I might have just said my morning jumble, but here it is in an attempt of a poem.
When you speak, I see a lake,
with a v-shaped wake as you motor slowly
to town for a book,
The Worst Hard Times,
written about the dust bowl,
the worst natural disaster in human recollection,
created by ignorance and neglect,
the roots of the grasslands,
150 feet down holding the soil.
We ignore our own need for roots in motion,
like the tides, moon, sea.
We cage people in one spot,
transit in a car
to another spot
the radio blaring non-sense.
Colin Turnbull, an anthropologist,
writes of The Mountain People,
hunters and gatherers, men and women equal
with each other and the mountain.
They traveled in a constant adjustment
of needs and roles,
until placed and stopped,
the rock of hatred formed and is tossed.
Love needs movement, flow.
The New York Times this morning reports that,
“The number of American children and adolescents
treated for bipolar disorder increased 40-fold from 1994 to 2003.”
Who knows the numbers now in 2007, but in 2003,
we treated 1 percent of the population under age 20,
with extremely expensive drugs, while supposedly fighting
“a war on drugs.” Drug company profits soar,
while the land
asks for the comfort
A walk is free,
a walk to connect
of tides, moon, and sea.
Our children need the wind,
movement that floats
A magic carpet is ours.
Root in the stars