Broken Whelk

There’s always beauty
even in broken things.

This small whelk once held
an ocean in its chambers

before that same sea
battered down its walls

the occupant, long ago
gone, only its ghost haunts

the emptiness, the shell
lying on the shore shows

its whorls, jaggedness
smoothed with polish

of time. Morning glistens
inside the glossy pearl

white—all that is left
of its soul.

Image credit: The sea-worn whelk, collected by Finn Bille on Sanibel Island, FL, and photographed & post-processed using Toolwiz Photos with Prismart filter and with a Van Gogh effect by John C. Mannone.

The Rapture

Not as big a thing as I anticipated.
For many, it did not go as expected.
They would see someone start bodily off,
Smile in preparation, roll
To their toes, jut out
Their arms – and nothing. If
They had closed their eyes
They would open them one
At a time, looking about
To see who was still abandoned
On Earth. From the looks of it,
The final selections were a bit thin,
There is going to be a fearful horde
Of us left to face what is next. No
Airliners pilotless falling from crowded skies,
Few cars suddenly driverless spinning
Pinball-like on shocked highways. Mothers
Checking perambulators not sure whether
Finding the baby or not is best.
People running outdoors thinking God
Might need a straight shot, standing
A few awkward moments, sullenly
Dragging themselves back in. Cell phones
Still working, I call the wife
To see how it looks where she waits.
It rings and rings and rings, and I start
To leave a message, then pause.

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Image Credit: Ciker.com

The Caste-Priests of Jabberology

Here, they open their mouths, the doors to their temples.

What spills out are river-smoothed pebbles on a drumhead.

Only the elite are given this gift, a font of nonsense.

Nature is a dumb miracle. Never a faithful explanation given.

When mumbling, all words are equally incontrovertible.

This is the ritual: a tongue swollen from sea salt,

ears plugged with wax, eyes dull and silicate.

A thing preserved so long it’s meaningless except as memory.

Speak except when spoken to, accept when spoken to.

The universe is misunderstood. That is its blessing.

Here, they function their eyelids, the dongles to their tumors.

Sip, sip at that blessing. Here, hear a calling.

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Editor’s Notes: “What can SA [South Africa] learn from Mao’s deadly chaos?” by Chris Mann, Mail & Guardian, November 17, 2016: Trofim Lysenko, Stalin’s scientific adviser, rejected genetics as an “expression of the senile decay and degradation of bourgeois culture”. A colleague called scientists who used experiments to verify results “the caste priests of jabberology”. In the book, “The Cold War Politics of Genetic Research: An Introduction to the Lysenko Affair,” William deJong-Lambert discusses “the reaction of a number of biologists in the United States and Great Britain to provide an overview of one of the most important controversies in Twentieth Century biology, the “Lysenko Affair.” … including the interwar eugenics movement, the Scopes Trial, the popularity of Lamarckism as a theory of heredity prior to the synthesis of genetics and Natural Selection, and the Cold War.” In the book, he dismisses scientists and academics who sought to understand problems to be answered by Mendel’s statistics, calling them “caste priests of jabberology.” In a more recent paper, Mendelian statistics is vindicated (https://www.aber.ac.uk/en/ibers/news/archive/2020/january/title-228982-en.html). Ultimately, however, my interpretation of this eloquent poem points to the “caste as a neurotic and psychotic system that has now been transfigured itself as an ethno-religious fascist state,” which is a political sentiment and statement.

Image Credit: abstract art evoking violence (img.wallpapersafari.com)

Leaf Spinning

Leaf tornadoes whirl in funnels
shuffling fronds like playing cards,
I watch ragged edges tumble
into scattered mosaic shards.

But Momma wants the whole yard raked,
says all those leaves will kill the grass.
Let them mulch, is the road I’d take,
But I know not to give her sass.

Continue reading Leaf Spinning by Natalie Kimbell →

Love Baby

I was born into sunshine
and darkness.
I was Daddy’s love baby;
Mommy and sister’s hate baby.
I know, black and white, even though I live in the gray.
It’s easier to say I had good mommy and bad mommy.

Continue reading Love Baby by Anna Mae Perillo →