#conservation
Entropy is increasing,
Slowly reducing order to disorder
Like all things must,
As confirmed by thermodynamics
And witnessed by aging,
To the point where all things
Weather,
Wither,
Die.
███████████████████████████████
Alive.
Love,
Loss,
Is the malady of experience;
A means to interpret energy
Such that
Whatever choices
You must make
The first law is final:
One conversion,
No waste.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:57 PM UTC
in what remains of that solemn woodland
an old willow creaks in memory of winters past
her withered leaves fall in the summer
and scarcely return come spring
her branches like the fingers of a bedlam
crooked, twisted and bruised
an empty nest where once a yellow warbler raised her young
now visited by robins, curious and brave
like ancient celts as they looked upon old roman columns
abandened and forgotten, slowly turning back to dust
many trees the willow knew once
but how quick the woodland disappears
she stood for many years, as a daughter of the forest
yet she will die, as a lone ponderer upon the solemn plain
Feb 17
Feb 17, 2026 at 4:31 AM UTC
In Shelburne Falls the river keeps its own calendar.
Spring announces itself before the leaves,
before the town believes it.
The Green River swells and speaks louder,
a rough syllable rolling through open windows,
water practicing its long memory on stone.
When I lived nearby I learned to sleep inside that sound,
the way you learn a friend's breathing,
the way place becomes a body you trust.
Years later the street remembers how to listen.
Bridge Street, patient as a bench,
holds a new quiet without erasing the old.
A door opens where glass once caught light
and the floor already knows what to do.
You do not need much to begin, only room enough
for breath to find its length.
Harmony arrives without fanfare,
as these things often do.
A search that kept returning, a listing that waited,
a timing that felt like being met halfway by the day.
Green paint warms a wall. Mirrors learn humility.
Shoes line up like good intentions.
Inside, bodies come as they are
and discover that balance is not a pose
but a practice of staying.
The teacher speaks with the steadiness of someone
who has learned how care can exhaust itself.
She invites others in, shares the floor,
lets the work be distributed like sunlight.
Vinyasa on a Monday evening,
restorative when the week leans too hard,
meditation early when the town is still rinsing sleep
from its eyes.
A dance class steps lightly into the story,
Pilates and parents and small hands to come.
The schedule is a living thing,
a hedge you trim and tend, not a wall.
Outside, the village keeps its agreements.
The bridge carries flowers because someone decided
that beauty was worth maintaining.
The river is protected because people remembered
that love can be organized.
Conservation is not a slogan here,
it is a habit, a way of saying
this will still be here tomorrow
if we behave as if tomorrow matters.
I think of the house we kept near the water,
how spring nights roared like encouragement.
How mornings smelled of wet leaves and resolve.
How the seasons did not hurry us
and yet asked us to pay attention.
Living there taught me that a place can be generous
without being loud about it,
that goodness grows when it is allowed
to be ordinary and shared.
Inside the studio a breath lifts, then settles.
A body learns where it is,
how to be strong without forcing,
how to rest without quitting.
This is the work of towns too,
of streets that hold room for new uses,
of leases that pass hand to hand
without losing their grace.
It is how a village keeps its balance,
not by standing still,
but by moving together,
listening for the river,
and choosing, again and again,
to make space for what heals.
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 11:29 AM UTC
Humiliation is a
Tool,
Allowance is a
Fool.
Your status depends on
The control you can
Hold,
And those whom you can
Fold.
Your life depends on nothing
But a silver
Tongue
And a
Golden eye,
A burning will to live
And a will to
Sacrifice.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 7:28 AM UTC
Bellbird,
purple cloaked
soaked, in sweetly echoed tones,
these days you are rarely heard
above the din of mobile phones
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 1:02 AM UTC
In the depths of verdant woods, whispers dwell,
Ancient trees stand tall, with stories to tell.
A tapestry woven with secrets untold,
The forest, a sanctuary for spirits of old.
Through dappled sunlight, gentle breezes stir,
As melodies of nature softly purr.
Moss-clad stones, witnesses of ages gone by,
Guarding the wisdom that time can't deny.
In the heart of the forest, silence is alive,
A hallowed hush, where wild creatures thrive.
The subtle rustle of leaves, a sacred hymn,
Echoing the harmony of nature's eternal whim.
Amidst towering pines and canopies above,
A place where the spirit finds solace and love.
The sunbeams, like leaves, gently cascade,
Inviting us to wander through nature, unafraid.
In the footsteps of our ancestors, we tread with care,
Respecting the balance, the fragile and rare.
For the forest is more than a mere collection of trees,
It's a sanctuary, a refuge, where the soul finds ease.
So let us venture forth, guided by poetic light,
Into the embrace of the forest, an ancient rite.
May we find inspiration in nature's embrace,
And honor its beauty, while we leave no trace.
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
I’m trying to recall a poem or a prayer that I recited
while walking through the woods of my hometown.
It occurs to me that I’ll never get it back.
I suppose such things are meant to be transient,
spoken out loud and left to drift,
But I am determined to capture some of it.
So. Here in the woods
Branches droop heavy and black with berries.
I pluck to gather them and make of my hands
two cups from which saltwater spills.
I see a vision of the old and the new,
the here to come and the hereafter,
overlaid on the thick pine stumps.
That which has passed is not yet gone.
Like trees, we grow on the rotten bones of giants.
There is no king of the once and future,
Nay, nor queen. Only the rough tumult
of life that continues, and abates, and continues.
Here on the holly branch the spines sharpen.
The red berries have not ripened from black.
On the thorns I see blackberries still **** and red,
not yet sweet with concentrated sunshine.
I see the skulls of snag trees, the knothole eye sockets
where woodpeckers find their mealy dinners
and feast on the beetles and worms –
which shall in their turn one day feast on me.
So it goes, as it should be, as it will.
My vision shows oak giants long passed,
toppled and timbered an age before my time.
A thousand years hence they shall rise again.
Fear not; the axes of men wreak havoc,
but may only interrupt the flow, not halt it.
Again I stoop to pluck the fruit
And form two cups of my hands
From which juice flows like water.
The ocean licks the sweat from my skin
And I see a vision of the old woods,
the old ways, the elder magick
That will grow from seed tomorrow.
Hew my limbs in history, bury them in timber.
Let the barrow-mounds be a nursery
Where the thornbush harvest grows.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
The Future
What future?
The future is here.
The future is now.
The next generation can inspire
We can admire their ideals
Wish aloud they had the power
to make change
But they don’t
here
now
We do
WE DO
We can do more than wish and admire
The future is here
The future is now
Many minds are needed
Tackling a worlds’ worth of problems
Many minds are already
solving one problem at a time
here
now
So many solutions exist
So many already pursue them
Beware waiting for the “best” one
The search for perfection
Runs right alongside
The path of procrastination
Try all the ideas at once
Throw everything we have at the wall to see what sticks
Use the solutions that are
here
now
Some may say
“Best” is worth waiting for
Being methodical is more
efficient
cost-effective
safe
SLOW
The future is here
The future is now
Find the ones who are already
Identifying problems
Advocating for needs
Bringing solutions
Give them the resources
Amplify their ideas
Scale up their actions
HERE
NOW
Solutions will come from above and below
From science and beyond
From outsiders and insiders
Let’s meet in the middle
No mind turned away
The future is HERE
The future is NOW
Say it with me
The future is HERE.
The future is NOW.
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 7:55 PM UTC
Stay on the trail
We say
Don’t disturb the environment
We believe
Limiting our presence
is best
But is the trail truly separate from its surroundings?
Just for a moment
leave the trail behind
Step on the grass
Settle into the dirt
Sink into the water
Feel the rock
The sand
The soil
Any of it
All of it
We are not confined to the trails
Not our influence
Nor our impact
We are not separated
Kept safe and apart
By the trails, roads, structures that we make
The illusion of our disconnection
From our ecosystems
is
dangerous
Allowing us to only play the role of
Savior with our absence
Destroyer with our presence
Both Savior and Destroyer are outsiders
Gods that act on the world
While remaining removed
Unaffected
We are not gods
We are
players in all ecosystems
entrenched in all food webs
affected and affecting
Only by seeing ourselves in the picture
Neither problem nor solution
But part of all processes start to finish
Can we see what conservation truly is
Conservation of balance
Conservation of community
Conservation of self
as part of the whole
Static equilibrium is not the goal
Our world has always been dynamic
Ever changing
Ever evolving
Each player in an ecosystem gives as well as takes
How do we give?
Can we balance our give and take
Find reciprocity
in each unique facet of our world
I believe we can
We must
We will
Imperfectly but with purpose
Through setbacks and leaps ahead
And I need you to believe it too
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 9:36 PM UTC
An apocalyptic vow,
written not only for now,
For the future is in the hands
of the ones with present power;
Wedding ourselves into lives
Of clawing desperation,
Seeing visions of no water,
No food, No conservation;
Stuck in a marriage of
overheating valves,
Escaping from companies crying
'They're just Milankovitch cycles!'
We are loafs in an oven
Getting up to temp,
With a greenhouse season;
Advertised with pent-
Up speeches of the scary,
Notions of the gory,
Distorted dystopian tragedies,
Humanity's story without glory;
And I'm not quite religious,
Probably agnostic or secular,
But with the care for our common home
The pope had the right idea.
The preaching is true,
To many a dismay,
Global warming's a thing,
We've started with acid rain
Then coral bleaching,
Don't worry we're just testing a BOMB!
Involving the environment
With drastic cases of martyrdom;
Earth's life just went double time,
Our half-life shortening from environmental crime;
And you say you can't do much but it's really truly the opposite,
When one piece of litter kills three fish in an ocean pocket.
It's not too late to change,
But it's getting pretty **** close,
So to Biden, Jinping, and Putin,
I pray you're not our only hope.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 1:49 AM UTC
This little world is like most worlds
Throughout the Cosmos.
Here the sun never moves
From its place in the sky:
Seemingly endless morning or eve,
Take your choice.
No concept of time.
No seasons.
Nothing to show the passing of the years.
Just that sun.
Moons optional.
The plants are black
Under a dark red sky
All sombre
All still
Apart from the odd cold wind
From this planet’s “Dark Side”.
For, like most planets,
This world resides in the Goldilocks Zone
Of a Red Dwarf Star
A zone where water may flow
Under the glow of a star
Like the vast majority of stars
Throughout the universe.
This world’s residents might well look out
Into space
With envy at our golden sun
With its blue Earth
Adorned with a coat of green
And its seasons
And days and nights.
They may learn from us about time
About our freedom to roam a long way
Without meeting tropical desert
And eternal frost on the dark side.
They may gasp in wonder
At this Paradise of ours
As they ponder their black grass
And hide from solar flares.
No respite from that relentless red sun,
No sense of time
Apart from monotony.
And they might wonder at us,
As we fail to care
For our glorious world
As it basks in our golden sun.
Paul Butters
© PB 28\7\2001.
Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 6:49 AM UTC
Shapely steaming trees make clouds of their own:
Raining daily on the rainforest.
Rumbling jungles serenaded by a clichéd cacophony of birdsong.
I love all trees wherever they are:
Pinewoods in temperate zones,
Palms on tropical isles,
Ancient oaks full of magic.
See breeze kissed canopies high in the sky,
Forests deep in mysterious gloom.
Let Attenborough portray the rest.
Tarzan and Robin Hood to reign forever.
Keep your axes and saws away.
Let’s plant as many trees as we can
And watch them grow.
Paul Butters
© PB 18\3\2021.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC
The wind pushes west
On through the trees
As the stars rest beyond the clouds
I can’t see a way out
As the night sings aloud
The forest tells her story
As the leaves kiss the ground
Nature gathers to scream
As no one hears a sound
The fire crackles at my feet
As the creature’s circle round
The vines begin to wither
As the redwoods come crashing down
I can’t see a way out
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 4:48 PM UTC
What you exhale, we inhale,
a transaction that costs nothing
but one that keeps us living.
We have been busy exploiting,
So keep forgetting
that life cannot exist without you.
This forgetfulness could end us,
but you will rise from the ashes again
to nurture life in the future.
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 1:00 PM UTC
Earth – you little blue gem:
Oasis in a great black desert.
Perhaps Unique
With your single Moon –
Queen of The Tides
Or one of millions of Earths
Scattered throughout Space.
Who knows?
Sky blue seas
Draped in cloud curtains
Hints of brown and green
On continents
Teeming with Life.
Paradise Planet
Rich diversity
Of plants
And animals.
Taken for granted
I’m afraid
By people too busy
To appreciate
Her beauty.
All they do is rip down her forests
Bounty hunt for trophies
And make her a greenhouse
Heading towards a Hell
Like Venus.
I hope they soon see sense,
Close down those ugly factories
Allowing our Earth
To cool again.
Does all intelligent life destroy itself
In the end?
Is this why space is silent
When we should be deafened
By radio broadcasts
From other worlds?
I hope not.
The choice is ours.
But first we must open our eyes.
Open them to the sheer beauty
And Splendour
Of our Mother Earth.
Paul Butters
© PB 24\9\2020.
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 6:10 AM UTC
imagine the trees lined up long and kissing the sky from their big tree families
there in the trees sits a baby bird while he waits for his worm when his father arrives
and the worm wiggles while he remembers gracing the palm of a girl who pulled him out of a watery demise and the rain clouds above kissed the sweet girl’s head
the clouds carried mighty and strong strength to the living and remembrance of the dead
as it poured into rivers and streams and oceans and lakes, the people danced around their source of joyous bounty before they ate
the people loved their bountiful land and learned the language of the trees
so they could share each other’s needs and meet each other in harmony
the people tugged, and their land pulled, a balancing act perfected out of love and serenity
the animals they nurtured and protected with great care so that their circle of peace would exist without need for repair
because the people loved the animals and the animals loved them so they built a great big kingdom for them all to live
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC
Larks don't need parks
They need ploughed fields and waving grain
If they are to remain
They soar and sing of joy unbound
But they are rarely found
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 6:54 AM UTC
All around is the symphony of nature, we all need but to listen
What sweet song bird beckons his love
What silvery fish leaps to waters above
What tear shaped dew befalls the grass
What sustained wood of golden brass
What insect call of buzz and hum
What water beating a rock like a drum
All around is the symphony of nature, we all need but to listen
What cold breeze sweeps the land
What shaped the stone with windy hand
The reds and whites of mountains rise
What raptors soaring hunt with cries
What arid wind provide the breeze
What sweet fruit fall from mesquite trees
All around is the symphony of nature, we all need but to listen
What emerald fur coats the ground
What colourful buds blossom to be found
What grazing goat or elk does call
What primordial leviathan does the lake trawl
What chittering tree folk bound and play
What beautiful land inspires dreams of fae
All around is the symphony of nature, we all need but to listen
What black scars paint across the land
What dark smog clouds the sky
What metallic beasts speed across the ground
What obelisks of the new age rise and fall
What plastics change tides of the sea
Why
Why do we take this gift and burn it
Why do we scrape holes in her skin
We grow and expand and grow and expand
Why are we deaf to the symphony
When the beasts leave the land it will be by our hand
When the birds leave the sky it will be by our ambition
When the fish leave the sea it will be by our greed
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 2:15 AM UTC
Seas of swaying green reduced to gray city skylines (the triumphant results of our modern enlightenment)
Slicked oil waters pulse from the refineries, defeated heads held down against the cold winds walk the streets.
Malaise grips the populace,
our attention at every turn deftly averted to the trivial.
Welcome one, welcome all, to the Anthropocene.
Smoke stacks bellowing, pockets full of printed greenbacks thickening,
the overwhelming scents of greed and gluttony bleed into everything.
Throw your trash to the streets, stomp the last embers and smear ash on the wall,
Look around and you will see humanities closing scenes.
Welcome one, welcome all, to the Anthropocene.
It seems in the end truth has left us,
hope has evacuated,
it’s speakers replaced with puppets
That dance and masquerade on taught strings.
Come in my friends, take your seats in the audience,
The show has already begun!
The lights are dimming and the pieces well set,
Welcome one, welcoming all, to the Anthropocene.
Continents ablaze, reduced to decayed black.
The streets of your home flooded,
Mother Nature holding on by a trembling thread,
And in all of our brightest intellect,
We do not reknit the thread.
Instead of reversing our own mistakes, instead of adjusting our sails to the changing winds,
we hold the scissors to that trembling string and begin to cut with a smile.
Manicured life,
Monocultured lawns perfectly maintained through the drought, appearances kept up through the drowning monsoon winds.
Welcome, my dearest friends, to the end of our days, whether you agree to them or not,
Welcome to the first conscious mass extinction, brought to you by the height of human innovation
Welcome, my brothers and sisters, to the Anthropocene.
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
Native American Prayer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Help us learn the lessons you have left us
in every leaf and rock.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 11:34 PM UTC
Native American Travelers' Blessing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us walk together here
with earth's creatures great and small,
remembering, our footsteps light,
that one wise God created all.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 11:30 PM UTC
A house is a home,
But only if one makes it so.
In a home,
You can drip emotion,
Free of care or conservation.
In a house
There’s no lack of protection,
But the loneliness becomes an infection.
I have a house,
But I want to make it home.
Feb 13, 2020
Feb 13, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC