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LRF Apr 28
When Mother Earth
sighs deeply
we write lines
that we claim
interpret her

We mimic her voice:
sorrowful, righteous – a child speaking
of what they do not know.

When she shakes
her head –
her fist – at us,
we write lines
on the same darlings
she nurtured
from seed to sky,
and we shake our heads – our fists –
at the logger trucks.

We shame those who stand
furthest from us,
tapping a rhythm of hate
on our keyboards, our keypads –
the ones we replace every year
when we pile them
into landfills
sickening our Mother
with battery acid.

We race to chain ourselves
to thousand year old
Huon pines,
but we are just as quick
to disentangle ourselves
from the chain of supply –
from the source of our pamphlets,
their colours and crisp edges
‘Come! Join our noble cause!’
March, 2020
Äŧül Dec 2013
The sanctuary roars,
Some of its many beasts seem angry,
They all feel hungry.

The roar is sadder,
Some of the advanced beasts feel sad,
They all miss hunting.

The roar is full of sorrow,
Some of its beasts can't contain the sorrow,
They all miss their families.
My HP Poem #504
©Atul Kaushal
Jonathan Moya Mar 2019
The Sumatran orangutan, gardening her spot  
comfortable in the canopy and lush tree top,
nursing her young month-old,
fell fiery below, seventy-four holes
in her when the shooting stopped.

Four air gun pellets pierced her left eye,
two her right, leaving her darkly blind,
a howling Homer, Milton in orange pain,
bereaved, childless, now a wild-less refrain
scratching the earth for any hopeful frame..

Her collar broken, lacerations from sharp objects
on her upright arm and leg, one left finger a socket.
Her fiery camouflage that hid her in the canopy light
is singed in the clearing flame, her skin turned night    
just another victim of human slight.

She will suckle her ghost child five years until mature
for the pain she has there is no real animal cure.
Use to solitude she is now truly truly alone,
even as the human rescuers reset her broken bones.
For in the war between good and bad man she is the lure.

Spared the ignominy of being a rich Clint Eastwood’s pet,
she will live out her life in sanctuary and uneasy stress
away from those who fear a Planet of Apes,
a refugee of the Air Gun War with her own tamed space,
PTSD, therapy, rehabilitation and very high tree state.
Maaz Dec 2018
Through eyes of dull green it sees,
Through deep brown bark it breathes;
A place of shelter it does render,
For those have become too tender.

Humans are not the only animals it aids,
For many boundless beings flock to its shade.
To the wise Old Oak tree all the animals go,
The place they hide from the wind that blows.

A habitat it does provide,
For a world that remains hidden from our eyes;
A world that will soon cease to exist,
which shall soon dissapate into a mist.

The sound of an axe swinging in the distance,
is the sound of another Old Oak being stripped from existence.
This Old Oak is now the last of its kind,
A species extinct thanks to the demand of the human mind.
A Tree
Kieran Dec 2018
A tree with no leafs
Reveals the veins of Earth we need

To breathe.
JDL Nov 2018
Hundreds of years gone
With a few swings of an axe
Amber tears, so long...
So many ancient trees are lost each year. May this poem serve as both a memorial and a dedication to what has been lost.
JDL Nov 2018
Forest sentinel,
Feet of roots,
Fingers of shoots
Hands of stems,
Arms of limbs
Skin of bark,
Flesh of starch
Beard of moss,
Nothing of dross
Blood of sap,
Crack of snap
And that was that...
So many ancient trees are lost each year. May this poem serves as both a memorial and a dedication to what has been lost.
Kimone Oct 2018
a b c d e f g
How to cut down an old tree
As easy as 1 2 3
How to cut down an old tree
Once again the tree fell
The land is no more
Once again we live in hell
There is no room for law
a b c d e f g
How to cut down an old tree
David Brady Oct 2018
Lowering from the sky, the great cranes-
teetering necks that could feed clouds.
Groaning mammoths boring craters that could
bathe crocodiles. Machinery making
mounds of earth. The Common Dump Truck,
broad back carrying progeny of pulp
and muck. A lone bulldozer, idle
under shade of fir tree canopy.
Lost to time.
Pagan Paul Oct 2018
Quiet! Shhh!
Can you hear it?
The animals are talking.
No, they are panicking.
Can you smell it?
The Forest is on fire.
My Forest is aflame!

I run, following nostrils singed with heat,
against the tide of the fleeing fauna.
Reaching the blaze I see....
eight of them.
My anger rises and erupts.
'STOP!' I bellow. They turn and draw swords.
My eyes narrow and a look of pure disdain unfolds.

I continue.
'I am Rook, Lord of the Forest Kingdom.
How dare you, enter my domain with no permission
and reek havoc on my Forest'.

A step is taken, toward me.
The eyes of a fighter glower, at me.
The point of a sword raises, threatening me.

I punish.
'For your transgressions and your destruction
you shall stand as stones, for eternity,
and as a warning to others'.

A scream pierces the air as a foot,
then another, compresses to rock.
The rest join the chorus, agony,
as each become statues,
twisted and contorted as
the Ancient Oaks they had destroyed.

My Oaks.
This is my Anger.
Would you care to see my Love?

© Pagan Paul (2018)
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