The Quest for Rest

by Max Nichols Meredith
scribed: Saturday 7th April 2007

Oh, how disorganised we Humans are,
That for satiation, we all, must travel so far?
And truck and import so much grandiose folly,
"But Darlink, how else does
a spoiled catholic girl........, get her jollies???"

Why any observer from Heaven or Stars
Would reel in disgust
At our ego-manic cage-like cars!

Which feed but a delusion and spoil the
soil, air and all of the waters...,
And account well in attrition-rates
Upon the highways of slaughter!

Cramped into urban pockets
Around centralising sorcerer's cities,
All under the spell of consumption to afford
None-but mortgaged prison-like inefficiencies!?

Drummed into a job utterly bereft of a Heart,
Producing/consuming rubbish
Only adding weight to Earth's funeral cart?

Moronically drunk on Super-UNnatural powers,
Guided NOT by their own Spirit - NO!
But from way-up in Wall Street's,
Vatican's, London's and Hong Shang's sinister towers.

In evermore massive factories they own,
Even the fondi of moguls have their immature joys,
By flogging to five-year-old adult flockers
Their untenable and insane "big-boys" dinky toys.

And HARK! All come from our corrupt spread on the Land?
For if we were spread right.........,
Friends, family, fun and a job,
Would all be Local, and by foot, bike or tram...,
Happily-at-Hand!

But HEY!? Bless the inefficiencies!
If it was they who brung the internet!
And ol' Gaytsie an' his software got-us
Globally gabblin' on th' possibilities
Of Organic-thus-GOOD-Government!

For the air we need to breathe,
Doesn't come from offices and factories,
And so the same can be said,
Of thoughts we hold to in our head.

We Humans don't come
From hospital maternity wards
We come, in bod, from the Humus
Of the Forest's Woods.

And whence the Spark,
we call "John", "Jack" and "Jill"?
The names we give this Mysterious Will?
Ho?! Surely wayback, before
Historisized Tyme?
'Afore Light and Dark.....,
P'rhaps afore the "Prime"?

So, if it's so, Where sep'rate are we?
From the Galaxies molten centre,
From the Spirits Alive amongst the Trees?

But NO! We're set to "spec" the Land,
And rush to Nuclearise ALL Country,
And shave-off Hertha's vital organ!
The TREE!

So scared, we retreat in Truth..,
From all Humanity.
And sit, in paralysed isolation,
Petrified of the impending global calamity.

I, on the other hand,
go to a Land, now and then,
When free-of-my-feet.
Alas! A Vision Splendid indeed!
I would take you, if I had a spare seat.

'Tis an Earthen Place, where Hearths of Rock,
Squat round and warm in Village Centres.
Wi' market stalls akin to Tales of Robin Hood,
Shared by Folk, All Good and Honest Vendors.

Where none are short of the rudiments to share,
All that comes from Sound Organic Tenure,
A crop, Vegie-bed, a herd, a lathe,
A place to safely sleep, wash and Work,
For whaddever Honourable Gifts y' got-in-yer.

Where Music and Dance fly with the flow
Of the "Lines" of the Spirits - Grand and Small.
Where Farmers, Clerks and Warriors chorus
Affirmative Odes holding High,
That "Just Land Law is Peace for All"!

And the drugs now in the cabinet,
Once again come from
The Grannie's Pharmacopeia Garden.
Pharmaceutical pills are but a bad dream,
Not needed! The Folks are Wisened
And thus to infection - hardened.

And made immune by the soft touch
Of Mother Eartha's Nat'ral Blends,
Knowing how slug-an'-spider creepies,
and a Green-Green Earth
Are their Best Medical Friends.

Where a "ruggie" nibbles some quoll-shit!?
And LO! She didn't die!
Where geckos catch the mozies,
An' Tree Frogs zap the flies.

Houses, it's true, are some small
And some really quite large.
Naturally grown, hued and honed
To many an Art's Artist's head and Heart's
Natural Artistic collage.

Here-an'-there, some built a Hall,
Fit for the finest Live Music,
Where Dancers and Poets,
And all Colour of Performers
Respectfully come and use it.

Towns, as they are, maintain themselves,
As one maintains one's Life.
Simply done, imbued with fun,
Wisely holding to True Land Law -
Thus pre-empting strife.

Coppers ride bikes and horses as oft',
Educating the victims-the-crims O-rare
That Wise justice is deliciously soft.
Thus are paid for tasks that are All The Way Just.

Most in this Land of Love, Oh Dream where I fly,
Live Sharing their Homes, Hearths, Hearts and Spiritual Eye,
So need no "religion" as we lost, long for in the west.
Sound Land Tenure quells all quests, to Deep Inner Rest.

Whence in Common Weal and alone "Silence of Mind" Rises
as the Spontanious, Spiritual Best.