There are still such things as dreams

There became an overstepping of the mark,

a thinning of the gulf between us and the brutes.

It lies in the past, but disfigures the future;

and though heaven is broad and blue

it cannot explain all that has passed,

why the shepherd turned his flock about.

And thus, we search, mostly among

suburban chimneys, below the clouds;

trapped in an insomniac hinterland,

where so much remains unexplained

and frankincence and myrrh

have all but faded from memory.

Of late, (so it seems,) science has rescued us.

Though only as panacea; a cure-all

of sorts; lauded as the only means

of escape at our disposal; that whatever

falls apart is predictable, and therefore
both explainable and curable.

Gone is Voltaire's 'mad daughter,'

replaced by method and order. Those

'little grey cells,' so beloved of Poirot,

designer outcomes the new raison d'être;

though lichen covered Aspens still decay

serenely, as priests preach decorum.

Here and there, pockets of resistance survive.

A last hippie, an Amish horse drawn cart,

those who have yet to visit Ikea and

re-assemble the brutalised jigsaw of a tree.

But the wilderness has been suborned

to the turning of knobs, the pressing of buttons.

Soon, of necessity, it will be time again

for the self sharpening ploughshare,

the gnarled, weather beaten hand,

as paleness, along with the unholy

precision of technology, passes;

and in passing, turns such wizardry

to so much chaff blown on the wind;

It will be likened to a rise of sea,

a fall of earth, a cleansing and sloughing;

allowing the outnumbered dead to rise,

sip wine and converse in civilised tones,

as all over the world, machines stop

and men, who once scourged, make peace. 

This will give us a  chance to dream again,

appreciate the beauty of ripening grain,

the silver leaping of fish, full gilled,

unpoisoned, absolving all blame;

as spring to summer sweetly births
and eyes once closed take fresh delight
in sun and sky and a new dawn's light.

Then again...

Reviews

[Lorry]

Your description of ikea furniture is in itself poetry and led to daydreaming that there are still those who haven't heard of Ikea, frappucino or a Kardashian. More importantly, how do I join? Smoke signal or pen?
I know this is meant to have an apocolyptic theme, but can you sign me up and send me a brochure.
Ps... Although to be fair, it would be a nightmare sending this review smokesignal. 😀

[Jibey]

This is a lovely, well-crafted poem... the words and images and allusions blend in a wonderful weaving of ideas, with the central message poignant and powerful... We can only hope that the new normal will not pollute the air once more, will keep us buying seeds and growing our own food... We can only hope...and have faith... and love

[Beano]

A powerful meditation on modernity, the rise of reason, and the holes they have left in the natural and spiritual realms.

The final stanza was outstanding, and the 'Then again...' sting at the end is a perfect representation of the uncertainty of an outcome, as we veer between the sublime and the appalling.

Best, Jamie.

[Ana Papaya]

I think, no matter how bleak it gets, life will continue and we find the will to live it. Your poem describes hardship but also gives a glimpse of hope and resiliency

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"ripening grain" watching things grow, watching and listening to birds in flight...pure nature and appreciation of it...something that appears lost----technology has overtaken us..pure science amiss...
this reminds me of Emily Dickinson's "Because I could not stop for Death" which made me think of a woman who was living life so fast and busy that she didn't stop to smell the roses...even death had to interrupt her flurry of activity getting from one place to the next..."we passed the setting sun, or rather he passed us"--
and also "we passed a field of gazing grain" indicating the calming effect nature can have on us if we let it. "the last hippie, the amish..."
deflecting the new age.
wonderful poem, Beccy.
j.