General Poetry posted May 5, 2016 Chapters:  ...7 8 -9- 10 

This work has reached the exceptional level
a thought on the evolution of man

A chapter in the book Euthanasia Betty: An Anthology

Nature's Kitchen

by johnwilson

I hear clippers snapping tunes
off rose bushes as a radio announcer
from somewhere on the lake spouts
Adjusting my rumpled straw hat,
I look out to the trees whirling
their leaves in the wind, the
sun's rays upon water reflecting
rocky mountains scents
pungent with wildflowers
simmering in Nature's Kitchen.

What on earth could be more pleasurable
than wearing a child's eyes?

There's a laughing pig
floating rhythmically on its side---
an elephant taking the stage,
ears puffy-white with streaks of dark blue,
throwing back his trunk toward
a mysterious chalky island
surrounded by the lightest blue breath of water.
Birds dart everywhere, not seeming
to notice or participate in the accumulation
of incidental accoutrements
sealing up our world.

I would rather watch the clouds
than cloud the watch.
I barely hear the bird calls
through the din of the weed whacker,
the whir of the power saw adjusting
shapely shadows off a leafy tree.

Whiffs of lacquer thinner stream
through the atmosphere creating a
synthetic barrier between the fragile
lusciousness of our environment and
Mankind's urge for home improvements.
I feel obtuse for not understanding
sooner words of a favorite poet:

"Listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go; *

So I discover that area uninhabited
by local chains, where I'll grow
peaches and corn and cantaloupe;
and you'll always stay for breakfast.


Earned A Seal Of Quality

I wrote this poem after a "relaxing" day on the Columbia River in Eastern Washington.

*pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of this littleness
---electrons deity one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born---pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
find specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if ---listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
-E.E. Cummings
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