The Forest of Humanity’s Variety
I was walking through the forest of humanity’s variety,
my emulsifying footsteps were thickening the floor.
There were drifting conversations dripping from the canopy.
I was heading for the ocean and the glistening shore.
The concentrating eucalypts were housing insecurity,
bravado ran with jealousy along their ghost grey arms.
An incandescent gossamer, the down of human purity,
hung purring from the fingers of the elegant palms.
I saw bigots swinging spineless from the swinging spineless vines
and there were signs, put up by rangers, which were warning of the dangers,
(if one got too near, were queer, were black or disregarded lines)
for the bigots spat in sweating fear of understanding strangers.
Where the rocks were looking cranial sat humans looking brainy, all
they did was sit and think and sit and think and sit, intense.
And in their furrowed brows these ineffectual intellectuals
sowed weeds that lacked the promise of a thought outside the fence.
I walked among the tribes, among the cultures and the creeds.
I lit a flame and crept along their tight sewn seams.
I found myself entangled in a swampy clump of swaying reeds
that shared with fish their oxygen and shared with me their dreams.
When obstructions blocked my trusting eyes I simply followed butterflies,
ubiquitous professionals of transforming ways.
Their iridescent magic eyes would lead me on with winging sighs
and leave me in a clearing under hue renewing rays.
The vapours of stupidity, in tropical humidity,
are dissipated, damp, into a blanket green sky.
Where opalescent molecules discover their liquidity
returning them to fig leaves for their early morning cry.
Occasionally a red burlesque of human sexuality
would rise in blooms, and purple scents would stain the sticky air.
Since morals have no place in me (I cultivate debauchery!)
when pinky petals parted I learned what was growing there.
The mosses singing silently to soothe the rocks were violently
assaulted by the boots of those blood-stained with bellicosity.
Their gripping soles soon slipped in holes when boulders shifted silently
and, once encased in stone, a tyrant loses their ferocity.
After weeks of watchful ambling I finally stopped my rambling
and felt beneath my feet the subtle tremble of the sand.
As I looked across the beach I saw a million others scrambling
toward the same horizon.
Revolution’s best unplanned.
Renée McAlister, Brighton