High on superpower craziness,
certain men of money business

just cannot afford to truly care,
wealth and power mean not to share,

so trans-corporate orientation
of an up-tight profit generation

promotes a Rush of declamation,
such tele-vicious vituperation

contorting the very words in use
for pandemic commercial abuse

of mind, body, soil, water and air,
burdens of reality so hard to bear

when even friends pollute the cause
of communal faith in egalitarian laws,

slowly slipping a privileged class
in the back door to this house of glass,

holding tight each invisable twin
whose private account or wealthy kin

inspires devotion to the annual worth
of a "happy life" on this dying Earth,

but I wonder why, since we treat her thus,
poor Jupiter took the hit for us?

Could a few more years of primal time
somehow publish such evocative rhyme,

revealing to all each lifelong goal
that Nature can free this life-locked soul

from fear and desire too mad and bloody,
joy to be more than a physical body,

wretched sins somehow forgiven
in nonreligious mysterious heaven,

a final oobe rising above
on timeless waves of shining love?

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John Talbot Ross