Earth Calling April – Reggie Morrisey

I have a grandson born on April 22, Earth Day, and a granddaughter born April 26. In between, I celebrate the birth of William Shakespeare on April 23.

For the lifetimes of my grandchildren, I wish "Much Ado About Nothing," though portends suggest ado, fuss, trouble, bother, upset, agitation, commotion, stir, confusion, tumult, disturbance, uproar and furor aplenty about this precious planet.

Other than writing comments to The New York Times and asides here, I'm left to accept that my grandchildren's planetary future is not in my hands; yet I must still help those scurrying to change course as the climate changes. Of the latter, it "ain't over yet." Not with Arctic drilling. Not with rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Not with turbines powering windmills, no matter what "they say."

Thank you, Sierra Club, Natural Resources Defense Fund, and Audubon Society to name a few.

For this April, I share images of artwork by my late brother Ed Morrisey honoring earthlings of many ilk and poems meant to bring attention to the wonder I've experienced on our planet. Happy Earth Day!

Mother Mine
Canaan Valley, WV
Circa 1980

I heard a benign soliloquy
from assertive Mother Earth
as busy waters scrubbed
against a washboard ripple of
Appalachian stone.

Her utterances never spent,
she persisted with gravity
through sun-flecked woods alone,
scouring a glacial slope
in puddles, twists and turns.

Bolder leaves fell in with her,
gliding to a stop at rocky pools.
Hemlocks leaned as I did,
callow fellows caught
and loath to stray.

Winds nudged to hint
of a larger world,
yet nothing rose above
her liquid voice.

An older woman,
assertive Mother Earth,
bent with grace
to her everyday chores.
A domestic in easy discourse.

And we,
seedlings
of this rich estate,
who would nestle
for a last chill nap,
daydreamed
upon a velvet lap,
and lingered.

With Headset on Winter,
One for the Birds
St. Petersburg, FL
February 1996

The cello swells,
High tide on Smacks Bayou.
Pelicans "carpe diem."
I dance in place.

Appearing to sit serene,
within I twirl,
I leap with grace.
Dove on a dock.
Nearly fifty...
that a shock.

Paul Winter's music soars.
Gulls in high time glide.
A flock of geese
takes lettered form
and low-key ducks
tip wings upon the water.

From afar I am a statue
in the sax and cello's wake.
But I dance their jig to life.
Flight does not elude me.

Within,
my hair twirls round.
Ruffles of a skirt
will never cease.

My heart beats
like the hummingbird.
The bored raven crows.
The egret has my number.
One with them,
I choose motion
over slumber.

Training to be
"an older" woman,
my foot taps.
I am still dancing.

Rising
Cedar Key, FL
2009

Cedar Key is the coast of nature.
Yes, nature prevails.
The tide rolls out
where mullets fly
and oysters rise in a
field of puffy bar.

A full-moon spring-tide takes
more than a foot of water down.
They say it takes an elephant gun
to down a braying air boat
as it thunders by.

Even black mangroves spring up here.
Like olive trees with their green berets.
Like Rosewood blacks who fled
the redneck terror of the Roaring Twenties.

Cedar Key plays home to migrant snowbirds.
Some in condos – with binoculars.
Some high stepping through stressed bars.

They dare not eat the oysters
for the poison rising up
inside the earthen shells.

To live and die by spring tides.
Slowly, the bar fades
and beds are made
as water rises.

Slowly, the church bell tolls,
worn as the creaky dock
where big boats wait their day.

As hogs rev their motors
outside Annie’s Café,
soon to cruise,
we ready our canoes.

Oh, Breath of Life
St. Petersburg, FL
June 21, 1996

Oh, breath of life,
you take our breath away.
Tug the heart
while breaking night and day.
Blushing sky, hued parable afar.
Storied mounds of clouds
mask who we are.

Tropic June, a moist beatitude,
addresses tree and blossom,
man and dove.
While palms hold sway,
mere humans swoon with love
for arching rainbow,
crystal dome above.

Yes, atmosphere,
the pressures rise and fall.
Drops descend in seas
upon a street.
Your chemistry is simple,
air to water, back to air,
nearly all we crave
to be complete.

Yet farther out,
we circle round ourselves.
Fending limits
natural life proposes.
Farther one day
three rings left behind,
we aim for space where
we can stick our noses.