Sometimes, I think about our future children
Who will grow up not knowing of the stars
Or of splashing in streams of childhood

But only
Black smog and masks
Filtering the poisons we have put
In our lungs

Will they find familiar
Dead animals, dead plants
A dead Earth?

I wonder
If they will be able to run in fields
Without glass between shrubs and on their feet?

Will they know a life?
Outside of the dystopia of our own making?

Meanwhile, here we sit
Living our lavish lifestyles
Not having a care about
Who dies in the process?

Do we not believe
The polar bear who drowned
From a lack of ice
Has a right to live as well?

Or the animals who starve
From humankind's greed
To eat lavish fish and exotic plants.

Do we not think twice
On pumping our plants
Full of toxins
That destroys every insect and ****
From the inside out
In our bodies?

Do we have no idea that eventually
Our land will hold heat so well
We may no longer dine
For everything is dead?

Or will we only care
When the melting ice
Has flooded our towns

Destroying brick homes
And picket fences with
Swingsets in the backyard.

Will it only matter
When we cannot grill meat
Produced from suffering

Or when there is no more profit to be made
From pumping our rivers with manmade monsters

Wonder about our future children
How will they grow
Living a life of disease and death.

But no, it will only matter
When us in the present start dying.

Even more, it will only be of importance
When it isn’t killing people across the world
But in our own homes.

It will not be significant
Until you lose a mother, a best friend
A lover, a child.

Sometimes I wonder about the children
And I apologize
For the life we have condemned them to.

Come aboard this submarine,
and observe the sea,
so peaceful and serene,
yet terrifying.

Ebbing and flowing,
never shrinking nor growing,
the tides come
for payment due.

Waves crash and slash,
writhing and weaving,
smoothing rocks,
bringing seashells
but spreading plastic.

Coral grows in a thousand hues
amidst the bright and dreary blues.
Fish and octopi wander
unaware of the world so sombre.

Debris and rotting bones sink,
along with skin and dust,
uncaring and indifferent.

Descend into these darkened depths,
no, no need for eyes,
do try and hold your breath.

Curling tails and bladed mandibles,
they promise to only take a bite.
Deceiving lights and crushing pressure,
this place welcomes not.

Finally.
At the depths.
The water crushes your skull,
and you are truly free.

Why is there a plastic bag?

We thought we'd tamed the dragons.

But they were simply waiting,
Watching us methodically
Create an environment
More suited to their needs.

Heated, unpredictable, and
Increasingly hostile.

We never tamed the dragons.
We became them.

The crow in the tree
Is actually          
A black trash bag.    

flowing as smooth skin, pimple pebbles in between;
the break out of my skin – still I flow freely as I am,
while my tears weigh heavy on the bank’s sand…

still, I’m glad to know how much you enjoy me tickling
in between your toes – wash off the struggles of your heart,
but please don’t use it as an excuse to leave your *******
inside of me

          you found me as a clear river,
   and I've always known where I'm going
                                    let me live a clear life.

toxicity is just a human thing; cause of all the fumes we
all love to breathe – do our young men have much chose,
we can all live like men, but need to be trained like boys
if the roof over our troubled fires fell down, would the
smoke clear, or would we be forced to breath it all in?

but that’s how we live because we’re troubled, have dreams
inspired by the ideas of others, treat women less, as men
with no father’s, live in our own shadows because we all
hate our true colours –
                                  we just all want to breath.

Humans,

who are we?

What are we?

Habitats for microscopic life-forms?

Fertilizer for spring blooms?

Animals, incessantly foraging for sustenance?

Polluters of the Earth and its atmosphere?

Killing machines with insatiable appetite for war?

Yes…Yes, we are all that and more.

We are poets and dreamers,

truth seekers and love makers,

scientists and prophets,

heroes and villains.  

We are the ****** and the blessed  

inhabitants of a lonely planet.

A mendacious murmuration
  of black pixels dance a fractal fandango
  against the pale pink sky
telling you that all is well with the world.
A susurration of complacency–
  above the exhaust-scented streets
  of Birmingham’s melting asphalt–
whispers, “Don’t worry,
ignore the heatstroke starlings
dropping from the sky
onto viscous pitch dark bitumen”.