Poem of the day is this lovely, positive and hopeful poem by Tim Burroughs of Bristol:
rhinos with horns
orangutans in trees
tigers in sanctuary
one all one
all one all
one all one
© Tim Burroughs
Poem of the day is a rather beautiful image from John Rice:
………………………………………………..© John Rice
Poem of the day from David C Johnson, of Bristol:
Mind that Sickle!
I had just finished my shift.
I’d been buzzing all day
And was looking forward to putting up my feet,
All six, back home, down in my shaft.
When you came along with your crashing, flashing sickle.
“Just tidying up”, I think , is what you call it,
But a blooming menace from my point of view.
Swoosh your blade swished,
As it roughly wrecked our patch
And revealed the adits to our home.
Really, you need to take more care
With that awful slicing blade.
We bees, of all types,
In this world that we share,
Are finding life hard enough, as it is.
What with parasites and pesticides
And the vanishing of countryside.
We can do without you swinging
That pesky scythe, as well.
In fact, all that we want,
Is a corner left untouched,
In your garden. It is not asking much.
We know that it may look a bit unkempt to you,
But to us it is an Eden, a perfect purlieu.
So think before you tidy and leave some wild for us,
Because plants need bees and you need the plants.
(P.S. I have copied this to my local representative
at the National Union of Miner Bees ( Bristol section)
In case further action is necessary in the future).
© David C Johnson, 2016
Poem of the day is by Nicola Jackson:
Keep the high combes fluted with flaked grey rock,
the empty places where the Steinadler soars,
where shattered scree chutes tumble into darkness
and turquoise glacier pools feed the torrents’ roar.
As ice rivers shrink, as veined and layered ice recedes
and moraine-lines peter into slurry on the valley floor,
they lock their doors to human visitation,
protect their isolation, their mythic silence, even more.
The hanging paths are ever higher; where once they led to glacier ice
the slabs withdraw their open walkways, ladders reaching
into empty space. Now the alpine choughs come wheeling,
spatter warm rocks with blue-black wings, then whirl away
to fill the voids with buoyant acrobatic flight.
They take their glorious adaptations with them: faithful pairings
to each cliff-face crevice, stick-lined nests cragged in the hungry air,
thriving white-blotched eggs they guard each night.
So the high bluffs are ever further from us humans,
the steeps are marmot-shrieked while soft winds sing;
stitched with ice-age flowers and sparkling mica.
Earth, take heart from all this new world brings.
© Nicola Jackson
Poem of the Day comes from David Punter of Bristol:
The Ballad of Refuge
I come in fear. The wheels, the stuttering engine,
By road or wave; the endless killing payments.
Bit by bit, my mind returns to rubble.
You come in fear. The hunched back, failed bravado,
They make me squirm. You have no place here, brother;
Get back, for you remind me of my weakness.
I starve, I thirst. I’m out there in my millions,
Teeming, weeping. Just allow me, brother,
One foot on land. I’ll work hard for my pittance.
You starve, you thirst. What of me, of my neighbours,
Struggling in an austere land? The steel-plant’s silent,
My skills no longer fit, my hands are idle.
My hopes are gone. My suffering gods won’t travel,
My women cannot see, their eyes are blinded
By the long dust, the silent days of torture.
My hopes are gone. You come and you displace me,
The silent mills and fields, they scorn and mock me,
The Union Jack’s a shroud; all’s ripe for burning.
I call to you. Across the long dark waters,
Carrying a load of trinkets not worth selling,
Umbrellas, handbags, at the gang-master’s calling.
You call to me. I stop my ears with plaster,
My sons and daughters can’t afford their schooling,
My hospitals are full, the asylum’s broken.
My last cry sinks. Protect me from this hardness,
This cold that shrinks my soul. Pity me, brother,
Or think on me adrift on the long night’s calling.
My last cry sinks. Protect me from this falling.
The bailiffs come, the sheets won’t disentangle.
My homeland’s gone. God help us all this winter.
© David Punter
Poem of the Day today comes from Margo Lemieux from Massachusetts:
Good morning dear,
I left your lunch in the fridge.
And a cloud will be by later
With fresh water.
The sun is rising, as usual, to bring light and warmth.
The silver moon said have a nice day.
Endless rivers will wash your darling face
As they cascade down the mountains.
Give the blue/green oceans a hug from me
Along with the creatures within
And kisses to the trees and flowers.
Send my best wishes to the rolling fields and vast deserts,
The lakes and valleys,
And to all those you call friend –
The ones who share the care of our fragile one.
You were our mother.
You are our child.
© Margo Lemieux
Poem of the day comes from Brenda Davis Harsham from Massachusetts:
This is just to say…
Thank you, Earth
that held tight trees
bent to their knees
in hurricane winds and
that imprints time itself
on gorges, stone and shelf,
in the language of fossil hieroglyphics.
Thank you, Stones
that, in stillness, filter clean
water in openings between
tiny stones and soil
yet still cup oceans and rivers,
reflect clouds in shining slivers,
and remember dinosaurs and glaciers.
Thank you, Soil
that warms bulbs and seeds
of flowers, trees and weeds
through the long, white winter
and mothers green shoots
gently soothes new roots
with tender hands, black, moist and fragrant.
© Brenda Davis Harsham
Poem of the Day today is from Shauna Darling Robertson:
We lived among you once.
It was brilliant.
Night never fell
and no need whatsoever
for sixty-watt bulbs
or dimmer switches.
There was always a glimmer
of hope aglow, eager to grow
to a shimmer, a beam.
Mistakes burned up
the minute they were made.
Everyone had a sister called Twinkle –
all sparkle and no shade.
We rose in the east and the north
and the south and the west
and we didn’t go down.
Best thing of all?
My light was always on.
and I shone
and I shone.
© Shauna Darling Robertson
Poem of the Day today is from Alison Williams:
my world is fluid
in a constant
state of flux
I am an ocean
who once spoke
to the dry land
I told him how much
I admired his
he answered me
with rockfalls, landslides
he showed me
all the pain there is
when change comes
then the hardness somehow
has to break
rending himself apart
tears of fire
he gave me
just a glimpse
into his molten core
© Alison Williams
A fabulous poem of the day from Bruce Black, from Sarasota, Florida:
Each Day the Sea Writes
Each day the sea writes lines
On the edge of the sand, and clouds
Draw messages in the sky, and laughing
Gulls swoop and swirl and plead while
Sandhill cranes raise their beaks high
To cry, and ospreys circle, screeching,
And hawks, wings spread wide, shriek, and
Mockingbirds, robins, and cardinals sing
Their appeal to get your attention—
(and you can hear, too, the rusty-hinged
protest of the Great blue heron), and dolphins,
leaping, dance in unison to make their point,
And manatees—those graceful sea cows—frolic
Near the surface, trying to send the same message
To all of us gazing in awe at the beauty of the world:
Keep our water clean and our air
clear for as long as waves wash the sand
and clouds touch the sky.
© Bruce Black
Poem of the Day comes from Sandi Leibowitz:
Thank You, World
Thank you, Sky, for wind and cloud,
breezes quiet, thunder loud.
Thank you for the moon at night,
for rain and for the sun so bright.
Thank you, Sea, for foam and sand,
waves that rush to meet the land,
starfish, seaweed, seals at play,
coral reef and palm-fringed bay.
Thank you Earth, for mountains high,
for rivers long and deserts dry,
for redwoods, violets, apples, too,
for grass so green and morning dew.
Thank you for the iceberg’s chill,
cherry’s sweetness, skylark’s trill.
Thank you for each glittering star.
Thank you, World, for all you are.
© Sandi Leibowitz
Poem of the Day from Helen Laycock:
To the unborn
Sorry is not enough of an apology
for what you are about to receive
upon your birth –
a broken Earth
whose bones we have picked
and whose flesh we have stripped.
We bequeath you: the carcass.
Please forgive our hatred
of our brothers and sisters,
how our minds
the miracles that we are –
that singular bond amongst the stars.
You inherit: our dysfunction.
Our tears were not enough to wash
away the blood of creatures savaged
for egos and trinkets
as they stopped to drink
from water holes and, shy,
lay beneath the punctured sky.
We leave you: their memory.
Frozen in the now, too late we saw the melt;
ice caps will be your legends
like polar bears
and unsullied air.
From space, no green, just scars…
We clawed our world sparse.
We endow you with: ruin.
You are the wardens, the short-changed, the healers.
Please clear up the debris
of greed and decay.
We were led astray.
We looked away and heard
messages we preferred.
We pass on: our regret.
© Helen Laycock
Poem of the day today comes from Daisy Proctor, age 7.
I love you sky
The way you shimmer on bright blue days
Your lovely blue light
I love you sky
though you are long gone to your Tiger god
I remember your eyes melting forest
your hot ghost of branch and flame walking soft
leaving no trace, no echoes when you left
how could we forget your grey gentleness
and you, the last, could not bury your dead
so many tears how were you not blessed
with no hearts? Better for you we’d not met
To all lost things big and small
that we walk on without knowing and those
we take as our right; each night I lay still
hoping I will never need to write this
just as a small child prays
– don’t let it be true
– don’t let it be true
……….– don’t let it be true
A MESSAGE TO MORONS
Chinese lanterns, and the people
who release them, are a total pain
in the posterior. Despite
the growing numbers who complain,
our government does Fanny Adams
and the obvious risks remain
undealt with. Farm animals suffer.
Fires break out. Again and again,
brigades, police and even lifeboats
respond to calls which, in the main,
are time-wasting, but if we think
who actually stands to gain
from these contraptions, it turns out
to be the likes of inane
groups of witless wedding guests,
half-sozzled on cut-price champagne,
or money-grubbing manufacturers
who don’t care if a light aeroplane,
or a thatched country cottage
is jeopardised. Who’s going to explain
away a household burnt to death?
It’s not just “elf-n-safety”. It’s insane!
© Peter Wyton