home for several years) in Northeast Scotland was
founded and is still dedicated to cooperating with the inner or hidden as well
as the outer forces of Nature. Roc is the name of the scientist-mystic who had
deep experiences with the nature spirits and inspired the Founders and all later
residents and visitors.
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