Mea Culpa Will Never Be Enough

There are people who live in a world of Us and Other,
on a different frequency, unable, unwilling to hear

that coming together works far better, and more kindly,
than division and vitriol. But their eyes wax fanatical,
and  there is no reasoning with the determinedly
and thoroughly indoctrinated. (In their heart of hearts,
do they believe their lies?)

There are people who sell their souls for power and privilege, who fawn at the feet of wanna-be king  toads, kissing the ring of their mob boss, afraid to offend and be cast away like so many others have been, and as they themselves might be, one day.

There are those with gentle hearts who grow more silent as every year passes, at finding ourselves in such a world, whose sense of justice is offended daily by all that is wrong.

We may open a window, breathe in the morning air,
be grateful for the blue sky, the trees, the wild ones, but our heart stays weighed down by a planet in crisis, by governments' wilful negligence in allowing corporations to destroy Mother Earth, at those too busy fighting each other in wars, and through partisan politics, to fight the even bigger fight,which will be extreme climate events the likes of which we are only beginning to see, at a pace that accelerates with every passing year, as the planet's cries of distress grow ever louder, and are ignored.

The world needs visionaries. Instead, fascism is rising all over the world. Can democracies not see that its loss will mean corrupt power and privilege for the few at the top and untold suffering for all other beings? Have we forgotten all we once understood, values men fought and died for, human rights once fiercely defended, now falling to fundamentalist ideologies?

On behalf of the wild ones who are going extinct in ever-increasing numbers, and the millions of refugees already displaced by war, famine, drought and climate crisis, to the hillsides bare of trees, sliding down to cover villages below, and land annually flooded or lost to wildfires, I say :

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
I apologize for my kind,
knowing no apology, no attempt to redress the wrongs
or restore what has been lost, will ever be enough,
will never be on time.

Sigh. Not feeling very hopeful these days.

SPRING RAIN

 

Spring rain is playing timpani on salal

along the fence. It taps the skylight

with insistent fingers, looking for

a way in, as I listen to its ancient melody.

The Japanese cherry and forsythia

just recently shed
their frothy spring dresses.

Their time to shine goes by so fast,

like weeks, like years, like life,

here and gone before we tie up

all the ends. (Some ends don't ever

want to tie. We leave them lie.)

On Rhodo Hill,
deep magenta and purple blooms

look like the ball gowns
of antebellum debutantes

swishing downhill
on their way to a soiree.

Spring rain, gentle, to nourish
and not break

the buds so close to opening.
Let my heart

stay tender, when the world lets me down

and everything feels wrong.

Let me listen to the rain's one note

and hear a beginner's song.

Inspired by "Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith. The italicized lines are hers.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - RAIN