She was covered in fallen leaves and flowers

I  heard a  strange sound

and spotted the plastic bottles


I plucked the plastic off her

she left out another soft sigh of pain

and then, it rained

I don’t know how to love the questions

that blast in brawling on wild winds lashing

the sirens of warning that road rivers are rising

and goodness is vanquished—

the single certainty of more

and too much as the earth spins

off its axis.

I do know how to be still

and listen in warm morning sunlight

to the wisdom of women who tell me

that hope looks like armies of beings wielding

sunflowers and parsnip, fishtails

and dust mops singing songs of our mothers

claiming our birthright, until hearts

find earth’s drum beat, songs

turn to thunder, until groundswell—

and the many are one.

I know how to hold a long gaze

squint far into the distance

until I can

see

it

The loud rumble that is tumbling weeds down serendipity-
yet drought ridden western terrain in the barren countryside of red
rocky mountain high and piercing blue sky.

I see blood red soil-
that rather sit in the pits of misery than- drink.
From the clouds of gods in the night-
so listen to me when the heat begins to rise- and seas fall.

The loud rumble that is tumbling **** down serendipity-
started it all,
                                                        A Million- Years Ago.

From flowers to rain to ice,
The cycle continues.
From before we were advanced enough to recognize it,
And the storms meant the end of days rather than cloud particles.
From when we worshipped it,
Blaming ourselves for droughts and turning to unjust sacrifices
To bring the water back.
Water came back, in the form of storms,
And it was glorified.
A part of our culture.
The cycle continues for countless generations
Past devestations swaying into new ones,
Like a teaching passed down from protege to protege,
Each iteration refusing to update.
Soon scientists understood how and why weather came,
And artists drew inspiration from snowy nights and sunny days.
Breaking the cycle seemed impossible,
Breaking the cycle would mean abandoning everything we knew.
Year after year, rotation after rotation, flowers to rain to ice come.
Yet, we’ve managed to break the cycle.

    Wonderful.                        We’re doomed.

Such a phenomenon- stars.
Falling- falling out of the sky a once in a life time event occurs only,
Once and I stare-
What more to to when face to face with the tragic demise of your own fate to just stand and stand hopeless
Quite poetic ain’t it?
So when watching this star fall-
Watch the dreams of children perish in space-
You and I and they- all know
So stare and stare hard
For we die once the view fades
And the curtains close
Fade to black-
                                                The End.

and at the end of time
the meek will inherit the earth
and all its worth
which will be nothing

When the voice of a seventeen year old girl holds more wisdom, sanity and truth than those who lead us.
When our leaders trade a prophet for a profit.
When there is easy money to be made from recovery rather than investment in change for the longer term.
When billionaires with vested interests set the policy.
Devastation and disaster, death and starvation have no political bias.
When will you add your voice and when will it be too late for you?
When eyes and ears give rise to voices that call out in fear for our very world will your apathy hold true?
Close your eyes.
Close your ears.
But even so your house will not be immune.

The rain is falling down the winter sky
the fog is wrapped like moss around the house
a fire is burning in the stove and I
am curled up in my hole, an elder mouse
who's seen the wars and lived to tell the tale
who's belled the cat and stolen all the cheese
who's climbed the stair and slid down on the rail
who's lived through summer's heat and autumn's freeze.
That is the past, for now the days are warm
even in this winter-time of life
although I'd take the snows to rainy storms,
for burrowing beneath avoids the strife
of dodging hawks and cats, and also owls
but in the sky the future softly growls.