Rural Chernobyl

I saw a documentary about Chernobyl past,
And how most folks had moved from there – they fled disaster vast –
All food, and water, air, and soil, polluted by the break,
Which spewed its toxic steam and left a radiated wake.

Denial could not cover up what drifted ’cross the land;
Some folks stayed there and live their lives and could not understand
Why they should go, the damage done, their lives already trashed –
“Why leave my home and neighbourhood? not much of life I ask”.

 I also heard the body craves nutrition which it needs;
It's automatic, balancing the plenty that one sees.
I wonder if the folks who've moved away from prairie farm,
Have a deep within sensed danger – moving far away from harm.

Just like Chernobyl: air, and water, soil, and what we eat's
Polluted now with chemicals we used to grow our wheat;
Deep in our hearts we know it's true, but can't afford to leave;
Besides, where would we move these days to threat of danger ease?

Just like Chernobyl we can't go to where pollution's less;
It permeates our biosphere as we produce the best;
It's thicker here then over there but like in Cold War's day,
Once world is gone, more bombs than that are games the foolish play.

We're toast, or pretty much I hunch, unless we clean things up;
At least stop adding more like pouring poison in a trough,
Expecting cattle drinking it to get along just fine
Because we cannot see the cancer coming down the line.

How subtle was the shift in me once cancer’d broken out
(I used to scoff at hugging trees, and things along that route);
I'm not so sure now as I look at art that's on my desk –
I think I know deep down in me that this is not the best.

I sling that mop, and heft that pail, and toss the garbage out;
I rise up early, do my hours, and think what I'm about;
And then address the backlog of two years of life I missed;
For now the two of us have suffered from what I'd dismissed.

One cell went wacky in our bowels where garbage from ourselves
Had contact for extended time, then raised their little hells;
We got it stopped, (perhaps you too, we'll have to wait and see);
Regardless, look – our lives are whacked by world that's come to be).

So, what to do? Are we to flee like those Chernobyl folks?
Or stay till documentary gives place for cynic’s jokes?
Should we pollute as in the past, admit the time is gone
When anyone can halt the evil genie which we've spawned?

Or, like Keewatin, once I saw their problem by the late,
And asked if I should leave, or stay – and better context make;
I stayed, and failed, but in that failure deeper questions found,
Which started Quest for what we'd missed in that initial round.

For thirty years, committed to that question by the lake,
I asked and followed dead-and leads believing sense I'd make;
Until, at last, a picture rose which I could clearly see,
Of what we'd missed – right here inside this person I called ‘me’.

So do I start another quest in this polluted land?
Or do I carry on with what I've come to understand?
Perhaps I need not interfere with others in their work,
As they clean up the neighbourhood (not be polluting jerk).

I think I need to finish up the work I've done so far;
I wish I could move from this place to where the pine trees are;
Not fleeing from this mess, because Chernobyl-like, it's there;
That land brings solace to my heart, and wounded soul repairs –

Or not – for early life for me was in-and-out for rest,
And then returning to the fray we did our very best
To make a world which we had dreamed could be a better place
Not just for us, but respite for us all of human race.

So, maybe what I'm craving most is for a holiday
To take a break, get out of here, then face another day;
I have a task I have to do which stops me in my tracks
“Plan-B” – that tree across my trail, while for  “Plan-A” I ask.

I crave a geographic cure for what I can not be;
I seek to find an easy way to have maturity;
It doesn't work, I know that, but I craved it just the same;
Chernobyl-like the fallout from the West – it has my name.

A hero-type I seek to be, but not, it is not true
I needs approach the fray again and do what I must do;
For only when we sweep our side of roadways where we live,
Have we that peace which others crave, and words to others give.

What is that hurricane which sweeps from west, Chernobyl-like?
What is its nature? Where's it from? – impact when little tyke?
At first I thought it was the way I found relief from stress
But then I saw the broken pipe from which flowed out the mess.

I find that God, like plumber was, concerned with pipes not shit,
(He brushes off discomfort, fixes pipe pipe in spite of it);
And now it's fixed – with great relief – and in this blessed life
I have the way restored to me, with family, neighbours, wife.

 Behind all outward problems from my convoluted ways,
There is a single aspect from my early childhood days –
Third Culture Kid I am, now grown, so adult from that place,
And now that He's connected me, He fills me with His grace.

When I returned into the fold, “a Prodigal”, they said;
I balked, they did not know my quest, or where that pathway led;
But now I see – a prodigal, of course, for all are that –
But they were not my culture's world, 'twas “Echo-land ”, in fact.

Now I am home and see by light which pours upon this scene;
I laugh and feel the grace pour through the pipe which should have been
In place – my culture's channel for God's grace into my life;
Now it's in place, the power flows through me, calms others' strife.

So what's the focus of my words to others in this scene?
About the stress-relieving ways I've found where I have been?
I doubt it – ’cause they matter not, that's more about the shit –
I'm more concerned with pipe, I find, than what flows out of it.

It's all about connecting up our culture's pipe in life,
Then letting Spirit's power flow to overcome our strife;
Like Paul who came to others with God's power not just words –
He healed, and moved some mountains when through him they Spirit heard.

And that is what Apostles are – those fixers of the pipes;
And those who do the other tasks which God points out He likes
To have completed so His grace can pour into their lives;
So all mankind can dance and sing, and have a life which thrives.

So – plumber-like I guess I am, a fixer of the pipes;
Approaching people where they are, who crave the things they like;
Help them connect up to the place they've bonded to as home,
So they can live where e'er they are, released from drive to roam.

Chernobyl-like it pours on us like gravel we tossed up;
Despite the fact we've cut it out, we are in for journey rough –
It takes a while for it to fall, there's lots still in the air;
And others still are tossing up, just like when we were there.

So in this blast of Westerlies with gravel from our pasts,
We carry out life-giving work, do “this and that” as asked
We crave relief, take holidays, and try to pace our work;
Stop throwing gravel in the air, don't be polluting jerks.

navigation