Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I heard the whispers.
Where did they come from?
Rock steps climb to stone temple
at pinacle on cliffs above South China Sea.
Saw rugged Vietnam cliffs' pinnacle stone temple
flying above with windows open.
Looked down and saw temple's silence
let whispers be heard.
Whispers with no ears to hear.
Silent rustlings. Soft whisperings. Scarred softenings.
Composed wilderness licking wounds.
Temple gateway from tortured landscapes
westward beyond coastal ranges' clustered
scattering of bomb craters.
Hidden tortured landscapes of carpet bombings
and defoliations and scraping plowing
bare burning scraping bombings hidden from view
by censored news and loss of memory
erased by time and loss of interest.
Who cares?
Who cares?
The land remembers.
Woods and fields and wetlands curse
the mis-use of non-bio-degradeable chemicals.
Death spray weapons of mass destruction.
Farmers writhing in their fields.
Was it spray burning skin and eyes and lungs
or knowing crops were killed?
Worn out land.
Meek whispering weeds.
Raw dirt praying.
Looking down in fleeting moment,
an imprint of rock pinnacle's stone temple gateway
flying eastward wounded anti-war to hearing
other whisperings in America.
Where do they come from?
Raw dirt praying.
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(this is a poem i had written quite a few years ago
even before i got into litkicks
i found this scrap of old paper, torn and worn,
inside the halloween decorations that i unpacked this afternoon.
i am currently doing emdr therapy about the intensity of the vision scars i have about the ecocide i saw and the obvious rural depopulation that had gone down, the vast open areas dead where there had been thriving green communities before. the suffering that happenned is beyond words.
i will be drawing the stone temple from memory, (where we flew when coming back to Cam Ranh Bay from Saigon-BiehHoa in south central South Vietnam, would fly east to the coast at Phan Thiet and turn north up ther coast, at the turning was the temple way up high) and will post it soon with this old poem that i rediscovered. the healing is enormous, the anger livid, the shock in realising what happenned beyond the pale.)

Picture from the book called The World Without Us.

He talks about what the DMZ in Korea looks like today.

Image Source

Have you ever thought about going back? I wonder what it looks like now.

I have a feeling that the real damage done will not be visible.

The damage to the human genome from the environment
Something like the sins of the father to the third generation
The plants going to recover faster than the people I think



Epigenetics?

Our lifestyles and environment can change the way our genes are expressed, leading even identical twins to become distinct as they age.

The damage to the human genome from the environment
Something like the sins of the father to the third generation
The plants going to recover faster than the people I think



Thanks jim
I mean thanks for the poetry
Thank you for being a survivor
I look forward to reading more.
and seeing the art too.

Whispers
Where did they come from?

Looked down and saw temple's silence
let whispers be heard.
Whispers with no ears to hear.
Silent rustlings. Soft whisperings. Scarred softenings.

I think he have more than one "mind"
even more than one brain
just me sitting here typing this
not sure if this is a whisper
more like bubbles floating to the top

sorry about the ramble
I must me a thousand miles from your topic

Who cares?
Who cares?
The land remembers.

apparently our genes remember too

Where do they come from?
Raw dirt praying.

I am praying jimboloco
I need to find a place to lay face down under the stars
my face in the dirt
my heart in my throat
and when I have moistened the ground enough with my tears
I need to turn upwards and feel the tender indifference of god
..........................................................
please pardon this long and probably irrelevant ramble

thank you

I really love this poem....it says volumes and elicits a sense of love, that vibrates within the reader.
Powerful, powerful,
H

been a long time since I lay face down in the dirt
even longer since I lay under the stars
but I remember
if felt better than praying on my knees

a long time since I have shed tears

I did not mean to take poetic license with your post

The last time I lay face down in the dirt was about three years ago
a little dog tripped me up.
my anger passed quickly
and I remember thinking to myself that as long as I am down here I might as well be praying.
felt good
felt empowering
peaceful
excejpt for the fireants which cut it short.

wow
I hear whispering
it is me whispering as I read this.

Still, I thought your response was moving.....

H

Yes, the land does remember.

Raw and powerful writing, Jimbo.

Wow! hard-hitting words...

i echo mnaz... powerful!

thanks for sharing this, jim!

Silent rustlings. Soft whisperings. Scarred softenings.
Composed wilderness licking wounds.

moving poem, thanks for posting it jimbo!!!!!!!

not sure if this is a whisper
more like bubbles floating to the top

thanks to all of you

i just experienced a tightening in my stomach and tears to my eyes
something about the sharing and appreciation brought me closer to the experience

i feel completed right now
thanks

plus poetic license is good
whatever inspires a flow of words into emotive imagery is ok by me
very much todo bueno
got ants in my pants
from all those rants
and road going
in my memories