On Rodents, Death, Free Will and Whatever Poetry
RC deWinter
Fairfield, Connecticut, USA
The voles have been at the garden again. Or maybe it’s mice. Or shrews. Or whatever. silent and sneaky in their tunneling to devour the tender roots of just-sprouting wildflowers, whose seed I scattered so artfully not all that long ago.
But voles and mice and shrews etcetera can't be faulted for their predations any more than Benny can be blamed for his murderous forays. These creatures have no consciousness of choice; they hew to the narrow dictates of the biological imperative hardwired in their brains.
Benny’s been gone for two years now, and having no will to replace him I am catless. If he were here these miniature marauders would give wide berth to not only the garden but rest the of yard as well.
It’s only we Colossi, gifted with the awful power of free will, who spill our faults determinedly, purposefully – often gleefully – onto the invisible stage in the pursuit of appetite. Gain. Revenge. Whatever. We can’t blame God or Satan or anyone else for our transgressions.
More relentless than any rodent, Benny was a dedicated killer, regularly laying the questionable gifts of mangled furry bodies at my feet in a trail of blood and intestines whenever I sat outside pretending to read, but really lost in my own dark brooding.
Even so, knowing these furry wrecking crews haven’t particularly chosen my garden to destroy doesn't soften my dislike of voles and and mice and shrews etcetera and the mayhem they wreak upon defenseless plants with no chance of escape. It simply abrogates the small, intensely human pleasure of victimhood.
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Rumours of Necessaria Morte Mori Poetry
Donna Faulkner, née Miller Rangiora, New Zealand
Little birds peck at dirty icebergs others croon, happy to have survived the night. The tomato plant, an aging statesman, prominent amongst the alabaster shroud. Delicate threads of cobwebs scaffold cinnamon stalks and ropey limbs. It’s carcass bare except for a few stray waifs and a sparse hoard of shriveled berries. The plant digs in, defiant at the dawn of winter. Red baubles and a sericeous wreath embrace a plant's dying bones
