When the Coffee House invited eco-poet Jeff Poniewaz to perform there in April 1988, Jeff expanded the invitation. He brought along approximately nine more environmental activist poets, and called our group The Earth Poets.
The weeping willow dances in the breeze, and so do I.
But the willow has a different choreographer, though sometimes I give it a try, try to choreograph the trees with my brush or pen,
and they dance according to my whim.
And sometimes the trees choreograph me,
not from just their outside appearance, from their in.
For when I paint on wood, I let the grain below
my brush tell it where to go.
I'm always aware of impermanence, never expect good things to last. I'm sure it didn't occur to me at the first Earth Poets performance in 1988 that we'd still be performing together in 2011. Every year I look backwards in amazement. I'm so delighted to be a member of the troupe that no matter what's happening in my life, I've never missed a performance.
Crumple the calendar, toss it into recycle, it no longer suffices. Earth Day, Poetry Month, Gallery Night. Emails, iPhones. iPads, iPods. Texts, tweets. Forest fires, oil spills, mine collapses. Quakes, tsunamis, tornados. Rallies, revolutions. A moment of silence for the dead, a century of noise for the living. Noise. No-ise. No-ease. Everyone on the move. What's the next event?
Four Earth Poets & Musicians & An Open Mic
Monday, March 21, POETS' MONDAY
7:30 PM: OPEN MIC
Spring starts midnight Sunday, we'll celebrate on Monday
Bring an Earth poem, muddy or clear,
A love poem, a ditty, something that's witty you'd like us to hear
Come to listen, come to read, it's nearing time to plant those seeds!
9 PM: Four of the EARTH POETS & MUSICIANS
Jahmes Finlayson, Suzanne Rosenblatt, Holly Haebig, & Harvey Taylor
Linneman's, 1001 E. Locust St,
Lives may change in dribs and drabs, in falls, in sudden soars, with trauma, loss, raves and praise, with the people we happen to meet, a dream that awakens us in the night, chance remarks, sudden insights, and we may be aware, or unaware, that something’s different.
One June night in 1977 I awakened in the middle of an intense dream and wrote it down. That's how I started writing short stories, a sudden, unexpected step into my future. My short stories became longer ones, then I began to write travel journals after trips, then memoirs in the third person and personal journals in the first person.
"I'm not getting older, I'm getting busier." That should be the twenty-first century mantra.
Does busier make us age faster?
Maybe that's why so many people dye their hair;
they want to hide the gray, as if gray matters.
It's gray matter that matters, the substance of our overworked brains.
The more matter the better, as the gray blur of whirring remains.
Does busyness kill us or help us survive? make us dumber or smarter?
And where do we place the blame For all this Busyness?