Cloud Based Activism

Round bales carapaced in black, in the fields, in formations.
Clouds that blew in from an oil painting, circa 1700.
Love how the trees lean from a predominant onshore.
Our white car, new, we even keep it clean, drives by the crossroads where the sheep thief was buried. Circa?
Imagine the dirt under his fingernails; why this detail? They hanged him on Gallows Hill.
Up in the town they beheaded a priest, circa 1600.
Not the same ‘they’ as in people, the same ‘they’ as in upholders of the law.
Home is mildly clean, swept, the garden tangled, verdant.
So what’s the right thing to do?
This history that leads to here, this present time stuck with bits of beautiful, bits of raw inequality?
From global to local, the thread that leads to my own door?
Where does this go?
Simple advice to myself: it is up to me, just what I do. Avoid apathy.
Buy local, there’s a start, make your own bread.
Hand over the earth with minimal apology.
Broken necks are vivid stories: keep the stories, leave the acts.
Life is full of breaking.
Move on with the clouds.
Mind drifts, nebulous, fractal.
Either storms come next, or sun.


Geo. said…
I love this poem, Lisa, and somehow see your happy dragon in it. I started blogging in retirement to enjoy the company of good minds. You qualify and I am grateful.
Lisa Southard said…
Your comments are hugs to me! Thank you lovely blogging buddy :-) xx
Dixie@dcrelief said…
Lisa, I truly loved this.
Lisa Southard said…
Thanks Dixie :-) Been a bit slack at blogging stuff in August- blaming the garden!

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