#enviroment
Night in a city
Illuminated darkness
Stars covered by light
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
I weep for trees and forests,
We laid them all to waste.
Will children have no air to breath,
No atmosphere to taste?
I weep for mighty oceans
We trashed them to the brim.
Will children of the life therein
Protract no place to swim?
I weep for northern icelands,
A thawing polar crown.
Will children of the Inuit
Become condemned to drown?
I weep for fields and meadows,
Poisoned long ago.
Will children of the landscape
Reap no seeds to sow?
I weep for man's futurity
Ere I take my sleep.
Will children of the morrow
Beget no tears to weep?
ASJ
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
The Earth is swallowed by fire then chewed up by carnage,
The flames lick the world and then Gaia is tarnished,
Hugrgy maws of a beast to our mother we encourage,
Unsuspecting till the day that our collective nutrition is harnessed.
Life swallowed across the scale
Recycle rebirth refuse if they fail,
Reform and repurpose review a new trail
Revive and realise a line in the tale.
Energy is magic and vessels always transforms
A glacier to a blizzard that becomes a sandstorm
And if you listen closely you can hear the earth move
Life can just transform and to humans it won't prove.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
A small pale faced figure stands, enshrouded in darkness, while a hauntingly sweet song softly echoes through the cave.
“There’ll be days
precious moments
see them sunning
by the bay
till, the sea
sees the star light,
blinking angels
dissipate.”
Somewhere in this sightless void a larger form slumbers. Moans of agony pass this man’s parched parted lips. Tears moisten his painfully swollen face. The stench of sweat, ***** feces, and fetid breath fill the air around him. An alarm sounds as the last battery from the compact heater finally dies. Sloan shivers as the temperature within the cave begins to drop.
Mother mercy watches with a well-practiced stare of concern. She slides a thin, torn, and brown stained sheet over Sloan’s shuddering body. It does little to comfort the sick man. His ragged breaths slowly shift to slightly less raggedy breaths. Mother Mercy watches for a few more moments to make sure that he will not die, then settles down in a corner for the night.
Electric dreams of long ago float in the forefront of her mind. A bone thin boy of barely teenage years stumbles into a broken-down building that was once the Canadian Gazette. Stray rays of light from an overhead window brighten the small room, illuminating gun black filing cabinets, and dark wooden cubbies, colored with well-worn grey paint, which hold crumbled bits of old newspapers; One of the papers read, “Mass Methane Leak Poisons Ground Water and Air”. Each step stirs up dust causing him to cough. Mother mercy can hear the congestion in his cough and see the fever in his scarlet flushed face. His eyes are a rabid red flitting left to right, searching for any sign of danger. A loud noise causes him to flinch. Mother Mercy moves forward, trying to speak to the boy, but like a doe sensing danger he prepares to dart.
She finds her voice. “Please. Do not leave. I can help you.” She pleads mechanically.
He moves forward, tentatively attempting to touch her. She can see a sharp scar that runs from under his right eye down to his thick dry cracked lips. He tries to speak, exposing his yellow and browning teeth and the many gaps therein.
Suddenly, daggers of light push past and through his young body. He does not cry out, but merely succumbs to disintegration. Then……
Then Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Waves of light bring the cavern to life.
Sunshine moves in and across the cave to expose uneven earth, and a dirt encrusted cave wall, which is oddly void of any insect life. Her hazel eyes quickly adjust to the oncoming onslaught of daylight. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm, which is all she can really hope for.
She slides dark brown locks of long hair out of her eerily symmetrical face. She brushes the dust off her tattered tan coat, and her holey faded jeans. With a couple of rapid sweeping motions, she removes almost all the dirt, and pebbles from the breast of her inner shirt.
Off to the left of the cave, and still covered by shadows a small machine awaits her inspection. She examines each tube, cord, and gauge with a military proficiency. Then using the jury-rigged straps, she places the machine on her back. Heading out of the cave, Mother Mercy stops, picks up the batteries from the small heating device, and checks Sloan one more time. Finally, with her bare feet fully outside she sets off for the day’s labor.
The sky burns a bright orange interrupted by barely perceptible vapors of methane, and bluish grey cotton clouds. Despite the splendor of the morning there is nothing but silence; No dogs barking, or bees buzzing about their honey making business. There is no life to be found except for minor patches of multi-colored fauna that are randomly situated along her route. So, Mother Mercy breaks the silence with a song.
“There’ll be years
yarn unspinning
as we stumble
towards our graves,
but the seconds
in-between breaths
are what make
this life so great,”
A few miles along the way, she stops singing, and begins to check the tiny traps she has planted along her daily path. Each carefully constructed device is sadly empty. Three or four more hours after that the silence evaporates and she can hear a small stream of water running. She stops and stares down at her bare feet.
“There is something I forgot to put on my feet.” She queries to herself while continuing to walk.
A few moments pass as she puzzles out the minor mystery. Once she makes it to the edge of the stream, an awkward smile fills her tiny round face. Mother Mercy removes the machine from her back, letting it fall to the ground. It makes a loud thud and sinks several inches into the slightly softened earth. In a movement so swift human eyes could barely perceive it, she jumps up, rising several feet in the air while crossing a considerable distance, and finally lands in the stream. Soft sizzles sound from her bare feet, as she slowly grinds them into the mud. Then Mother Mercy sloshes sloppily out of the water wearing a thick layer of dark brown mud on her feet.
“Of course, how could I forget. I need mud to cool my feet.”
She walks back to the machine, pulls it out of the ground with ease, and returns to the stream. Next, she submerges the device. Waiting till it is completely full of water, she pulls it out, and begins fiddling with knobs and switches. She waits as the water boils, completely evaporates, filters, cools, and finally condensates back into liquid. Deftly, she removes one of the filters and shakes out all the unknown particulates. Then she opens a tiny compartment, and places a small sensor device within in the water to check its quality. After a satisfactory reading she places the water filtration system back on her back and heads down a different path.
The mud on Mother Mercy’s feet dries; Dark brown shades lighten, crust up and chip off in little flakes. Irritated, she begins to slide her feet through the almost nonexistent foliage to scrape off the remainder of the drying mud. With each small patch of grass Mother Mercy moves her feet faster and faster. Her left foot flows back and forth with incredible speed and strength. There is a loud clink and a chipped piece of rock soars across the air.
In puzzlement, Mercy stares down at her foot and finds that it has split open. Red and black fluid streams from the seam of torn skin, which expands and exposes metallic bone. As she moves, the wire insulation from within her foot ruptures, revealing cheap copper conductor. The hot metal sparks, lighting up the methane in the air. A scorching white, orange, and bluish outlined fireball expands with enough force to launch Mother Mercy up and back off her feet.
She hits the ground hard, and curses,” ******* methane!”
White synthetic skin begins to melt, shifting and swirling into grotesque shapes, and darker shades of red. Mother Mercy rises, unsteadily. Wincing in pain, she unloads her heavy water filter burden. Again, she checks all the tubes, cords, and gauges. What was once a thing of ease now becomes quite burdensome. She places the filter system on her back again, and resumes her journey. The red and black liquid continues to leak. Each steps becomes slower than the last. Until, she reaches her destination. Mother Mercy collapses next to a series of solar panels. With what little strength she has left, she detaches one of the charged batteries. A look of distress crosses her already agonized face.
“I’m sorry.” She softly sobs to herself. “I need this one.”
Mercy pulls a flap of skin from the right side of her waist. An intricate maze of wires, metal, and fake flesh pulsates. Her hand plunges deep within the slimy cavity, twists, and removes a damaged battery. It is bent, and cracked leaking a thick acid liquid which viciously burns her hand. She tosses it aside then slips the unbroken battery inside the cavity, twists it, waits for the click, then removes her acid, and viscous liquid covered hand.
The synthetic skin slowly starts to unburn, shifting in reverse till it returns to its previously pristine quality. Her foot begins to pop and all the parts snap back into their original place as the split skin slowly stiches itself back together.
Mercy harvests the rest of the charged batteries and places the used ones in their charging slots. Finally, with the days labors done she heads back to the cave.
Once she is at the cave she washes a stray rag. Then cleans her hands. Cradling Sloan, she slowly serves him some water. Once he has had his fill. She gently rolls him on his side moves his shirt up searching for any sores, then proceeds to softly scrub them. She rolls him in the opposite direction and repeats the process. Then she checks his inner thighs, and **** cheeks. Sloan winces in pain but remains quiet. She gently lays him back, and rolls up his pant legs, washing the bare skin which is littered with more nasty sores. She finishes by washing his face, hands, and his feet. Finally, she sends him to sleep with a sweet song
“and the children
that we leave
littles daughters
full grown sons
are like blooms
that lose their trees
as our roots
wither and flee.”
Mother Mercy is consumed by an unnatural fatigue. She resists slumber for a few minutes, but inevitably succumbs. Everything becomes nothingness, then changes to nothingness with dizzy brown spots. Yellow sparks split from the tip of her consciousness. The darkness dissolves and becomes the cave again. Small streams of water worm their way in from the cracks on the wall, which seems to breath unevenly. Suddenly she realizes the cave stinks like sewage. Fresh wind works its way in then blows out a stark stench of rot. Each exhale sounds like a human moaning in pain. The last flickers of light die a long-protracted death.
A wheezing breath stirs Mother Mercy from her dreams. She awakens quickly to see Sloan gasping violently. She rushes to his side, and sees a thick yellow and greenish gooey fluid mixed with blood sliding down the side of his jaw. With her left arm she flips him over holds his upper body inches off the ground, wipes away the disgusting fluid, and checks the abscess with her free hand.
“Spit it out.” She pleads.
Sloan continues to gasp. Tears swell but refuse to fall.
“Pleebees, helpep, me.” He struggles, coughing violently.
Mother Mercy cradles him in her arms, singing,
“Till, the song
that I am singing
becomes the song
that they passed on
and the love
that I was bringing
are the wheels
that just roll on.”
Sloan, gasps and wheezes for several minutes more. Tears and sweat fill his face.
“Mob where’s my mob?” He cries between gasping breaths.
Two hours later slumber finally reclaims Sloan. An hour after that Mercy gently places his pained body back into its original position. After another half an hour she to surrenders to sleep. She sees nothing.
A stern voice commands,” **** the enemy.”
Mercy cries in response, “There are no more enemies.”
Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls. She wipes off a spot of pus and blood left over from last night’s abscess leakage. The swelling has slightly receded, but his face is still feverishly warm to the touch. She switches out one drained battery from the heater for a fully charged one then grabs the water filter, and heads off to start the day’s labor, singing.
“So, goodnight
little planet
precious place
that I lived on.
I know you won’t
miss me one bit
but I was grateful
to call you home.”
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Two seven three,
Molecules set free.
Heat coming,
Sun shining,
More than it ever has before.
And it shall shine more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.
SO3,
Oxigen roaming free.
Your sunflower rots,
The world keeps spinning,
But the caps get thinner.
And the shall thin more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.
Take out your lenses,
**** the ant,
**** the man,
**** the snow,
**** the world.
And you shall **** more,
And it shall get worse,
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.
Arange your umbrella,
Cover the sun.
Grow tropical plants
Wherever you want,
**** indiginous plants
Whenever you can.
Save the pandas
Not the bees,
Whatever you say.
All shall rearange into place
All shall die or live more
And the rise of Poseidon shall **** many.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
She might feel worth...less than
The tree next to her
But she knows she has a worth
And probably a purpose too
But the one there provides shade
One with branches for birds
But she is neither
Is she just another tree
In the forest
She just wants it to end
Maybe her purpose is to be a paper
To her sometimes it sounds better than to be living
So they cut her down
And slowly all the other trees too
And now its not a forest but just a park with a few trees.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 10:33 AM UTC
They felt but couldn't confess it
he loved her with everything in him
and she also loved him with everything in her
but they pretended they didn't feel or care about each other
because of the kind of enviroment and society they lived in
But could the society really stop their love
and care for each other ?
well the answer is NO *** no matter where
they were they always showed their love and care indiectly
cus'the love they felt for each other was so strong
that it couldn't be stopped by anyone not even the society
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
The days get hotter
The smog gets thinker
The Ice melts
The ocean rises
Cities drown
Islands vanish
Money is still made
The world is Burning
Entire species gone forever
Whole cultures scattered
The money keeps rolling in
But what is money?
When the earth is suffering
What is money?
when we are dooming our selves
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
The mob, elites, journalists
As well as poets like I
To our environment-unfriendly bent
Turning a blind eye
Also tardy in asking "Why
We strip of mother nature's green mantle,
While to maintain the statuesque
It gets locked in a sever battle?"
Equally not checking overgrazing,
We allowed fertile soil and sand
Amok,wild floods ride
To a close by touristic lake,
Whose mouth an expansion
Used to make
As much as its foreign body intake.
Soon,with the vast array of
Flora and fauna it supports,
Before we knew it
The magnificent lake died
Ceding place to a barren land,
An eyesore that looked a dump yard!
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire,
Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco.
Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home,
And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress?
Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources.
There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure.
Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone.
Herr Trump, where is the ice going?
Would you sell the penguins for profit?
Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness.
Tell them sincerely.
Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same.
What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
As mother nature's
Punitive measure
Against a society
In maintaining
The statuesque
That doesn't bother,
Our rivers
Had become subject
To a water thirst,
To the extent
Of projecting
Rocky ribs
Terrifyingly protruded out
For easy count!
But now thanks to
The all-out, terrace making
And reafforestation effort
Of each catchment
Farmers have made a point
And also to the afforestation
Move of the government
Rivers aside from quenching
Their insatiable thirst
Have resumed
To brim over
With floods
Drinking water
To their hearts' content.
Our forests once stripped of
Their wooded cover
Have started, fast, to recover
From afar they are seen
Robed eye-catching green
From a fry-pan sky
Allowing a shelter
Also busy
Carbon to sequester.
Wild animals
That migrated
Have preferred
Back their way to find.
Now farmers don't have
Deep to dig
To sink a water well
Or find a nearby spring.
Birds are heard chirruping
Be it winter, summer or spring,
While Brooks bubbling.
Buzzing and hovering
From this to that flower
Bees are producing
Organic honey by the hour.
Promising a bumper harvest
Farmer's plots have
Fortunately continued
To resuscitate!
Those leaving
Their denuded abode behind
Away, who preferred
To stay
'We will return back
home soon! '
Is what
They say.
Happily enough
Mother nature
Affords us a second chance
Imbued with
Environment stewardship
If we are willing to mend
Our wrong 'Feast today
famine tomorrow! ' stance.
To dispel the spectre
Of climate change
And systematically face
The global challenge
True to the adage
'We have either to
swim together
or sink together! '
Hence in fighting the challenge
Or adapting to the change
Back scratching,
We have to be on the same page.
Indeed, irrigation must
Not slip our mind
For erratic rainfall
A lasting solution
If we must find.//
Once a famous Ethiopian Poet Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this
#change #trees #erosion #climate #deforestation #enviroment #degeradation #desertification
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Rippling down the stream
Of many peoples consciousness
An effervescent future life
Stripped of this abhorrent distress
A future filled with study
Free for each and every human being
A world with no false borders
A world with far less disagreeing
And a universal language
Forged with available technology
That translates in real time
Enhanced with anthropology
Giving us a precise understanding
Of how each other achieve solutions
A pragmatic communication
Circumnavigating ****** revolutions
We would calculate the earths resources
And how to evenly distribute them
Then we would dispose of pointless cash
Like ill people dispose of phlegm
Our centralised political weasels
That do far more harm than good
Would be replaced by microchips
Programmed to not be misunderstood
It is an interesting proposal
To those with a humane conscience
But to those smugly enjoying advantage
I guess it is annoying nonsense
So we must wait for millions to be displaced
For total world economic collapse
The greedy spoilt brats will listen then
Or will they continually relapse?
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Said the mirror to the poet
"Can you really over think?"
Said the whisky to lonely
"Can you really over drink?"
The coffin creaks to the undertaker
"Are you satisfied with your work?"
She grimly replies to the casket
"Well, it has certain unique perks."
The earth sighs to the human population
"When will this violation eventually cease?"
We ignore her pathetic mutterings
And order "production must be increased!"
The poet sheds a crocodile tear
As the shadow of insanity looms
The lonely empties another bottle
Staggers back from the shop and resumes
The undertaker makes final plans
For her own elaborate swan song
A sun drenched plot of gravel reserved
Beneath which she will soon belong
And the Earth despairs at her children
She did not raise them to be this way
And just like the forlorn undertaker
She is also planning her final day.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Oh, how we strut about the world
We, the civilized population
Unsatisfied until we've unfurled
Blankets of our cultivation
How proud we are of the machines
That gauge and plunder the earths crust
To farm by artificial means
Deemed by the "uncivilized" as unjust
The "uncivilized", those wayward tribes
That naively worship this blue globe
Need alcohol and such like prescribed
To adjust malfunctioning temporal lobes
Can they not observe our contentment
And our superior living standard
They squat and rant with some resentment
We are progressive, they have meandered
I wonder when those of tribal birth
Will mature and see we've got it right
And that their unkempt patch of earth
Will make a fine farm or building site
Or better still, once they're packing
Up their dwellings and possessions
We can begin some civilised fracking
With our governmental concessions
That's what separates us from them
I hope you have now realised
It is a government controlled by business
That makes us so very civilized
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC