"ecosystem" poems
So many words are being spent everyday
Each of them, used to construct a bridge
Where communication can take place
And meet half-way, to greet each other
Wondering, if that what is to communicating
Only based on words and the verbose
Have we bothered to see the many layers
Which makes up the fragile ecosystem
Yet, so often we go on eroding the surface
Leaving it bare and exposed to threats
That communication will be wiped off
Not long, with the undermining of feelings
Communication will have borne the brunt
Of our callous attitude and lost forever
Not only waves of words that washes away
The beauty of meaningful communication
It's time, we also listen to each other's heart
And pay obeisance to the silence that speaks
Communication will have a fair chance to survive
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.
Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.
Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.
Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.
I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.
At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;
The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.
This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.
Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.
The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
To explain in which extent I love you we would first have to explain how the tears of the clouds can fulfill the thirst of a plant how can the loss of something be the completion of another you empty yourself upon me and I grow from within the confinements of an un nourished soul you tell me your stories and fill up the voids within me with the sadness you've endured nourishing with life the pieces of me that I thought with sadness had already died in turn I recycle your energy and turn it into thriving life that from the ground you helped pick up like a perfect Eco system in which we rain upon each other to help each other flourish to everyone that watches it doesn't make sense but every time a bud grows within me i finally find beauty in a world full of weeds
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
Dry deserts in parts & dripping water holes
As well the body sure is a varied ecosystem
Having its own hairy forests having blooms
A body is like that as it's both moist and dry
Dusky at places where light seldom reaches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
I. Neptune’s Theater
A rock spins through the universal tumbler
and its warm blue pools calcify
as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath
builds a lace castle with his fingertips
Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald
where painted parrots chat up cardinals
butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse
and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.
Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched
free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem
beneath an array of bioluminescent stars
as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.
II. Sapien Siege
The hot acidic hand of death grasps
the mesh rends and tangles
the ecosystem shattered
reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.
Butterflies impaled
cyanide-swooning damsels
mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward
coral to potash, corpses to coal.
The pretender to the throne blinks
rubs blurry lenses,
kicks plastic fins
and moves on to the next show
Unseeing and unaware
of the luminous filament in his wake.
Self-appointed divinity,
deus ex machina.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.
Sitting stagnant, songs of stellar
Sing sublime lines
Through minds that remain in cellar,
Never seeing the pines.
Many stagnant years have passed,
Detectives overdue,
The body brought them all aghast,
The stench, the dust, and view.
An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
There is an ecosystem of conflict thriving in my brain.
A world with questions for residents and doubts for landscapes.
I’m not sure if I’m actually reaching for answers right now,
although something in my soul aches.
Those landscapes are parched
and turning to deserts under the sun the residents have named:
Uncertainty.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
My eyes are black holes
Dead, deceased
An ecosystem of decay
a habitat for shattered souls
My eyes are lifeless
Lack luster
Sparkled out
Behind the wall, we are falling
Banging out our heads and hearts against doors off hinges
Against some mad buggers intuitions
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
I am a little bird born into this world
Naked.
Chirping lullabies to redwood treetops
and singing hymns to an almighty; getting back nothing.
I gathered up twigs and loose branches to build up
my nest––cropped out upbringing
for house fitting.
Waking up to noises––
of violent winds.
Pressing feathers to cover my ears,
and trusting my feet to hold me down.
Barricaded myself in worn bark,
from the impossibility of the threatening ecosystem.
Praying myself in place, hiding when morning shines and dressing in colours of damp green.
I’m something but I tell myself otherwise:
It’s too frightening to fly so I might as well cut off my wings.
No, that would be insensitive––don’t mind that, I’ll pluck them each time the feathers grow.
See I’m holding onto the something that makes me more than nothing.
Clipped wings seem more ideal than no wings.
For some reason I’m scared to let it all go;
silently hoping one day I’ll keep them, like them, love them and even spread them.
Noticed gathering leaves and flowers one day can add colour to a colourless lifestyle,
yet the wind wipes it clean the next––still pale brown and feels less like home than yesterday.
I may be afraid of everything,
but I know I’m more afraid of dying here alone;
whispering Mozartian melodies to dead butterflies.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
"Good morning, beautiful."
Words like a soft autumn breeze,
caressing, chilling to the touch;
three simple words to form one
complex ecosystem,
teeming with life,
droning with emotion.
I catch a glimpse of a bird,
a distant memory,
a sample of a sound I've heard before,
calming and pleasant.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 2:05 AM UTC
Destroying the ecosystem,
we ravage the land.
We take what we want,
because we are man.
It starts with one tree,
one thing leads to another.
Then the whole ******* forest,
Mother Nature, we love her.
She makes us money,
so we continue to **** her.
We take the land, her body,
and turn it to paper.
And her blood, her rich blood,
we drill deep, to the core.
No matter how much we get,
we always go back for more.
We harvest her organs,
with our metal machines.
We take what we want,
not what we need.
We are the men,
destroying our ecosystem.
We are tyrants,
but we can't live without Mother Nature.
She is so beautiful,
full of life,
she has so much to give.
But we think that means to take,
until she's *****
till she dies.
But although we bound her,
she will always be stronger,
then you and me.
We are the harvesters.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
This planet orbits a yellow sun like ours.
It is in the Optimum Zone to support life.
Sure enough it has a wide variety of flora and fauna.
Highly intelligent life has evolved in its seas and oceans.
Its continents, however, are dominated by a species of primates.
Over the past 300 of the planet’s years they have developed
Some fairly high technology.
But they remain carnivores
Who regularly commit genocide.
They cut down swathes of natural forest
To grow chemically protected
Genetically modified nutrition-sources.
And they mine their planet empty
Of its mineral riches.
The planet’s ecosystem is being rapidly destroyed
By them.
Socially and psychologically they remain primitive.
Yet they possess the means to blow their world
To pieces.
With heavy heart I have to advise
We sign this planet
“No Entry”
For the foreseeable future.
“Forbidden” indeed.
A planet we call MW Orion 8478-3
That its natives call
That ever so common name:
“Earth”.
Paul Butters
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
I am so very in love with the idea of you
That I sob words
I just need to know what you feel
(do I really)
I can handle it
(natural disasters just allow for the succession of a better ecosystem, right?)
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Mist moves through early morning
Swirling a top the remaining craggy Gods
Standing tall to form the Appalachia
PawPaw trees hang heavy
Laden with fruit, ripened by Eastern sun
Precious ecosystem sustaining what shouldn't grow in this hemisphere
What's left that has not been removed
By blasting coal extraction
Towers above us still, breathing deep
Guarding us in silent repose
Footsteps weave to and fro
Sweet grass brushing sensitive skin
My laughter echo's through the Old Oaks
Honey bees gather pollen
Buzzing happily by my side
We must protect this special place
Turn away from stripping her of her glitter
Of her shine
Clean air, healthy soil
She can recover, she will survive
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
your deepest scars
lie in your brain
where i cannot kiss them
until you let me make-better
kit, you've trusted hands to pet you
and trotted into snares
more than once
and now there's a vast expanse of
"come on out now, you're safe from harm"
far as the eye can see
wide open green and golden this-is-really-good
but you're haunted by steel and teeth
throwing you to the ground
a pain memory that makes you bite
until the ecosystem i built cannot remember
how to make flowers.
let the earth i've grown need you
without fear of what anchors you
let the sky i've thrown adore you
without suspicion of why it's bothered to watch
little fox, let me cultivate this garden around us
because it's a good one
more beautiful with you
the deepest scars lie in your brain
where i cannot kiss them.
Let me make-better
because i'm made better
by you
let me keep you, little fox
and i'll grow you flowers
the most beautiful you've ever seen
unto this little earth
gilded with trees
like the owl and the pussycat
my fox and me.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 8:43 AM UTC
A vehement deity,
father of a carpenter,
and proprietor of creationism,
looked down upon his work,
both literally and figuratively.
When an ecosystem falls to the
egocentricity of man, a vessel
will be sought, and contained is
the righteousness of a mortal.
Serenity became inclination, and
with loss of the feminine beauty
came regret. For sin masqueraded
as black clouds, and whether
change occurs, torrential rain begets
growth in an environment. Wash over
the sins of the ****** what is current
can only be exposed as a fallacy when
revelation is prevalent,
and save for the innocent:
innocuous.
Even in Hell a cyprus tree would be
surrounded by wildflowers.
Noah knew not of damnation, and
with calloused hands raised to the sky,
a hammer came crashing down.
Not unlike stone tablets
etched with command,
the world lay on granite,
with a universal epitaph.
For Noah to ignore his destiny
would be blasphemous.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
As we congregate
For centuries
Humanity had
The best thoughts
To create an ecosystem
Where all lives can thrive
But somewhere
We have lost the plot
And veered away
From the values
That all lives matter
Now minuscule section
Takes decisions for us
Manipulating the ecosystem
Creating a façade
For us to believe
Lot many minds think alike
Individual thoughts drown
Mirror is the only escape
Where we can talk to ourselves
Without the distortions
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Beauty out in the open, light falls on linoleum tiles like heel-worn stones
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Clotted with conversation, upperclassmen stroll like the elderly
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes - but I know it was I who brought the downpour
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes – but I know it was I who brought the downpour
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Ignorance is bliss, they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Look down, one foot – and then the other!
Ignorance is bliss they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
Anger and sadness, guilt and fear turn like Viewmaster slides lit up by the sun
Or am I on my own here? Each boy's path runs along each other like long-exposure stars, leaving streaks between the darkness.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
things get boring.
even vaginas get boring.
a thousand vaginas
might not get boring,
neither would a million.
i’d like a million vaginas.
i would eat and drink from them,
use them as bait,
sell, smoke and ponder them,
write sonnets for them
and live in them,
glorify,
sail and sauté them.
then they wouldn’t be
vaginas at all.
they would be more like a habitat,
or an ecosystem.
now that might be something
of interest.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC