The Smell of Bog







The Smell Of Bog



Old ways, olden days

Can it impart wisdom now?

Peats, earthworms, rhizomes—








Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 07.17.2019 (italicization of a phrase "Old ways" in the first line of the poem), 06.26.2019 (misspelling of occurring, a single "r" in occuring was changed to occurring):  

Once more, I've come up with a practice haiku to reflect upon something naturally occurring.  It may even be seen as rather banal (and/or clichéd) that it might sound as if drawn out from a science textbook explanation.  However, if you like the natural sciences (or if you are in love with nature), then you probably have heard of boggy wetlands & seen swampy marshes.  Until then, I would suppose you could relate to this particular haiku.  My real reason for composing this is quite a private one, for it was coming from the sheer original intentionality of recording just another mental note (& its relevancy to me, hence).  It is definitely not an aspect of an autobiographical note, it just seems that I have slipped into a kind of a reverie, whereof I have contemplated on a "correlative" about the earth/soil & the smell of turd one night.  It is a basic assumption to an end to every supposed life cycle.  Which is why I thought of its gravitas, that despite being imminent in this correlation to the undoubtable reality of his or her temporal existence, that is a paradox in itself.  Therefore my poem, in this manner of a haiku, is intended to also be reflective of old age & the ageing process—& its trappings.  Yet due to the mysterious properties of time, there is always a particular wisdom that is being imparted or shared wherever/whenever there's an unwarranted rumination (such as this, whence).  Some could have referred to an event and equate it to indirect learning (versus a self-directed one); but, as to learning experiences, in the circle of life, if constantly passed onwards, every imaginable generation espouses the same kind of conditioned existence (as regards to Media Cultures and the whole of humanity).  It need not be a catechismal byproduct of a certain religious order because we are cultural products in ourselves.  Like, perhaps, looking intently at the prominence of our public intellectuals, with their erudition & elucidations (e.g., in their online presences in social media), the same could be my theme.  In one's own right, there seemed to be a historical perspective which is to be conveyed here.  My poem could also be a reminder that they, too, have once lived throughout their youth; for that reason, someone (or something) has to have also taught them something (or anything/about something).  It is a sort of a passed on wisdom.  It is a recurring process.

Unto heaven's grasp

From the hand of god
To the breath of man;
Four parts a twine
The inner strands
That twist the weave
And bend time to life.

To round the loom
With subtle spin
Deflects, reflects, the passing blow
And turns to par
A simple man
A listless end.

Unto the nexus that he trust.
Unto the favor, rhythm, and creed.
What god he made if his apparition
Shall span the eons to his confines.

To string himself undone
Remade by fabric not touched by man
And cast himself
Beaneath it's deapths
To breath the air
That angels stole.

To rest our heads
Down pon our knees
And ponder ways
To pass eternity.

For the glimmer of god
Had lost its sheen.
For his golden arc
Has past my gaze
Before and again
And shown it's guise
In every shade.

For surely the glimmer of god
Has lost it's shine.

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On Simplistic Garbage Cans

So there are garbage cans
For your garbage can lids
To place your household refuse
And olden wasteful deeds!

Forgetting that they are
Reservoirs for uselessness,
Without one member,
It's incomplete, sure is!

Because even if they're plastic,
The instrument, tho' exploitative,
Will forever be full--replicative--
For even the very narcissistic!