The woods are my church
because everyone in them lives by the law.
If you take more than you need there,
your surplus will be stolen by brown bears,
I take to the woods
like wild geese to Northern skies,
like the red fox to her sensuous den.
The woods are cradle,
The oak, my god;
the ladyslipper, my pleasure.
If I go to the woods,
it is not to flee humans —
I am a human too.
What I touch, I despoil.
My greed knows no bounds.
My jealousy sickens every sacred creature.
If I go to the woods,
without knowledge, without skill,
it is to ask the holy ones
– Harriet Ann Ellenberger
note: This old (mid-1980s in its original version) and defiant poem still speaks for me, and I still like it. Most especially I like it at this time of year, when the buying orgy known as Christmas is past its prime, and once again Mr. Bear and I have survived a religious/commercial holiday by ignoring it. Also, by assiduously avoiding shopping-mall parking lots from mid-November to January 2nd.
The owl photo is by Tina Rataj Berard, on Unsplash.
War babies are babies
who make war
without knowing what war is.
War babies make war
on anyone who crosses them,
on each other.
War babies have guns
that are big and mean.
War babies have money
that won’t buy them more time.
War babies hit a telephone pole
at 100 miles an hour,
and expect to walk away.
War babies stay babies
because they don’t learn.
Oh look, they’re doing it again.
–Harriet Ann Ellenberger, 11 February 2016
for Barbara Mor
In place of the old dream
and the old lies,
I wish for my country of origin
a new story,
one that goes like this:
We rode roughshod,
we drove pedal to the metal,
we blew our own cylinders.
We squeezed the life from all
we could lay hands on,
converted our kill into currency,
bowed low before the greenback god we made.
Then — an inch from extinction —
in the midst of brawling, bawling,
blowing each other away,
we woke from our nightmares.
Watched the sun rise.
Said this is a good day to live.
We started to share food
and keep house.
It was astonishing
how quickly the tall-grass prairie,
intricate forest that bends with the wind,
Astonishing how quickly the milkweed pods shot up
and the monarchs laid ever more eggs on them
and the great butterfly migration strengthened.
Astonishing when legions of Canada geese flew south again,
barking and writing long flat V’s in the sky.
and the earth under our feet
decided to live.
It was that definitive,
that clear a turning.
− Harriet Ann Ellenberger, February 2012
Note: “Sunrise Over the USA” was first published, with working notes, on Return to Mago, 1 October 2012.