People Over Politics, World Over Wealth!
Harvest Moon ~ Philip Brent Harris
~~~~~
From the
Minor musings of Phileas the Lesser
I wonder if I shall ever find
wonder, magic, all together?
Not bits and bobs, flotsam
scattered through my life,
perceived by my perception.
Expressed through my creativity.
In our world, our universe,
put together just so.
Where life rises and life falls,
each in proper order.
Neither creation nor destruction
Hold pride of place.
Life and death
A union of equals.
Walk with me by the tree,
the flower.
Listen to the bee and the bird.
We, who pride ourselves
above all
have not, cannot change
the pattern of creation.
The song it sings,
fabled music of the spheres.
Still, we can and do and have
changed the tempo,
the time signature.
So our symphony of dirt
to dust and ashes,
Composed to last eons,
Is finished in years,
In days and hours.
Neither coda nor encore.
Walk with me by the tree,
the flower.
Listen to the bee and the bird.
The brassy trumpet, the trumpeter
speaks danger, sounds warning,
signals retreat; will no one
listen or abide?
Pounding percussion, perhaps,
moved forward, to lead our band.
Beats the rhythm,
ever louder, ever faster,
to drown out the brass.
Leaving the conductor
collapsed or gone, absent
from the stage.
I wonder, is there a composer,
a conductor, who sets the time,
waves their baton?
Or have we only ever played
our own music,
on our own instruments,
in whatever way we chose?
Still, music as analogy falls short.
No instrument, orchestra or choir
makes the discordant music,
the mighty organ-pipes of industry’s
booming, the knell of pollution.
This noise, once cherished,
proven toxic and poisoning all.
While piccolos and flutes,
melodious, yet piercing, highest
pitched, played to the few,
By the few, an eager call.
To the clash, clamor, cacophony
of constant conflict, waging war.
Driven by the drums of greed,
power and insecurity.
Pounded to drown all else.
Any seeking harmony
must sing, though fearing to
remain unheard.