Too Much!

My head is filled with nonsensical stuff, and I am not alone for our overstuffed brains,   like overstuffed potato skins bursting with dreck,                           overheated rhetoric is a symptom of the malaise of a society bent on destroying itself through its own stupidity. Yep, me too, I include myself in this bubba.

On Twitter, there is a Science page that I follow, but I am appalled to read what passes as valid science: measuring farts ( yes, really!), people who love chocolate are more intelligent (than what, monkeys?), “Never go to sleep on an argument, the science behind the saying,” (really, you need SCIENCE to explain it?!

It’s come to this:  we have to all join the lowest common denominator in a world full of undereducated people who cannot think for themselves, pass opinions as facts and are a sad elegy to education systems which have become monstrous corporate feeding machines.

Glad I got that off my chest.

I am breathing, breathing, breathing, feeling calm descend on me. It’s just the heat folks. Post menopausal flashes of angst and fury, like a devil whipping up a hot meringue in a furnace of molten vinegar. That’s me, right now.

Then I remembered this beautiful poem by Wordsworth that I used to teach back in the 80’s when life meandered on downstream at a different pace:

The World is Too Much With Us                                                                               

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

To think this poem was written when…around 1802... (yes, I had to Google it, do you think I know everything?) Makes me feel better to know even then people were going stir crazy with mundane nonsense that would make your head spin.

Get back to nature, folks, breathe, nap, eat and enjoy some good wine. The world can take care of itself.

I will pass on my compulsive need to comment on everything to someone else…for the next ten minutes.

Now for some iced coffee, and perhaps, if I am lucky to shut off my brain, a much-needed nap.

Some brain cooling imagery, thanks, Renoir

 

Poetry on a Fallish Day

From Green to Gold

There is a tree

No,

There are millions and billions

And they are shedding

And dropping

And letting go

The end of a cycle                                                                  

a season and

Of the toil of summer,

Shade’s no longer needed

Their canopies now

Littering the lawns,

the ponds,

the streams

With their colorful bounty

I want to roll in the crunch

and jump and stomp

and sniff the air like a dog

For finally,

yes

finally

Fall is falling