“The Masai Mara Dreams of Vultures”- Poetry by Marius

Dust rises like a silted fog between the Serengeti plains and the mighty Masai Mara
Wildebeests in mass migration, heavy-headed, spindly-legged
Improbable and plenty, walk the beaten path in jeopardy
Relentlessly, attended by the watchful lions, in turn followed
By the jackals, cheetah, wild dogs, and hysterical hyenas
All laughing, tongues lolling, calculating distances
And likely outcomes
Every summer half a million grunting ungulates will meet their fate
And fill the fastest hunter’s need
Bloody-faced and belly-full, they retire when sated, without greed
And the Dance’s second act begins with graceful and ascending arcs
Like dueling kites in wind, the wheeling vultures float above, begin
To fall like stones, to strike the dusty clay
Flexing feathers, hopping froggish trolls
And the bloated, blasted carcass falls to them,
The boisterous mob, full of happy mayhem
Rot and guts are stripped in minutes
A spectacle of ugliness, but life’s directive
Nonetheless – that everything has use
But the Serengeti janitors, Mut’s minions also signal an alarm in azure skies,
That Death is here
And stealth, the poacher’s cloak, is torn away
For more and more, the hungry ghosts of war, the ivory thieves
Kill the gray gargantuan as they move with the herds
And leave cryptic corpses, sad remains
These are dangerous men to inconvenience in their plans
Soldiers in a blighted cause, they spread their poison everywhere
For birds, for men, and the tainted bait they make means this:
No birds to tell a tale, so easy cash and secrets kept
A poacher heeds no law but appetite and market share
Still..empty skies and poisoned corpses
Are a warning in and of themselves
Things fall apart, as Chinua Achebe said
Just this easily
While the Masai Mara dreams of vultures
Gone from the grassy seas

nytimes.com: Vulture Populations Wane, Poisoned by Man

New Poetry

https://i0.wp.com/media3.s-nbcnews.com/j/newscms/2015_31/1146336/cecil_magm1_loveridge2_small_2_8a6c700709ebd130311e1ff5f74e0ba8.nbcnews-ux-2880-1000.jpgCecil the lion: ‘We knew this is how he would die’ David McKenzie, CNN

Give Me One Of Them

A dentist and his luggage arrive in Zimbabwe
Cash and carry-on, pushing the buttons of privilege and pardon
That his class feels heir to, a legacy
Of helmeted conquistadors in search of gold or something shiny
Those Roman envoys come for tribute from the territories
Legions come to kill, conquer or consume..like tourists
Greasing the palms of hired-hands – the Future’s traitors
Handing off their nation’s treasures to the clamoring idiots
“Give me one of them”, he roars, gesticulating wildly
The ugly American who can buy anything
It’s practically online shopping and no safari
When the trophy’s guaranteed (or your money back)
Swindled and stolen by subterfuge
An empty stomach so often a trap full of entanglements
And so another African will make a Middle Passage
As a corpse
The deed is done, and life converts to property
The ebony-tipped lion dubbed ‘Cecil’
Like an immigrant at Ellis Island changing names and nations all at once,
By bureaucrats who needed a familiar name in their own tongue
Unbecomes, falls into history
Ends his story and his line in blood
The collaborator, Honore`, will pay the price before the law,
But surely honor suffers even more
As the greedy foreign butcher slinks
Behind a sturdy Minnesota door
And we, the wild tribal Diaspora dispersed by birth
From Mother Africa, generations gone and
Scattered loose across the globe, like seeds
Will know ourselves one less

Marius just completed Honeybee Democracy by Thomas D. Seeley.  Check back regularly for what Marius is reading and writing about!


“What’s more political than the question of expendability?” Barry Schwabsky
With clouds on the horizon spotted,
Have we decided yet?
Who will ride the ark with us,
Protected from our floods and pestilences
In valuable concubinage-
And who will sail instead into Eternity? These honeybees, so small
Among the lilies of the field,
That we might miss them altogether,k9267
Especially the rushing bipeds travelling through
A plastic, frantic world
Lives lived indoors, cramped and strangers to the sun.
But the bees make music working
through their quiet summer days, even if there is no one to hear
In fields and orchards, lawns and meadows
Tending their life’s work
And our own as well.
The tiny fuzzy fairies falling
Prey to a darker pall
That spreads a shadow everywhere
The approaching silent spring soon
Minus singing bees
Who, as it turns out,
Are much less expendable than we

New Poetry

Wastewater Spill in Colorado

The River ran Yellow in Colorado (2015)

When the river ran yellow past
The outfitter’s shack, kayaks lined up
Colorful, in Back
They could smell it coming first
Loaded with silt and clouds of poison
A heavy-hearted river full of sighs
Something rotten in the Animas
And coming downstream fast
The rainbow trout winking out like stars at dawn
And all the apocolyptic chemistry
Cascading and assailing invisibilia,
The magic microscopic lego-like pieces upon which
Everything is built
Begins a domino affect
A yellow light means caution, a warning
But Gold is King
So we careen through our intersection
With the world
Like a drunken teen in someone else’s car
Will we beat the light this time,
Or be hit by natural consequences?
Brace yourselves for impact

Me, I’m not (August 2015)

You , my friend, are a winner!
Ding, ding, ding
Happy happenstance in the living lottery
Genetically consistent maybe
Or just expected features
Yes, save that ticket, and no regrets
Watch local programming to see if
Circumstance graces your appropriate presentation,
and properly apportioned face
With its geranium kiss
At home in the temple of the soul
In fellowship, a member
Of the congregation at last
But me, I’m not
I’m just the beggar on the outside steps
Making everyone uncomfortable
So drop a coin in my bowl and meet my eye (I)
As you pass by
(and I do not)

Painting and Poetry – Trophallaxis

“We have fed you all for a thousand years,Illustration - bees
And you hail us still unfed…” these
Stark words of the old Wobbly song
Still time enough now, a hundred years on.
But more so, for millennia more (now)
The tiny, winged workers diligently toil in field
And orchards, bring our good to fruit, fill tables
With all good things that grow, they serve
Like saints, suffer like martyrs and
Share like good anarchists do, or could,
This bond of food, of plenty, forges
Our connection across species and makes the
Gathering of tribes a glad thing.
Leave it to the Greeks! Those feisty defiers
Of Capital’s call to fall in line,
To debt and submission – not they!
But, they have named the bond of bees, who
Share knowledge and community with food,
Trophallaxis, from mouth to mouth, a kiss.
So we can also feed each other, as gardens
Grow, we will grow again,



No disrespect to Detroit’s brilliant,
Beleaguered, and recently drug-martyred poet –
But Gil Scott-Heron was wrong, wrong, wrong.
The revolution Has been televised
And trivialized,
Made almost antiseptic, it’s apocalyptic attempts
Co-opted, contained and commoditized.
Now showing, an exhibit at the MOMA,
A thrilling documentary about
Just plain folks in far away places, maybe,
Coveting our conventional “democracy”
Surely these young people in tents knew that
Last year.
Not far away, but here,
They are serving Ben and Jerry’s,
And endlessly updating their Facebook pages,
Considering the subjugation of women and discussing brands..
Where are the anarchists, now,
As billions change hands and borders flex,
And bodies go to ground (blood being the most productive crop this year)
The shadow of Theocracy
darkens, sinister, solidifies
And creeps into the catbird seat,
Directing an international conversion event

That had naught to do with God

Well-documented and almost unseen.
Whose revolution has this been,