We need to stop pretending we’re in charge Like children disregarding Mother Earth There must be fields of good we can enlarge Like planting tiny seeds of noble worth The worth of noble oceans, lands, and air Enrich our lives with calls for noble use In all we do we need to show we care The care we show should always be profuse Profusion can be big or little acts As long as we’re consistent with our deeds Our Mother Earth revolves, responds, reacts She knows how to fulfill our simple needs We need to breathe, to eat, to drink, to live And Mother Earth needs noble souls who’ll give.
Saint Monica, the mothers' patron saint A mother who is silent in her grace, whose prayers rise up through centuries’ complaint, whose hopes endure in troubled time and space.
And now a place southwest of Hollywood, a place that knows the ocean’s primal kiss, where palms reach high in solemn brotherhood, and grief is baptized gently into bliss.
She stops to watch the angels to the east— Los Angeles, where entertainment reigns— a city crowned in hunger and in feast, where fame burns fast and leaves forgotten stains.
But still she prays beneath the coastal skies, for every mother's silent, sacred cries.
A one-minute absurdist play featuring Lenny Bruce and Yorick in a cosmic diner beyond time.
[Setting: A red-vinyl booth in “The Afterlife Café.” Neon sign flickers above: “ALL YOU CAN STAND TO EAT.” A plate piled high with Rocky Mountain oysters sits between them.] YORICK (leaning back, skull under one arm) Though I have no tongue, I’ve tasted eternity. You think I fear a plate of bovine baubles? LENNY BRUCE You don’t taste anything, bone-boy. You remember flavor like a Catholic remembers sin. Me? I digest the moment. YORICK Ah, but digestion is but the soul’s lament— for what it couldn't keep. LENNY You ever bomb at the Hungry i with a gallbladder full of bull-nuts? That’s transcendence, pal. YORICK I once out-ate Falstaff at a Tudor wake. He wept and declared me kin. LENNY You got no stomach! You’re a prop from a play with daddy issues! YORICK You’re a prophet with indigestion! [They each grab an oyster and eat in unison. Silence. Then—] LENNY How many’s that? YORICK I've lost count. And also… my dignity. LENNY I lost that in '62. Keep chewing. [Lights dim. The neon flickers once more: “ALL YOU CAN STAND TO EAT.”]
She walks where rivers bend and willows lean, With soil-stained hands and eyes as dark as rain, Her breath is stitched through fields of gold and green, She bears the bloom, the burden, and the grain. No throne of stars, no crown of forged delight, Yet all the living know her by her name; She spins the dusk into the cloth of night And warms the fire that births the morning flame. The roots remember her where feet once fell, Each mother’s whisper, each unspoken vow; She binds the fates in flax and holy well, With blessings pressed to every furrowed brow. Though gods may rise and fall in endless tide, The Earth remains—with Mokosh at her side.
