Resting at Morning


I am resting now, this early morning,

awakened by a dream of an unknown question

when enclosed in stone walls at the top of a stairway.

The grayish light of dawn is quiet

though I hear the fog horn of a ship in the distance,

a strange signal with there being no sea for many miles.


There is a calm unease

as though the Earth anticipates a sudden jolt,

just as natural as thunder, rainfall,

trees broken by wind, a prairie fire.

Did you ever notice the gentle swaying of seaweed

in the shallow water of a tidal pool?

Is it waving "Hello!" ?


The ice is melting now

up in the high mountains

and up, or down, at our polar caps.


Reefs are dying, the beauty of nature

enhanced by the durable debris of technological civilization.

Our chemistry games are killing everything,

but this is not our problem because it was accidental

and we are the children of God.

We have a divine contract for infinite forgiveness.

Our sanctity and comfort is guaranteed for all time

even though our family, friends and neighbors

hang from the trees like wet rags,

the fresh meat of the innocent lion,

dripping, twitching,

sensing the first heat of sunrise.


The old, tanned hunter cradles his scoped rifle

and says "The lion is a killing machine, a machine that kills.

We did the same, made machines that kill,

but pathetic compared to nature's art."

How incredibly incompetent we are,

resentful of a stern Father,

determined to exceed Him.

What a stupendous failure,

our quest to imitate the certified Creator.

We must have thought He would be flattered,

or perfectly frustrated, humiliated by his crippled son.

How lame our project to shit on his canvas,

crush his monuments, poison the entrée.

Drowning in a seething ocean of shame,

I shout "I will hurt myself!  You selfish bastard!

It's all your fault! You and your fucking rules."


        John R. Medeiros, April 2019

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