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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: ecology

Roar, Ocean, Roar!

17 Monday Aug 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 162 Comments

Tags

America, autocracy, COVID19, Democracy, ecology, fascism, pandemic, poem, poetry, Resistance, TheGreenNewDeal, truth, verse

 

snow covered mountain under blue sky

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

 

You think you are a stone. 

I say, we are a mountain. 

You think you are a thread. 

I say, we are a tapestry. 

You think you are a drop. 

I say, we are an ocean. 

 

big waves under cloudy sky

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com

 

We are a mighty mountain 

A million men and women wise

Surprise! Surmise

What we can do —

You and you and me and you!

 

snow capped mountain

Photo by Life of Wu on Pexels.com

 

We are a tapestry: 

Rainbow rayed with light arrayed;

A pattern that will still unfold

Reveal our true color: bold

Share inventions not yet played. 

 

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We are an ocean 

A wave, a tide, a tidal wave

A thousand miles wide,

If we can summon brave 

Feel our brotherhood; eschew false pride.  

 

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Believe not those whose only play is hate and fear;

Empty promises that hide behind a hidden tier; 

Russian dolls and chopping halls, 

Down and drown in putrid falls,

Flimsy flash and dazzle — naught inside. 

 

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Voices of the damned divide and hide

The nature of the power of the people all in unity.

Czars seek division; cheat with false impunity. 

Have no love; offer no warm hand;

An iron glove; a loud brass band. 

 

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

You think you are a stone. 

I say, we are a mountain. 

You think you are a thread. 

I say, we are a tapestry. 

You think you are a drop. 

I say, we are an ocean. 

 

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—————————————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Life is a Dance

The Declaration of Interdependence

Author Page on Amazon

Index of “best practices” in teamwork and collaboration

Comes the Reign

Trump Truth Treason

The Ailing King of Agitate

 

Ah Wilderness!

13 Saturday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, health, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, Feedback, GreenNewDeal, life, poem, poetry, truth, wilderness

(I first published an earlier draft of Ah Wilderness in Peng Poets e-zine, summer 1997. I’m nearly finished with the highly recommended book, The Overstory, and so I decided to take another look at the poem and then extended it with the dissolution of form of the poem meant to mirror the dissolution of our society moving at last into prose but then, hopeful with the seed of form returning. I realize poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea. One reason I like it is that its dancing always on that same razor edge where life itself does its dance: chaos and regularity; change and stability).

scenic view of lake in forest

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Ah, Wilderness!

The words may well connote a false un-blurring
A fear, a chill — not from frozen stone alone
Or lake wind’s sweep; but from the urgent stirring
Of some soul still hiding restless in our bone.

Curse not the thorns of tasty blackish berry;
They keep fruit safe from claws less clever.
Curse not how swift the prey, how very wary;
They shaped our brain; & helped us know forever.

Curse not the winter’s churlish wind unkind
Or burning hot dry summer’s cinnamon sun.
They invented beautiful raiment through our mind
And taught us numbers soaring far beyond one.

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Curse not the change of season; or the suddenly sliding slope –
Unpredictable now and in the future as ever always
They make us search for patterns far beyond our scope of grope.
Ah Wilderness!

You are me as seen in Darwin’s mirror of minutes and hours,

And days of ways taken and untaken & lead us here at last.

We strive to take it all and make it all, all ours, all ours!

Churning every fragrant flower and pine to dust,

We must! We lust! We must! We lust!
We don’t have time for this and that.

We want everything now and that’s that!

air air pollution climate change dawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

And if in time all wilderness is bleak and dead,

Our bodies too shall wither and die and by and by

Our souls shall be but number: grey, unloved, unfed.

Asphalt, plastic, concrete & glass. None will die

Because in our endless war on nature, we are all “Undead.”

The Zombieland: machines gone mad; machines gone bad.

Swaths of humanity wishing to meld to macabre, merciless machinery!

abstract barbed wire black white black and white

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Life is what works! Life is constant change and innovation. But it’s been working for over four billion years! Look around you! It not only works! It’s marvelous! Machines don’t smell like that. Machines don’t look so beautiful as that. Machines don’t sound as melodious. Machines may be used to magnify malicious malignities if we let them.

Life is cooperative and interconnected and everywhere at once dancing on a razor’s edge between chaos and regularity. Machines are built to be efficient and effective and just tolerably presentable enough to be purchased — purchased by people who typically do not have to deal with the machine day in and day out. What do they care whether the machine is loud or smells bad or ruins your hands or explodes every so often or pollutes whole towns or scares away all the birds or kills every fish in the stream and every frog and that more trees will have to be cut down to feed it and more land raped to oil it?

Life is the invention of Love yet Love requires Life. (Maybe that’s why Love created Life; so it would have a way to express itself). Machines can be built to help save lives. Other machines are designed to kill lives. A machine that’s designed to kill lives never decides, “You know what? I never signed up to shoot peaceful protestors. That sucks and it’s anti-American. I quit.” At best, machines are amoral.

What to think of people who want to destroy life and replace it with a strict unmoving hierarchy with a life-hating king at the top? Don’t they see that they would not truly be alive in such an arrangement? They would not “decide” or “dream” or “change” or “love” or anything else without the permission of someone or some rule who knows nothing about how they really feel. And doesn’t care. Do you?

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

To destroy all wilderness means humanity would be signing its own death warrant.

The attempt to replace life, which we know works, with machine will eventually fail and fall and take damn near all of humanity with it over that cliff of ever-lasting greed.

Ah, Wilderness.

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Ah, Wilderness.

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Author Page on Amazon

Introduction to a Pattern Language of best practices in Teamwork & Collaboration

Index to Pattern Language for Teamwork & Collaboration.

The Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Field

The Impossible

 

The URGENT E-mail

31 Sunday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, management, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Democracy, Dictatorship, ecology, fiction, greed, pandemic, Sci-Fi, Science fiction, story, USA

man in black holding phone

Photo by Snapwire on Pexels.com

“You ready to head home, Barry?” 

“Yeah, just let me read this URGENT e-mail. Hold on.” 

DO NOT REPLY TO THIS USERID. THIS WAS SENT FROM A DISCONNECTED SERVICE MACHINE. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, PLEASE DIAL THE TOLL FREE NUMBER AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS MESSAGE. 

“What the heck? I’d better read the rest.” 

WARNING: You have an incompatibility possibility between your X-CalDYS system CWP and your YODEL system HGH. If this continues, you will either cease to exist or your SNABLE account will be cancelled or both or neither. In any case, please fix this immediately by following the proper procedures. Dial 1-800-555-9876 for help. 

“What procedures? What are they talking about? I didn’t even know I had these systems.” 

“Sorry, Barry, I can’t help you on this one. Hey, it’s 8 PM. I’ve been going since six this morning. I’m gone.” 

“See you tomorrow. I’d better call.” 

Barry’s fingers beeped out the tones and then heard the cheery voice of concatenated speech: 

“You have reached the help center. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line and you’ll be helped by the first available agent. Meanwhile, please listen to these important and informative messages from our CEO!

man wearing blue suit

Photo by Minervastudio on Pexels.com

“Hello fellow employees. Our results for the second quarter of last year are not so far behind the analysts’ expectations for our results for the third quarter of next year as they had been thought to be by the fifth quarter of this year. What does this mean for you? Work harder! Work smarter!! And, whatever you do, help make us the most efficient company in the world so my bonus will be bigger. Next quarter, we….” 

The pre-recorded and completely irrelevant message of the CEO was replaced by the concatenated speech synthesis.

“Thank you for holding. Press 1 for help on Windows, Doors, and Sewer Pipes. Press 2 for help on recipes for Chicken Tetrazzini. Press 3 for general counseling. Press 4 for other help.” 

Barry jabbed the 4 key. 

“Thank you. You have reached general help. Please enter your employee number followed by the Hunkdab.” 

Barry keyed in his employee number. “The what? Hunkdab? This must have been mistranslated from Serbo-Croatian. Probably the pound sign.” 

“That is not a valid employee number. There is no corresponding record in the SNABLE system. Please enter a valid employee number.” 

“What? Maybe the asterisk key?” 

He rekeyed his employee number followed by the asterisk. 

“That is not a valid employee number. There is no corresponding record in the SNABLE system. Please enter a valid employee number.” 

“Oh, crap. What is this all about? Geez. It’s 8:30. I’m outta here.” 

Barry moved the cursor to the entry line and typed “LOGOFF.” 

The computer beeped. “ERROR 95433-J: Machine cannot be logged off by a non-existent user.” 

“What the–? What is this? Some kind of virus?” He hit the power switch. “What a day.” Barry packed up his laptop and opened his office door. 

Beyond the door, the dim hallways and locked doors that typified the drab and depressing departmental decor had disappeared. Instead, Barry looked out on pure whiteness, infinite and featureless in every direction. He blinked. Tentatively, he began to stick the tip of his finger into the white goo, thought better of it, and used his pen instead. The pen felt as though it was going into hot tar. It disappeared beyond the plane of his doorframe. He pulled the pen back. The half that had been enveloped in the whiteness was gone. 

He went back to his desk, grabbed some loose change and tossed a few pennies into the white space. He waited for the coins to hit something far below. Barry cocked his head. A long time went by. There was no sound. He shouted into the whiteness, waiting to hear a tiny echo. 

Nothing. 

“Okay. Okay. Possibility one. I’m crazy. Possibility two. I’m in some really new weird part of the universe. Possibility three. I’m the victim of an elaborate practical joke.” 

close up photography of a snow

Photo by Constantin Dorin Adrian on Pexels.com

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J slid to S’s work bubble and peered at S’s progressively overheated dance. S blinked at J’s presence and joined her hands. The bubble popped. 

woman with face paint with pumpkin

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

“Problems with your A-life studies, S?” 

“Yes, Master. Just like all my previous experiments, the organization reaches a certain level of complexity and it self-destructs. Each of the autonomous agents still seems rational but the whole doesn’t work. What am I doing wrong here, Master?” 

J laughed his mighty laugh. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, S. Even I haven’t totally mastered the emergence.” 

“I guess you did have a problem…there were some creations you had to scratch. Just recently, the Sol Project, I believe?” 

“Rumor races faster than fact. I call it the Earth Project after the planet with the intelligent life forms, but you are right, I might well have to scrap it. Same problems you’re having but at a larger scale. The so-called intelligent agents are destroying their own ecosystem.” 

air air pollution climate change dawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Smart!” said S sarcastically. He pondered for a few moments. “Are they too smart? Is that it?” 

J considered. “I don’t think they are too intelligent. Cetaceans are more intelligent and they are doing just fine except for being killed off by the two-legged apes and having their oceans befouled. No, these particular forms grew into this weird combination of being intelligent problem solvers and inventors yet nearly blind to Ka and Karma.” 

“How can they survive at all?” 

“Not completely blind. I said ‘nearly’ blind. They are aware of the fact that they are destroying the ecosystem in a kind of frenzied self-centered greed. They have actually made a scientific study of their own behavior; written books about what they call ‘The Tragedy of the Commons’.” 

“Well, then, with all those insights, what’s the problem?” 

“They aren’t doing anything about it, or at least not enough to survive. Instead of baking more pies, they squabble about the pie they have.”  

“It’s the same thing really in my little experiment. Everybody knows the company has too much bureaucracy and greed and some people do try to fix it but as often as not, the fixes make things worse. But, you obviously already solved it for the company case, right?” 

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Barry found the number for the crisis line, picked up the phone to dial. Then, he noticed that the whiteness was creeping closer like a sea of living, moving, Elmer’s Glue, thick and deadly. And closer. And closer. The office, just a few feet in front of him, was disappearing with a hiss. He dropped the phone, turned, then ran to the emergency exit. Then, he remembered that it was locked from the outside to prevent people from stealing equipment — though, in fact, that had never once happened. 

“What the hell?!” were the last words he uttered. 

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————————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Pies on Offer: Mincemeat & Rhubarb

Index for Pattern Language for Cooperation & Teamwork

Author Page on Amazon

Blood-Red Blood

24 Sunday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, green, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, war

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Those tortured in the name of Our Dear God,
Racked, burned or sawed, bleed blood-red blood.

Sailing to Freedom, they slaughter
Their trusting brothers with reddish skin
And all their blood is blood-red, blood-red.

The black skin of slaves under the lash
Bleeding the blood-red blood.
Soldiers North in marching blue,
Soldiers South in riding gray,
Bleed their blood-red blood.

person s hands covered with blood

Photo by NEOSiAM 2020 on Pexels.com

The white skin of soldiers entrenched
Breathing the deadly golden mustard gas,
Coughing their lungs, their blood-red blood,
Coughing on their uniforms of blue or gold.

The Cambodian Killing Fields flow bright
With blood-red blood spurting from under yellow skin.

Genocide in Tamil —
Drunken driving in Toledo —
Bombs in Northern Ireland —
Whether the children wear green
Or orange, blood-red is their blood.

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

Only that is clear. Blood is blood.
That, and the tears.
The tears are clear.
But what of hearts and thoughts?

In Flanders Field, so they say,
The poppies grow, red-blood red.
We know where hatred grows —
The fields of greed and fear.
But where on this green earth
Is there a space for love to grow;
For that magic drop of clearly know
That can save so many seas of blood?

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Waterloo and Gettysburg
We can quickly find on a map.
Battlefields, Killing Fields,
Killing Camps, Hiroshima —
These we can pinpoint oh so easily.

Harder to see are the loving fields.
They lay only hidden deep within
That uncharted country of our own hearts.

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I have a question for you.
I have a question for me.
Haven’t we shed enough of each other’s blood?
Are we really still surprised to see
Our enemy bleeds blood-red blood
Just like you and me?
Can we find something else to do now?
Some new game to play?
Are you not bored, like me,
With shoot and burn and slay?
How about a game that does not end in bloody red?
How about a game that ends in green, say?
How about working together to re-make Eden?
Let us make the woods and fields green again
Like a sparkling miracle of loving creation.
I think that might be more fun.
I am getting sick and tired of blood and red and dead.
How about you?

cascade creek environment fern

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Want to play for green instead?

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America

Essays on America: Wednesday

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Impossible

The Truth Train

Sunless Sunday of Faith

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You gave me no fangs

23 Saturday May 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

earth, ecology, greed, humanity, life, poem, poetry, sustainabilty

wildlife photography of tiger

Photo by Sayantan Kundu on Pexels.com

You gave me no fangs.

You gave me no wings.

You gave me no claws.

Just a bag full of flaws,

And leftover things.

photo of boy in black and red collared shirt

Photo by Mike Sangma on Pexels.com

You favored my brothers;

You favored the others,

Left me only these brains

To fend off the beasts

And fend off the rains.

person riding a bicycle during rainy day

Photo by Genaro Servu00edn on Pexels.com

Cainly, I search and destroy

All my brothers and sisters alike.

With an efficient surgical strike;

Pop them to bits like a bustable toy.

police army commando special task force

Photo by Somchai Kongkamsri on Pexels.com

I chew off my paw,

But see if I care.

It’s the Law, the Law,

Though my cupboard grows bare.

abstract blue clean container

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

I foul my teeny, self-built cage,

But I don’t know & I don’t care.

I’m all in, in a self-imposed rage,

And nowise will dare to learn to share.

baby child close up crying

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Unbalanced and crazed, my genius so stable

I comfort myself with a reckless fable:

That Father will Save me, Save me at last

If I destroy it all in a nuclear blast.

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You seem so bewildered and oh, so amazed,

That I’m so unfit; so  roundly unstable,

Yet, I’m the one whom you ceaselessly hazed

Then pushed away me from the well-stocked table.

cooked pie

Photo by kelvin carris on Pexels.com

Mother, you made me; you made me this way.

Stay and play for the final slay.

I’m loonery toonery sure as I’m shootin’!

Lunatic Fringe? You’re damned well tootin’!

woman with face paint with pumpkin

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

So here I go with my terminal act.

Self-destructive and as fat as a fact.

We could’ve had earth as an Eden instead

But I guess I’d rather be greedy — and dead.

photography of maple trees

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com


 

Author Page on Amazon

Snowflakes

The Impossible

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Myths of the Veritas: Books

26 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, health, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bullying, Democracy, ecology, empathy, ethics, fiction, greed, harmony, history, leadership, legends, lying, myth, politics, power, science, truth

snow covered mountain under blue sky

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

Fleet of Foot took a deep breath. The air still held a bit of chill. In this place, the sun had difficulty finding and warming the land. He enjoyed the chill but also enjoyed the warmth when if finally came. He wondered how these Veritas who lived beyond the Twin Peaks regarded him and his companions. 

He realized that, whereas the Veritas who lived near the Forgotten Field of Flowers had had many interactions with a number of different tribes within living memory, the Veritas beyond the Twin Peaks had had only three such “interactions” in memory and all had been disastrous raids where children had been stolen and taken off on horseback before a reasonable defense could be mounted. Of course, they had tried to track down The People Who Steal Children, but such tracks had led to a solid wall of rock that none could penetrate. Others, including the parents of Cat Eyes, Of the Night and Gathers Acorns, had attempted to cross the treacherous melting glaciers. None had returned. 

Fleet of Foot looked over at Cat Eyes who sat in a circle with a dozen of her kin and they pored over some of the mysterious markings. The strange pupils of Cat Eyes had made her immediately recognizable to everyone here except the young children. This had no doubt played a part in their easy acceptance of Cat Eyes though the lucky accident — if that’s what it was — of her fulfilling a prophesy — made what would have been acceptance and rejoicing into something more — something like the reverence that everyone in his own land felt for She Who Saves Many Lives. And yet, Cat Eyes was so much younger. He watched her — she seemed so at home with everyone here. Fleet of Foot remembered his former friends ALT-R and POND MUD. They — or at least ALT-R would have used the good feeling to gain power or wangle extra portions of delicacies. But this was not the nature of Cat Eyes. She got along with everyone of every age. Most of those in the circle were young but everyone was interested in the decoding. 

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It was important work in the eyes of these Veritas who lived beyond the Twin Peaks. Even Gentle Talons sat sometimes in the circle learning the keys to understanding the markings and then, taking one of the collections and trying to make sense of it. It was a halting and laborious process. There were so many to decode! Each one was like a precious jewel. Each one sparkled and reflected a new light on what was all about them. Some told of medicines that had been forgotten. Some told of strange mythologies about the earth and the stars and the sky wanderers. Some described impossible creatures, both humorous and terrible; both gigantic and some so small one could not even see them! 

Each day, the Veritas learned something. And each day was pleasant. Yet, each and every day, Fleet of Foot felt a stronger and stronger tug to return to his own home. Trunk of Tree had begun to insist that they return days ago. He felt that they had accomplished their mission and learned much besides. Fleet of Foot looked up and saw that Trunk of Tree strode toward him. Fleet of Foot sighed. For he knew that Trunk of Tree was about to argue, yet again, that they should return with their news to the Center Place of the Veritas. 

“Good morning, Fleet of Foot. See yonder Cat Eyes. She has found her home. That seems clear. What of us? Our home is also beautiful. Let us arrange to go. Leave her here. Let’s get back. We can’t take all those … things … with us!” 

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He gestured toward the cliffs where most of these strange boxes of knowledge were still among the many unexplored shelves. Maybe we could take a few. Maybe some of these Veritas will want to accompany us. But we need to get back! We have no idea what Eagle Eyes and Shadow Walker have found. We have no idea whether — even now — our Center Place may be under attack with Killing Sticks. We’re well rested. These Veritas have no Killing Sticks. What use are they? Let’s go.” 

Fleet of Foot sighed. He felt much as Trunk of Tree felt. He worried about the Center Place. Yet, the decoding work seemed very important as well. It was as though — it was a kind of magic. Cat Eyes and those she had taught were discovering things — some ridiculous of course, like the fish with eight arms and a beak who lives in a giant lake or large birds who cannot fly and little bugs so small they cannot be seen but still make people sick. Or the notions about the sky wanderers and the sun. Absurd, but still interesting. 

selective focus photography of octopus

Photo by Pia on Pexels.com

Yet other things seemed very useful: medicines, ways to prepare foods, a description of a way to lengthen one’s arm with a stick in order to throw a spear faster and farther. No-one had been successful at actually making such a device though. Perhaps it was also fanciful. Why would
“The Ancients” mix together so many fanciful things with useful information? It’s a mystery. 

Fleet of Foot nodded to Trunk of Tree. “There is much truth in what you say, Trunk of Tree. I too am eager to return. I suppose — I am not entirely convinced that the tunnel will even work. It was too … it seems now more like a dream I had than a reality. Somehow, I too worry about the Center Place. Perhaps most of us should return now. Let’s see how the others feel.” 

“Why? Many Paths made me the leader. I don’t see why you keep thinking I should see how the others feel.” 

Fleet of Foot sighed and looked at Trunk of Tree. “I know you don’t, Trunk of Tree. I have some trouble to explain it. If we all understand how each of us feels, then, when something happens we can work together better. We don’t have to stop in the middle of an emergency and have a discussion when there is no time for a discussion. Each person knows — or at least makes a good guess — about how every other person will react.” 

“If everyone would just follow my orders, we would all know too. Because everyone would follow my orders. If we did that….” Trunk of Tree gestured with his open hands but added no words of clarification.

pile of stones

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

“If we did that we would still be stuck in the tunnel. In fact, if we did that, we wouldn’t have even found the tunnel. Do you really want to decide for others whether they should go or stay? How might you make such a decision without talking with them?” 

“I know it’s important that we go back. We have information that we came to get. And, it may be important. And, you just said you feel the same way. Let’s just go! Come on Fleet of Foot.” 

“I think most will agree with you, but let’s hear their voices. Yes, we have learned some important things, but every day that Cat Eyes works with those — cousins of hers, we learn more about the world that we never knew.” 

“And we learn nonsense as well! What use it is to think about — the other day, I overheard Cat Eyes and her friends talking about a lake that is so large you cannot see across it! What nonsense. And, it tastes like salt. And, it has waves as high as a tree. What use are such ramblings. These things do not exist. I don’t believe any of it when there is so much that…now what?” 

There was commotion around the small circle of cousins. They all seemed to be talking at once. A small crowd was gathering around the circle and adding to the general commotion. As the crowd grew, others began to pause in their tasks and walk over to see what was happening. At last, Gentle Talons came over and used his not inconsiderable voice to quiet the crowd. 

“Please. Please! One at a time. What is all this ado about?” He looked directly at Cat Eyes, somewhat accusingly, somewhat wonderingly. 

closeup photo of book filed on shelf

Photo by John-Mark Smith on Pexels.com

“Oh, Gentle Talons, we have been decoding this book — for that is what they are called — all of them are called “books” — this book is called The Book of Civilizations. And it … it says that all of this — she gestured with both her arms, palms up, to sweep in the entire excavated cave was made by an ancient people…that there have been many great gatherings of people. Such people learned many things and had comfortable lives. And they had many wondrous things. They explored everywhere and learned much.” 

It became clear that Cat Eyes, for some strange reason, was having trouble speaking. She was swallowing hard, holding back tears. 

The booming voice of Gentle Talons rang out, “Please, sister, continue. What? Where are these civilizations?” 

Trunk of Tree and Fleet of Foot had walked over to watch more closely. Fleet of Foot craned his neck and wedged his way forward to look more closely upon the face of Cat Eyes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. What is going on, he wondered. How can mere … markings on the page cause such pain? Books? She had called them books? But how can they cause tears? He forced his way into the circle and took the hands of Cat Eyes, holding them gently in her own. 

“What is it? What’s wrong, Cat Eyes? Why do these tears flow on your cheeks? What strange magic is in these — books?” 

gray concrete building on top of hill

Photo by Suliman Sallehi on Pexels.com

Cat Eyes squeezed the hands of Fleet of Foot and drew strength from them. She took several deep breaths and continued. “This book — this book tells of many wondrous civilizations. They used wisdom and experience much as we ourselves do. They learned from each other. They loved each other. They ensured that they had enough food and yet … each of them … each of these ancient peoples … destroyed themselves. But it’s worse than that. The destroyed themselves through greed and hubris. They sought to … they knew about the Myth of the Orange Man. They knew that lying and greed destroyed other, earlier peoples. And, yet, each time, they stopped … they stopped being kin and part of nature. They knew that greed had killed other civilizations before them.” Cat Eyes shook her head and sighed before continuing on.

“Yet, each new civilization thought — somehow — it would be different for them. Of course, it was not different. Lies and greed and putting power over truth destroyed every single one of them. The story seems so real. But — how can it be? How could people know such greed and lies led to so much death and destruction and yet — they did it over and over again? According to this….” Cat Eyes stopped. She shook her head. She gulped and slowed her breathing.

At last, she was able to continue. “According to this book, there are much worse weapons than Killing Sticks. And they have been used to destroy untold numbers of people. And, after the greedy take everything and kill everyone, they die too! Because — in all their greed, they forgot how to live without stealing from others. And this didn’t happen just once. It’s happened over and over. How can this be? It can’t be true.” 

history ancient peru south america

Photo by Amanda Kerr on Pexels.com

All had heard her words. And all reflected silently upon them. 

After some moments, Cat Eyes continued. “It can’t be true. And yet — I think it is — the book says that after a time, the greedy people begin to believe exactly that — that it cannot be true — and so — they make the same exact mistakes again. And again. And again. It seems impossible and yet…where are they? Where are the people who made these books and these caves? It seems as though they knew all of this — and allowed greed and lies to destroy them anyway! Are we doomed to be that stupid yet again?” 

Cat Eyes bit her lip and looked up at the eyes of each person she could see around her. No-one answered. She ended looking into the eyes of Fleet of Foot. But he too remained silent.

5EA20EE6-6F23-4ACD-8831-58A93737B8F8

——————————————————-

The Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: A Lot is not a Little.

The Anti-Academic Pandemic 

The Truth Train

Essays on America: You Bet Your Life

You Must Remember This

19 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 31 Comments

Tags

Climate change, COVID19, ecology, environment, greed, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, truth

worms eyeview of green trees

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

A breeze flutters the leaves of the tulip tree
It seems to me
They wave, they warn,
“Remember us. Remember, that we may come again.
That once again forests of greenery will come to be.”

 

adventure arid barren coast

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Under this clear blue sky,
Under this bright yellow sun,
In this verdant surround, I see, nonetheless,
Long lines of grieving skeletons
Wandering the gray-brown dessert
Searching for food, for water,
For the lost way,
The fallen times.
Someone has lost the memo,
Broken the schedule,
Failed the test,
Not met the ROI.

2ED5B35A-54F8-43CB-8534-46D31A07049D_1_105_c

 

I have drawers of papers,
But what do they mean?
And why are they there?
They seemed so important once.
I have closets of clothes
That no longer fit.
I have machines that would buzz and whirr delightfully
If I could find a place to plug them in.

woman in black jacket sitting on rock formation

Photo by Chase McBride on Pexels.com

 

And, in these dead days of gray on gray,
I must remember, I must tell,
Though few believe,
“Once there were forests here,
Trunk on trunk of thick tall tree,
Leaf and flower, flower and leaf,
Green, green, under a clear blue sky.
We can make it live again.”

49CBA1E0-13F8-445C-9E9F-00467169FFC5

 

Now, so the story goes, the Devil tempted us with knowledge
And we were exiled from Eden into this world.
But, really, who is this Devil, anyway, I wonder?
What if, drunk on half-knowledge, we left voluntarily?
Greedy for the shiniest bauble,
The sparkliest stone,
We forgot that sunset on lake,
Icy creeks, and snow-laden trees,
Are more beautiful than jewelry.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I see them marching, line on line,
Mindlessly miming a pattern, a template,
Aimlessly roaming, but all in formation,
With no information, but under orders, all the same.
The cadence of the stepping,
The drubbling of the drums,
Makes it all seem okay somehow
As row on endless row,
Over the cliff they go.
Blind are they to the leaves of the tulip trees, still green,
Waving their warning; warning with their waving,
Bending, sighing, singing, in the breeze:
“Remember such as these,
When there are no more trees.
Remember such as these,
After the fire and the freeze.”

A6253369-6ABE-4B57-884E-BEFF53F7F505

Author Page on Amazon

Index to a Pattern Language on Cooperation and Teamwork. 

Myths of the Veritas – Explorations of Leadership, Empathy, & Ethics in times of crisis. 

Wristwatch

23 Monday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

celerity, ecology, environment, life, mindfulness, poem, poetry, politics, time, truth, virus

2ED5B35A-54F8-43CB-8534-46D31A07049D_1_105_c

What is this?

A gift. 

A wristband watch.

How convenient.

For someone.

For me?

I wonder…

It’s a kind of a band

(A bit like a slave band)

A bit of a rift,

Between me and me

men s suit and accessories

Photo by malcolm garret on Pexels.com

If you see; 

Get my drift.

It’s kind of sand

In my shoe

Keeping me from other things

And it rings

In my ear

That a land

Where all that stands

Is the least pernicious example

Is but a silly sweet example

Of things to come.

“Hurry to the hippodrome!

Never mind the cost.”

Never mind what’s lost

Never mind what land

We conquer to expand

The land that … sorry….

Didn’t mean to mention that…

The land of the free…

I hope that is an okay phrase,

An acceptable phrase.

Because the thing that worries me

Is not forty-five per se, 

Oh, 

No.  

I know.

No.

What bothers me is this:

That a part of me says, “hiss”

On cue.

And then I say “Boo!”

And either way, 

It’s Putin’s day. 

men in black and red cade hats and military uniform

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Oh, yes.  We are quite the quintessential conquestadoro.

Les hommes mucho macho

Let’s salsify the nacho

Let’s wolf down some state or other.

Sorry, meant to say steak or other…

1DCFDDF6-6B3F-434F-97F5-4C6C090667DC 

Slyly, slyly, you may perceive

That I, 

Much like our current reality,

Make no sense.  

680174EA-5910-4F9B-8C75-C15B3136FB06_1_105_c

Granted, 

But I have no pretensions of being

Chiseled into Mount Rushtoomuchmore

Just because I gave away 

The U S A 

To those who hanker-danker for oil.

“Oil.”

Isn’t that a lovely word?

I like the sound.

Silky, deep, and dark. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“Oil.”

I love the stuff. 

Titusville, Pennsylvania as I recall

Was the happening place to be.

Nearly, West Virginia and Ohio 

Came to blows over it.

But we got over it.

Clear over the rainbow.

All the way to where the sun don’t shine

To where instead monkeyshines

Rule the day,

And check 

And slay.

Say! 

My watch alarm now is screaming: 

woman holding burning newspaper

Photo by Jhefferson Santos on Pexels.com

“Way past time to play! 

All hands on deck! 

You’re making a wreck

Of every day! 

Your addictive greed

Grew a wicked weed!

Thoughts flash between sulcus and gyrus

Showing us how to beat the virus,

We must hunker down and work as one

For just this once until it’s done.

Then, we go and green this globe 

Let’s use once more that frontal lobe!”

IMG_3071


———————————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

Peace

07 Saturday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

ecology, environment, green, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, truth, war

IMG_3071


All the guns are silent now;
Landmines, all defused, exhumed.
Warships, mothballed; warplanes, scuttled;
Missiles, bombs, and tanks, entombed. 

Across the world, hands are held
And faces face the clearing sky
In silent prayer, in wonderment.
No-one quite remembers why 

It once seemed great to shoot to kill.
No-one gets that deadly thrill.
No-one cares to take that hill.
No-one wishes others ill. 

7551D277-6606-4C1B-9E06-5E4E44C81A64
A13D392E-DFD8-47ED-9D4C-5C3F3E6318CF

Instead, the people turn their mind
Inside to see what they can find
Of ignorance within their skin
And mine their souls to conquer sin. 

No-one throws the stones at others;
Hands are used to help instead;
Someone speaks and someone listens;
Around the world, each kid is fed. 

6ED86DEA-F6EC-4482-827F-8275A931F7F0
IMG_2261

Slowly now we heal the earth;
Slowly now we heal our soul;
Surely now we tend our hearth;
Finally now we have a goal 

Worthy of humanity:
Not to overcome each other —
We work together to save our Mother,
And never wake those Dogs of War. 

IMG_9137

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

Essay on Peace, War, and Greed.

Myths of the Veritas: The Prophesy Dream of She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives

27 Monday Aug 2018

Posted by petersironwood in apocalypse, family, health, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

celerity, dream, ecology, haste, myth, prophesy, speed, story

The Prophesy Dream of She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives

IMG_9414

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives wondered how effective the promised dream-catcher of She-of-Many-Paths would prove. Lately, the Shaman’s dreams had been more troubled than usual. In the distance, she could hear the skies rumbling and grumbling in the distance. She could smell the approaching storm; as yet though, no raindrops drummed and not a whisper of wind swayed the nearby oaks. She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives drifted into a fitful dream. 

{Translator’s Note}: Needless (?) to say, the Veritas, like many so-called primitive people took great store in dreams and dream interpretation. Nonetheless, they also realized that the outside conditions influence dreams as the reader is also no doubt aware from their own experience. Therefore, before recounting the contents of a prophetic dream itself, they recorded the physical circumstances and physiological state of the dreamer. 

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives began her journey in the spirit world walking along one of the broad paths that the many branches of the Veritas used for commerce among themselves. She walked soundlessly along the path, whose dirt had been pounded into hard-baked clay by the elements and the numerous feet, large and small, who had trod, run, shuffled, and plodded along this path. Presently, the Shaman came across a blueberry bush and snatched off a handful, anticipating the rich, sweet, aromatic taste. But there was no taste. She coughed and noticed that her eyes watered. Breath came with difficulty, and the air itself seemed to filled with dust or ash — the worst tasting ash ever. She looked toward distant peaks but they were dim as though the air was no longer air but a thin gray smoke, tinged with yellow. Smoke seemed to grow from leafless, limbless trees.

sky clouds building industry

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives looked down at her feet and was surprised to see that the baked dirt was not yellow-brown dirt. Instead, the path was a dirty silvery gray flecked with tiny pieces of mica. The road was hard under her feet – much harder than usual. She stopped in her tracks. Something was making an odd noise. No, not a noise. It was silence. 

No crow scolded. No robin tweeted and twittered. No unseen tiny feet scurried through the brush. No squirrels chattered in the trees. She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives saw the rock-hard road beneath her feet spread out like a cancer growing ever larger. As the strange and ugly whitish rock spread out in all directions, She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives could see it destroying all in its path: blueberry bushes, oak trees, deer, squirrels. Everything flying fell from the sky. Everything crawling or running found themselves mired in the ever-expanding death rock. Initial silence was replaced by deafening screeching and rumbling. 

IMG_1775

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives still found herself wanting to run from this terrible thing that ate her world but found herself instead lashed to the spot, unable to move. She called for her tribe but no-one came. Perhaps they could not even hear her over the din. In the distance, at last, she saw other people coming toward her. Like every other adult in the tribe, she knew everyone and could recognize each such person at a distance. But here she saw none that she recognized. As the throng grew closer, she saw that their faces were also white and flecked like the rock itself and their eyes had no light. Each marched as though to a drumbeat that only they could hear. Their faces showed nothing and their mouths all moved constantly but nothing meaningful issued forth. 

As people in such close proximity inevitably do, some few tripped upon each other. A few such blank people fell. Rather than laughing and spreading out more to avoid further tripping, they began fighting and screaming at each other. Each such person blamed other such people and everyone pointed fingers at someone else and screamed. Some such persons now drew forth magic black rocks and pointed not fingers only but also these magic black rocks at each other. Such pointing came with a loud noise such as a moist shale makes in exploding when placed too close to the fire. Such magic pointing caused blood to appear in the person pointed to. Many such people pointed and many such people of white death in so pointing caused others to fall bleeding and screaming. 

IMG_0130

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives tried to minister to some who were bleeding and screaming. She began to tear off some of the clothing of these people of white death to make tourniquets. The touch of such clothing repulsed her; nonetheless, she persisted. She saw that no-one else helped her with her ministrations. She began to wonder whether these magic black fire rocks would also cause blood to appear if pointed at her. She stood to look about for anyone from among the Veritas who might help her, but all she saw was an endless sea of the people of the white death coming down the broad white road. Now, each had a magic black rock of fire and all pointed at someone else and made blood appear. They no longer waited for someone to trip. They simply seemed to want to cause harm and kill another living human being. 

The Shaman became concerned for her own people and ran to hide in the Lake of Reeds until such time as she could conceive of appropriate action for no such plan could she yet devise. When, she came to the Lake of Reeds, however, there were no reeds at all. The beautiful blue lake had been replaced with one of brown and it was covered with scum. She walked to the edge and touched some of the scum. It was not a plant however as she had sometimes seen. This scum was not of life but of death. It was mainly white or clear. And, when she touched it, it seemed not of this earth but appeared instead to be of the land of death. When she touched it, she felt no connection whatever to life. 

IMG_9924

She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives decided to head back to her own cabin and call a council meeting. She knew a path over the ridge and hoped that the white road of death had not yet killed such path. Suddenly, she was at her cabin door. Sitting in front of the cabin door, laughing, was Fleet-of-Foot wearing a white death-mask. She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives spoke urgently. “Fleet-of-Foot, be true to your name and run quickly to summon the tribe. There is a great plague upon the land and I fear it will kill all things unless we act quickly.”

Fleet-of-Foot just grinned at her, and replied, “Do your own errands, old lady. I am from the future where I am king.”

“King? What is a ‘king’ and do you not hear me? It is urgent that we summon all the people now. There is a giant white rock of death covering all things. I cannot stop it alone.” 

Fleet-of-Foot shook his head. “No, old woman, that is just a better kind of path. It is faster and allows more people to travel. It kills nothing but useless trees, bushes, and animals.” 

“Useless? How can you say trees, bushes and animals are useless? We depend on them for our survival.” She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives now saw that Fleet-of-Foot seemed enclosed in a giant shiny bubble. His voice seemed to have lost its rhythm and music. Indeed, he spoke quickly but without any connection to his own heart. 

IMG_9553

“Listen, Old One,” continued Fleet-of-Foot, “we have better ways to find food now and everything else. We have no more need for animals, bushes, and trees. Everything is done more quickly and efficiently now. Perhaps you do not yet see the wisdom of this new way, but you will. Everyone does eventually. Well, everyone who survives. You see, One-Too-Old-To-Save-Many-Lives, now everyone has only one way of how-to. My way. The way of As-Fast-As-Possible.”

“Fleet-of-Foot, there is some good to that way of how-to, but it must be balanced with other ways. Where are the other candidates?” 

“Not really, One-Too-Old, speed is really all that counts. I killed all the other candidates. Too much trouble. They didn’t seem to realize that my way is the only way. My way of how to has made many weapons as well for fast killing. Such weapons as these end arguments very quickly indeed. And, I have wasted too much time already talking with you.”

At this, Fleet-of-Foot pulled out a magic black killing rock and pointed it at her. 

Before he could use his weapon, a hundred eagles dove from the sky onto every part of Fleet-of-Foot, and tore him apart with their talons. Fleet-of-Foot screamed. 

At this, She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives awoke and realized it was she herself who was screaming. Outside, she could now hear the storm outside bringing life-giving rain and the crack of nearby lighting and the ripping of trees struck by such. The Shaman decided this was a dream that she needed to share. She decided that when the storm had passed, she would call together first the Six-Who-See-With-Animal-Eyes, including Fleet-of-Foot, to see what possible meanings could be gathered and whether such a dark dream should be shared with all of the Veritas. Beyond meanings, however, she wished to amplify her own wisdom about whether such an imbalanced world as the one she had seen could ever truly come to pass. 

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Further sleep that night proved impossible, even for one so disciplined as She-Who-Saves-Many-Lives. She turned the problem this way and that in her mind, trying to see if such path of inharmonious blindness could ever be. Could the Veritas, or indeed, any people, come to view speed as so important that they put no value whatever on any other way of how-to? Being in harmony counted for nothing? Making something that lasted for many winters counted for nothing? The pleasure of the making itself counted for nothing?  It seemed unlikely. It was also unlikely that one tree could grow through another. Yet, she had seen such herself and not far from here. But to see trees, bushes, and animals as being without value? To replace such with a huge block of ugly white flat stone? To make a gray white pond scum to cover lakes? To laugh at and mock other ways of knowing? These seemed impossible, not just unlikely. Still it would be good to see whether fresher eyes on the world could see a path to this not-life way of life. Often, she well knew, a perfectly good fruit with a slight crack may become first a home for a few tiny mold plants and soon the entire plant is encrusted with foul-tasting mold. Some few ants could begin chewing on logs and eventually destroy an entire lodging as she herself had pointed out to Pond Mud. Could something like that happen to an entire world? Wouldn’t the people stop such an infestation long before it was too late?

Enlight1

 

——————-

“Magic Portal” to Other Worlds! 

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