Sunday, July 11, 2010

A Blog of Sorrow

It has been very hard to blog lately. Every time I go online, the situation gets worse. Every day, the slide from Fascism to Nazism is accelerating. The oil volcano is increasing (see page 19, just ahead of the want ads, stale news) The wars are widening, more civilization is being destroyed in the name of Profit, the god of the Corporate Oligarchy.

I wrote this poem some years ago,


Far out at sea, the unbroken great blue circle
Ever changing yet ever the same.
Standing on the bowsprit I gaze into the deep, clear, blue depths
Or out to the horizon. Sometimes there are dolphins!

At night, the heavens are filled with myriad stars, far more than are seen on land.
They stretch out to infinity, eternity,
The only human interlopers,
The satellites moving in their straight lines from horizon to horizon.

Below in my bunk I am lulled by the quiet hiss of the bow wave,
The rasping zzzzip of passing dolphins,
Distant songs of humpbacked whales echoing from the deep,
And the quiet tread of watchstanders passing on the deck above my head.

Diving on the reef, I pass beneath the stands of kelp
Rising like fluted columns
Which spread overhead, muted light filtering to the sea floor
Like sunlight through stained glass

Walking on the floor of a great virgin forest,
The first branches spread a hundred feet overhead.
Wild rhododendrons provide splashes of color
And my gaze stretches for miles.

Standing on a windswept ridge, gazing at a rugged, snow shrouded peak.
Mighty rivers look like tiny rivulets, running from beneath the glaciers.
The tree line is far below me,
And on the eroded cliff beside me, seashells!

These are my cathedrals.
This is where I feel close to my God,
In the quiet wonder of God’s creation,
Far from the works of man.

Steve Osborn
23 August 2002

I wrote that poem to reflect a life I lived and loved for many years. Now, the reefs are becoming lifeless, coated with blobs and streamers of oil. My heart is close to breaking as I watch film of dolphins and whales struggling to breath as the inhaled oil turns to pneumonia, filling their lungs with fluid.

The trees have long been cut down, being replaced with vast tracts of cheap houses.

In the valleys, the glaciers are receding. The peaks become less snow-shrouded every year.

Only the seashells remain.

I wrote the poem out of joy, out of love. Now it seems to be but a requiem for times gone by.

An oil company CEO will have to write the next poem about the sea, but I don’t think I’ll read it.