Meek Moist Paradise: Kelvin Iris

Mother Mary guide me
somehow guide me
through the madness
in my brain.
The fire consumes me
I weaken
My strength fails me
As I seek to walk
The line of peace.
I get angry
I can’t help
But get angry
At consumer frenzy
That devours
The beautiful
Bountiful Earth.

I cry; I cry;
Helpless, helpless.
I try not to judge
Harshly, but the trees
Majestic rainforest
Pine, fir, spruce, cedar
Growing tall
Straining for heaven
Waving wondrously
In the strength
Of strong winds blowing
Or weaving gentle rest
With a whisper
On warm sunlit days
Are devoured savagely
To build homes too large
For too many multitudes
Of confused people.

I want the humble home
Requiring little labour
So I have time
To contemplate
The gentle rest
Of the painter’s brush
At first slow and sure
Then excitedly flowering
Or meditate upon
The lavender morning
While others rush
Overburdened by labour
For their mountains
Of decaying merchandise
As desert slowly returns
And garbage replaces
The living, breathing

Now I seek
To contemplate
The meek moist paradise
I have seen;
The soft muskeg swamp
With earth like spheres
Of moss, like sofa chair
Comfortable but wet
The small red-stalked moss
With lime-green pods
Just before my feet
And the spindled
Spinning wheel branches
Of slender
Dark blue-gray pine
Starred with light
Almost white
Turquoise lichen.

And as I slowly
Drift into insanity
At modern earth
I quietly begin to knit
And pattern myself whole
Considering a