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Jack without Jill
Went down
The hill
To fetch
A pail
Of water
He didn't
Fall down
On the way
He was happy
And gay
Just carrying
Empty pail
Down the hill
He reached
Bank of a stream
He filled
The pail
From the stream
Lined up with
Human excreta
Water was stinking
Not fit
For drinking
Purifying it
He was thinking
He had
Knowledge wealth
A man
Of Public Health
He fetched
The pail uphill
His heart
Pounded against
His chest
He was breathless
Fetching the pail
He turned pale
With difficulty
He traversed
The trail
Reached home
Drank a grail
Of water
From the pail
No time
For purification
Was dying
So thirsty
Now his
*******
Was leaking
Result of
Water
Some *** Holes
Had polluted
Jack had
To be hospitalized
Of dehydration
He would have died
As he lay
Recovering in his
bed
Old memories
Came to his head
He remembered
Olden days
When he used
To go uphill
With Jill
To fetch
A pail of water
From a natural spring
Of pure mineral water
He cursed
His uncles and aunts
Parents and grandparents
For deforestation
Cutting trees
Cutting earth
For making
Mansions, terraces
Drying up
The spring
Natural source
Of mineral water
Tears rolled down his eyes
He whispered
Olden days were fine!
Erian Rose Jan 29
Nature followed her footprints,
Planting seeds in the sand
With every forward land,
Blooming trees to the moon.

Wind would whistle between
The curls of her bronzite hair,
Setting a crown of flowers upon her head,
Hues of violets and blues.

No matter how much strength
She placed in the land,
There was only so much she could do
To brace the incoming doom.

Her eyes as forests
Would get torn down one by one,
Leaving nothing but rabbit holes
In the tracks that were left.

Generations would soon come to see,
The everlasting beauty of her earth.
In what was worth protecting.
What was left for recovering
before her last breath.
Anisah Oct 2020
Beyond the piles of fractured rocks
And the dunes that echo empty
Lies no more songs of the wind
Or any fruits of pleanty
The sky it darkens so much so
That the nocturnes all come out
But not a star nor moon is there
Just black fog seeping out
The trees are withered well and good
From poison tears that fall
The creatures move - mirages
Of what they were before it all
No more ocean and no more skies
When plastic people pester please
The forges of nature overrun
With men of metal and guys of greed

- Anisah Mariah
Akshita Aug 2020
We only have one Earth,
So why don't we live and act like it?
Why do we go on
Wasting non-renewable resources?
Why do we keep on
Hunting and haunting wildlife?
Why do we continue
Chopping down the trees?
Why do we pretend
That there's another planet B?
Äŧül Dec 2013
Roar!
The sanctuary roars,
Some of its many beasts seem angry,
They all feel hungry.

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

Roar!
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.
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,
Bi-centennial
-Chop-
Feet of roots,
Fingers of shoots
-Chop-
Hands of stems,
Arms of limbs
-Chop-
Skin of bark,
Flesh of starch
-Chop-
Beard of moss,
Nothing of dross
-Chop-
Blood of sap,
Crack of snap
-Chop-
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.
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