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The field was all he'd known
admiring the flowers
the butterflies
the snakes
they poisoned the field
the snakes.

The river is all he knows
Listening to the hum
of the river's flow
the trash
it polluted the river
the trash.

The field is all he needs
longing for the rich harvest
Of knowledge
the snakes
do not scare him
the snakes.

The river is the one in pain
the fish mourn
their home is dying
the river
it must be cleansed
my river.
The boy of the field and river.
deadhead Apr 10
Let's cut down thousands of acres of trees
and force the poor and wounded upon their knees.
Don't forget to throw your trash out into earth
and let new types of pollution be given birth.
We'll continue to overuse all of our remaining soil
and complain about our only earth is beginning to spoil.
It doesn't really matter because we won't be here
after all, because of us, the end is getting more near.
Oh, and we'll never be the one to accept the blame
for the oil spills and for anything that might become aflame.
i'm getting sick of how many people don't care about the state of our only Earth
Carlo C Gomez Mar 21
One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).
Alicia Moore Mar 6
The dawn of humans unknowingly sparked a debate in sincerity.
While praising dexterity, one may neglect the warmth of a tender heart.

Is it better to ablate the ***** —
do we intend to berate its kindness?

I wish to travel to the beginning of evolution,
when no pollution of such harshness is clear;
that may be our only solution here.
The great green expanses of land which I saw
Were scratched by Human's deadly claw.
The mountains so tall & great
made to serve as global warming's bait.

The canopies of trees both scanty and tall
Were cut down despite nature's call.
All varieties of wastes are running a race
of who gets to deteriorate Earth's base.

All the lives of animals came to a halt,
When the cranes gave the forest a jolt.
Pollution is intensifying each second.
We won't destroy the environment.

I root for a day in the future
when there's harmony amongst all creatures.
I long that amazing day,
When there's a ray of hope and the skies aren't the polluted grey.
wrote this back in class 7
Man Feb 24
the dove
labored by his own beak;
the last breathed breath

lungs are filled
with the salt of the sea
**** to the shackled, the non-free
do you care, or is it a play
to see what you can get
breathe in
what's left
of the clean we polluted
divinity diluted
of air cleared, not yet
Ron Gavalik Feb 23
Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves

–Ron Gavalik
The Himalayas is our allotted
Dwelling place prepared
For my tribe by Yeshua, who
Brought us forth from the ground
As high as he saw fit,
Days before earth
Knew not the scent
Of men.

Now
Peace shrouded my face
From the eyes of men
Until irksome expeditions
Instigated by the Brits,
Forever polluted
Me with their rotting flesh;
Refusing to yield, till summiting
Me, the tallest
In my tribe, was
Made within reach.

Woe,
My days are spent
Collecting forsaken filth
And fresh victims
Enticed by their
Arrogance and lead
By their ego, to be
Humbled by
Yours truly.
Cross Boundry Feb 18
Walk along the riverbed.
You will come upon a nymph,
Aged and smooth
As a riverstone
Sighing and singing with
The water’s flow
Ask her, “How are you, Nymph?”
And she will
Smile
Up at you and say
“I am but a tired soul
In a tired sea
Of tired souls.”
Her voice the soft bubbling of the river.

Walk among the trees.
You will come upon a dryad,
Ridged and furrowed
As the tree limb
Upon which she sat as she watched
The leaves fall with the autumn breeze
Ask her, “How long have you sat here, Dryad?”
And she will
Gaze
Down at you and say
“I grow and grow old
With the tree.
And the tree has grown tired.”
Her voice the raspy crinkle of the fallen leaves.

Walk amidst the flowers.
You will come upon a deva,
Light and sweet
As the honeysuckle she sat amongst
Watching and humming with
The many bees
Ask her, “Who are you, Deva?”
And she will
Frown
Away from you and say
“We, those of us that
Belong
To this place,
We are Afraid.
And we wish to no longer be Afraid.”
Her voice the wavering stems of delicate flowers.

The nymph chokes on her sisters' remains as
the dryad is cut down and shredded and the deva is
forced into restrained clay pots.

They cannot be freed by one
but by the response
of all.
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