Kim Mosley’s “Meteor” on the Eve of the Election
Ooh, coming right at us
hurls us upside
splashes a thousand
into the clouds
buildings to house-
under the sand
the archaeologists can puzzle over—
Oh, why not?
and melted coins
A tree stands here and a
Maybe a mountain range
can make it through
—Sarah Webb, 11/2/20
Meteor Sent on Monday….
by Martha Ward 11.2.20 ODD as ever
The meteor was sent on Monday,
a prompt to Earthlings that we must
improve our state. We’ve been measured
and found wanting. We're in bad shape.
Our humanity, about which, we once,
had a clue, has gone missing.
The meteor's strange encounter, will
take us back to dust. Its angst fueled
with full blown disgust, for what
we’ve done to this planet & to us.
Our current steep climb up the COVID
record chart shows we’ve wandered way,
way, away from doing our rightful part,
simple & needed each day.
Wait, Meteor! Before you start smashing
things & fall apart, note the many
of us making poetic art! We grapple
with truths, ponder each word & phrase.
Note our creative endeavors on full display!
Meteor, please, radiate a message back
the other way.
Messy as we are, we are doing our part,
creating for us Earthlings, all, a renewed
humane & healing start.
Stardust streaking through
sweetest trace of rock
I’ve seen. It felt like
a gentle love light
falling through that late
summer night. Or was
autumn and does it matter
that I can’t recall the season?
I was alone and on a high
hill and I’ll never see it
again but it burned in my
heart, it seared, seres,
He had a meteoric
rise and then fell as young
men do, too quickly rich,
too dark, too drawn to
women who care for
such men. I truly know
nothing of meteors or
quick rises to fame.
I know how spiked the
bluejay is after having
his bath. And how the
dove, having splashed
and cleaned her brown
body, looks like a sodden
heap of feathers. Someone
needs to wring her out if
she’s to fly again. I could
use her as a chamois
and clean my car while she
coos and mourns as only
a dove can do.
I know about the hyacinth bean,
deep mulberry on the vine and
the morning glory who’s never
come to my garden but showed up
last week, hidden in the pittosporum.
I know the names of every dog on
my street and most of the
children as well. The parents’
names, not so much.
I walk around skirting the fear
our country holds, trying to
breathe in hope and not despair.
I would not mind at some future
time, leaving this blue orb as a
meteor myself, burning through
the atmosphere of all our sorrows,
rising to the dark of all things.
Disappearing behind the moon.
—Beverly Voss, 11/2/20
by divergent realities,
truth trumped by propaganda,
ill will goes viral,
the weary dare not inhale
the fiery breath of fools.
Powerlessness breeds anxiety,
anxiety breeds fear,
fear feeds on insecurity,
proliferation of ill-bred emotions
that become prey to
the baser impulses of
But fear that spins
through the dark spaces
between good and evil
in meteoric reversion
can perhaps shed its prickly crown
and settle gently on the
edges of a new reality.
ODD Monday prompt poem, 11-2-20
A bell rings …
Silently I turn my attention from the quiet outer world to the bustling inner chitter-chatter.
And, with one clear breath I invite that inner world to calm, to simply consider stillness for a moment.
But the clamor within won’t submit so easily.
Perhaps they will align on the task of sensation…
Where is my resting point of balance?
Where is my being sensing the environment I displace?
Indeed, where am I in touch with this earth and this life?
And, now with less sloshing about within, I open my eyes to see with more curiosity.
And my attention begins to popcorn again and outward thought conversations ramp up.
Noticing it doesn't even require another person to have this sort of conversation: I smile having seen myself.
And another breath, I close my eyes and find inner conversations were induced. Now calming again.
Alternating inner gaze with outer attention I begin to appreciate this inter-being.
Freedom from reaction, more clarity toward truth.
My mom insisted that we be home before dark. She also insisted that my dad be home at 6pm. If any of us didn’t follow the law, she was a raging maniac. We had to be home before dark because it was the South Side of Chicago and she didn’t want us to be …. With my dad, it was that we needed to have a family dinner. There was fierce intention in her wishes. I’ve been thinking about presence and intention as I tear up my photos and then staple them back together. Sometimes the intention that is contrived. I try not to do that. I do try to be deliberate in my choices. I imagine a Flamingo dancer. There are pauses and sweeping movements. Everything is planned and everything is smooth. But it is the dance itself that we see, not the individual steps.
Tomorrow, Nov. 3, 2020, is the election. That’s what everyone thinks. But actually the election is over in the sense that the work for the Bodhisattva has been defined. Even if the good guy wins, tens of millions of people will have indicated that they need to go back to school. There are character issues, there are science issues, there is a Covid storm that is taking the lives of many people. Our work is cut out for us. We are like the captain of a ship in rough waters. Maybe we’ll need to steer a little to the right or maybe a little to the left. But we as educators and we as parents and we as citizens have failed miserably and we have to pause and look carefully and what needs to be done now to save the democracy, to save its citizens, and to save the earth.
Buddhists talk of equanimity. In rough times is a difficult challenge to to be equanimous. It does not mean to be unaffected by whatever happens. It is better illustrated by the doctors and nurses in ER. They may be fairly calm even as they deal with life and death situations. They don’t need to increase fear around us nor do they bypass the fear and turn everyone into smiling zombies. We have work to do, whether it is feeding the poor or making a good connection with our neighbor. We need to begin the process of transforming our country to respect life of all forms.
Back to the art work, “Meteor.” I’ve often though about how I might create a dirty dinner plate. No matter how hard I tried, could I replicate the perfection of what is left when a meal is eaten. No. I try to give up control with my pictures. My best work comes when I’m having a conversation with someone or watching TV. There have been a number of artists who listened to music or watched TV when they worked. It might seem counterproductive… but my thinking is a culprit that I have to constantly avoid.
Our meteor whirls through space. It may hit the earth or not. It either case we need to prepare. Maybe we need to lay down a formless field of benefaction, as we say in our robe chant, so that we can open our arm as it graces the earth. This is a time to embrace, not to say, should Biden win, “ha, ha, we beat you.”