Mea Culpa

Mea culpa,
and responsibility is mine.
Species disappeared at my hand.
It is my fault.

Mea culpa,
as industries turned
the skies to grey,
and the rains to poison.

The fault is mine,
as my god demanded hate,
not love:
patriotism loves a parade.

I take the blame,
but have waited too long:
I should have questioned, but now
the answer is here.

The guilt is mine,
and the near future looms
as a sere and lifeless globe.
Mea culpa.  I am humankind.

Dancing Naked To The October Moon

(Series Cannabis and Creative Cognition.  
Ref: Leafly.com “Sour Nuken”)

Well perhaps naked is too strong a word:
my moccasins saved my blushes.
The south garden, under my jackpines,
was no more a garden
than I was naked:
we were both clothed in the chill light
of a soaring Autumn moon.

And the song of the pines
spoke to the pagan in my genes,
telling me all to be known
is enthroned in this light
and sung by the west breeze
with promises of renewal.

And if there were more to be said,
it would be stylized by my outstretched arms
embracing moonlight
on a vibrant hill
overlooking the Atlantic,
just down the silver reach.

October Processional

(Part of the series:  Cannabis, and Creative Cognition.   Reference Leafly.com "Romulan")

The flight of a lonely seagull, crying,
across a westering sky,
seems a cosmic metaphor
with the meaning not quite clear.

The clarity of the harbour’s reach,
bending with lodestone truth
towards a hidden sea:
frozen moment in a transient beauty.

Thoughts skip to and fro
across a multi-dimensional Rorschach,
sometimes winning credibility:
more often not.

It seems that Autumn has arrived.
She brings her own time,
and colours her personal agenda
with crisp memories of peace.