Oh I see it
You see it,
We both see it too,
Our constituents can see it,
But they haven’t got a care,
Let’s climb Mount Everest and get back to…
Consumption,
Consuming ever inch of even the deadliest,
Most subversive terrain,
Because we are Man,
There is nothing outside of our domain,
No lamb, nor dove, nor tree, nor rock, nor gene, nor womb,
Someone can always claim better use,
Then use it, use it,
Use it up,
Dry the teat from which it’s sucked,
No concern for the mare,
For consumption sees not the waste,
Just the use,
And we are here in a land we soon won’t recognize,
Our children won’t believe what unused could mean,
Or look like,
our mountains dwarfed by landfills,
And our oceans become a myth,
Consume the seas, consume the trees,
The Lorax has already left,
What’s left are us hippies,
Rallying in it’s spirit,
Hoping still
that someone will wake up,
And see that this is
all just a nightmare
With an end,
We’re all waiting for
the Hollywood twist,
That deems our
ugly, air sucking
stranger than fiction truth
just that,
fiction
Tag: Pollution
Toxins
Superhero: Damage Done
I still want to save the world
That is in part my privilege,
And responsibility,
And realizing in part that means
Saving the world too from me,
And my first world habits
–My waste, my want, my consumption,
I need no cape for my cause,
That would only hold me back,
Catch me up,
And add to the consumptive practices
I am in part fighting,
Flood waters may recede,
With damage done,
Yet the hard intersectional work of clean up and prevention never ends.
6 Word Stories: Loving
Their love survives: Hamilton to Angelica.
Waste waves call them to action.
New, searching for her right place.
Midnight poet can’t hold herself back.
Love that transcends time and space.
A decade gone still can’t forget.
Memories still haunt the beloved living.
Suit Up!
It’s coming, the end.
And everyone sees it,
Watches it, as our planet dies,
She’s dying a slow and painful death,
And the end is teased out,
By hope of green consumption,
But it takes from the top to make this work,
So we give up,
And get another plastic cup,
A straw,
A bag,
because we are just one,
But therein lies the illusion,
That keeps us slaves
To the industries
That profit off this death,
We are one,
And one, and one, and one, and…
Adding up to make a difference,
We are no more beaches, oceans, waves of our toxic, slow degradation,
No more breaths and bites of plastic,
No more soil contaminated by Fossil fuel,
No more leaded and flammable drinking water, poisoning our bodies and minds,
We are caught in a global bystander effect,
Waiting for the Lorax to return,
Without first planting the seed,
We are waiting for a fire department in a burning house,
Not realizing we are the fire department,
It is less, to be more,
It is activism, demanding more,
It is speaking out,
It is cleaning house,
It is preserving,
It is bearing witness to the floods, the cyclones, the tsunamis, monsoons, the hurricanes, tornados, and seeing them for what they are,
Earth is not mad,
She is hemorrhaging,
And it is on us to stop it from worsening,
The house is on fire,
The house is on fire,
The house is on fire!
–suit up!
Fresh Air
November 6, 2016
Fresh country air
There’s nothing better for you.
Nothing some good old Appalachian breeze can’t cure
Day wains
Kin circle the fire pit
Wind shifts,
storm’s brewing,
somewhere.
No matter;
Fire will have burned itself out
long before it gets here.
For now,
let the little ones play,
and run through wide open spaces.
Generation upon generation,
born and bred
country strong of blue collar creed.
Mills, mining, construction,
factories.
Family farms:
cows, chicken, horses, hogs.
Diesel, grease and oil perfume;
Remind of hard work,
and loving what we do.
Past cornrows, and pastures,
down country roads,
dirt; paved, old and new,
A trek to “town”, to work, to school.
Pickups, ATVs, on worn forest paths,
over rickety bridge covered creeks,
these country roads: tried, traveled, true.
Smell the seasons changing;
A hot lemonade summer,
aging to a crisp kodachrome fall;
next a frigid white Winter,
then warm floral Spring.
The amber sun sinks lower,
the buzz of the drill goes silent.
and workers hang their hats.
Before eight
all county stores,
paper mill, factories:
closed
Past dinner,
past dusk,
Fireflies flicker.
Little ones tucked in tight.
All house lights low.
Over paved roads semis still blaze.
Foliage, pollen, and manure
scent the dewy night.
Yet no matter time of day
or year,
most reliably,
Methanol,
Formaldehyde,
Ammonia,
Lead,
and
Styrene
remain
in this
fresh,
country
air.
She of Letters 