Upside Down World   Leave a comment

The Appoach of Nemesis

 

Entering in you find a scene of order;

cleanliness is best, old ways, archival.

No scrap sets loose outside its borders;

prepared and sorted for your arrival.

 

At first these chores remain a daily theme;

your well-being, uppermost priority.

Nursery, kitchen, bathroom, spotless clean;

unflinchingly scoured, no glance of pity.

 

Then exhaustion eats away intention;

lids not fastened, diapers miss the pail.

The parents perfect fairy tale, pretension;

images of counters not wiped down,  assail.

 

Soon the scraps of daily life accumulate,

Corners, shelves, piled high in towering stacks;

unfinished projects of someday thrown out

in reckless spates of self-recrimination.

Neglected expectations looking back.

 

Grown self remembers nothing of this, just

recall sunny days laughing play ’round your bed.

Your parents let go of idealistic bliss,

learned practical reality instead.

 

The Old Wive’s Tales spoke most tellingly,

“A child must eat two pounds of dirt before it’s  grown.”

must have been adhered to, even if unwillingly;

you grew up a wild seed, as though unintentionally sown.

 

Yet, the world you inhabited has changed

in ways undreamt by those who came before.

Skies, less friendly, far more severe, now hang

above; their cloaking power shields no more.

 

This invasive ultra-violet spectrum;

undreamed, unexpected, unwarned of;

no meteorologists speculation

consumed your high-school aged attention.

 

Now add to fearsome rays of  UV-B

(no slathered sun-screen will you from this protect),

this conjoined threat, the deadly UV-C.

The stratosphere, it’s weakened net, suspect.

 

“Sub-arctic ozone hole has closed,” they said.

Then what new forces  are applied to bring

this present world of fire and sun-burnt head?

What Nemesis has brought it’s poisoned sting?

 

The streaks of yellowed leaves on branch and tree,

the deadened bushes in your neighborhood,

no chances of recovery appears;

once healthy grown, since before your child-hood.

 

But no, this menace isn’t born of man

Nor chemical, nor min’ral laden trails,

No o’er-arching depopulation plan

could bring this disaster onto man, so frail.

 

The very earth on which you first rode bike;

spun cart-wheels, stalked hand-stands begins to shift.

Holes,  big as houses ope’ in the earth like

yawning caverns threat’ning souls to sift.

 

The biggest river’s course dries up in places

where deepest flow should boat assist;

nor record flooding waters show their trace

downstream inside old banks were once to list.

 

Where once, a thunder-storm (requirement),

the after-image rainbows now appears

with dry puff-clouds for accompaniment;

a puzzlement of mystery to fear.

 

Compasses of youth point not toward Big-dipper,

but just off-angled toward the southeast,

moving further that direction every year;

These heavens not fixed, nor constant in the least.

 

Tell then, what happened to the world we knew;

The ever constant state of slow decay?

No trusted word is spoken now of Nibiru,

whose slingshot orbit bends ’round darkened day.

 

The other voices sang its imminence,

repeated cycle told by ancient clay;

of  preparations we thought, “There’s no need.”

We failed to heed the warnings at the Bay.

 

Every day brings news of fresh disasters.

Belching mountains, once thought dead, speak plain;

we must prepare, these, our sure forecasters.

Volcanic ash spreads far with acid rain.

 

Your world, unquiet, strains against her bounds.

Rocking chains of gravity, she trembles, then subsides.

Blasting forth in strangled screams her trumpet sounds;

again she moves, she stumbles, heeds command.

 

He calls to her while riding Nemesis

in wild orbit, swinging sceptered load

‘midst open streams of radiation; hisses…

She tumbles to the rhythms known of old.

 

If you this mating should survive, recall

that warning you were given.  The future

of your progeny depends on having all

this information in a form that is assured.

 

No woodland paper will survive that journey

into the dark abyss, and its return.

Leave solid notice in earth’s rocks deeply worried,

Record the cycle of the earth it churned.

 

Ancient tablets made of etched and fired clay

created for endurance, simplified;

tell stories of the sure and certain day

when earth again will heed the call, and

on Nibiru’s tail, will take the wild ride.

 

Nibiru's calling

 

Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. May 2018.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

 

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