Sustainability Poems

And another poem from Debbie Singh!

.

The Mission.

.

Look at you, at what you’ve done

Raped the rainforest, tainted the terra firma

Infecting whole realms with waste and toxins

Pesticides, fungicides, insecticides buried deep

Inside the once flawless earth and all we eat

.

Look at you, at what you’ve done

Massacred the marine, oiled the oceans

With thick, asphyxiating black suffocation

Plastic, batteries, cigarette filters are all a catch

For the so called ‘Great Pacific waste patch’

.

Look at you, at what you’ve done

Occluded the ozone, strangled the stratosphere

Shooting missiles through bygone, pure atmosphere

Polluting the oxygen with aerosol cans causing great holes

Unbalancing evolution with heat, melting the north pole

.

Look what you, at what you’ve done.

I am rampant with rage, determined with destruction

I have stormed across galaxies, consumed all in my way

I have smashed through stars and murdered moons

My very existence brings impending doom

.

Look at you, at what you’ve done

I’ve erased earth before, I’ve advertised Armageddon

But your arrogance, your egotism, your lack of respect

You have insulted nature. You have pillaged and robbed

And stood right by as continents have sobbed.

.

Look at you, at what you have done

I’m absorbed with anger, I’m insane with indignation

I’ve shown you before, remember? I’ll show you again

When my mighty tail streaks across the sky, my flaming hot face,

Will be the last thing that you see as a whole human race.

.

When my mission is over and done

I will return from whence I come.

.

.

© Debbie Singh

.

.

.

A great poem from Debbie Singh:

.

I Was Young Once

.

I was young once. I was. Young and lush and fresh and free

Roaming wherever I fancied or pleased to be

No restrictions were put on me.

I was simply just me.

.

I felt the hot, humid caress of sun. I did. Lazy, hazy rays

Covering, smothering me in long drawn-out days

The strong, sweet scent of a thousand nosegays

Was simply just divine.

.

I was soaked a million times. I was. With rain drops pelting all around

Bouncing like dancers across a thirsty ground

While birds stayed silent from the thunderous clouds sounds

Was simply so refreshing.

.

I used to live. I did. Feel the wind blow through gently through

My very being, encouraging, coaxing me and I grew and grew

And watched the shades of sky turn from azure to dark blue

It was absolutely amazing.

.

I can’t see now. I really can’t. I feel like I’m fading, yet not quite dead

I haven’t gone anywhere I’m still here under a concrete bed

Underneath a shopping centre its industrial nails clinging to my head

It’s simply torture.

I was no match for mechanical monsters. I wasn’t. I was just me

A piece of peaceful land enjoyed for centuries by happy families

But they slathered me in hot tarmac and annihilated my trees

I was forgotten.

.

I will never be free again. I won’t. Man did this to me. His greed

Comes before children’s generations of freedom and nature’s need

He doesn’t realise that with this gesture, with this deed

He has destroyed me.

.

This countryside was alive once. It was. With smells, sights and sound

With vibrant colour, refreshing freshness and creatures abound

Until greyness erased it to the ground

I am destroyed.

.

In years to come, you will see

Exactly what you’ve done to me

The only colours left will be grey, black and white

And the colour green will be lost from sight.

.

.

© Debbie Singh

.

.

.

A fabulous poem sent by Nicola Jackson:

.

Dear Earth,
.
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

.

.

.

Wonderful! A tanka and some haiku from Pris Campbell:

.

a tanka

.

sewage

fills the river

my tears

accompany the dead fish

on their last journey home

.

.

.

three haiku

.

.

hazy day

soot falls from the sky

like rain

.

baby sea turtle

bright condo lights lead him

astray from the moon

.

wildflowers gone

from where once I climbed trees  –

another resort

.

.

© Pris Campbell

.

.

.

A poem 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

.

.

.

.

A poem from Susi Wolf, Alburquerque, New Mexico!

.

National Poetry Day

.

And Brother Eagle cried to Mother Earth

“Why do you weep so?”

She replied

“Because I am in such great pain.

The People have hurt me and I may die.”

“What will save you, Mother?”

“If the People stop hating themselves

Then they will stop hating each other,

And they can love Mother Earth as

I have always loved them.”

“What should I do, Mother?”

Bring Stories to the People.

For the Stories will heal them if

They listen.

So Brother Eagle soared

Through the sky

But could find no Stories.

So he found those who did.

And Mother Earth smiled.

“Yes…send out the Storytellers.

It may be all we have left.”

.

© Susi Wolf

 

 

.

A poem from Jane, who lives in Western Massachusetts but is living in St Andrews, Scotland for a while:

.

Hey, Blue Planet

.

Hey, Blue Planet,

I’m talking to you.

What’s a worried little

girl like me gotta do

to get kids started

in my sixth grade class

for some good ideas

to save your planetary. . .grass?

.

Should I write my congress critters

asking all of them to vote

on ways that we can keep

this old blue planet afloat?

Or do we just sit back,

watch the grown-ups not do

anything AGAIN

to help out you?

.

Hey, Blue Planet,

I know that you hear.

You’ve got prayers a plenty

assaulting each ear.

But what I’m asking now,

is how we help you.

What can an ordinary

sixth grader do?

.

There’s lots of us waiting,

Just give us a wave

(not tidal, but terrific)

cause we’re ready to save

all your great big mountains,

your valleys, your plains.

Seeding your clouds

with life-bringing rains.

.

So send us a message,

or maybe send us two,

And watch what a bunch

of school kids can do!

.

© Jane Yolen

.

A Poem to the Unborn, by 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

wrongly defined

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

 

 

.

.

A poem from Nancy Fierstein:

.

Well, Excuse Us!

.

I met a dolphin just the other day,

out in the Gulf, y’know. Here’s what he had to say –

.

“We need to book ourselves a getaway.

This ocean’s not as blue, and we don’t want to stay.

.

“With due respect to all your industries,

what’s leaking from the deep is messing with our seas.

.

“From top to bottom we’ve got trouble now.

If we wash up on shore, we take one final bow.

.

“It’s even tainting all the food we eat.

We find your cleanup mode another toxic treat.

.

“You clever men, please can’t you find a way

to rescue all of us and make it safe to play

.

near beaches lined with pristine grains of sand?

An Eden getaway like that would be so grand!”

.

I shrugged a bit to let my soft side show –

“A storm is coming now, and we all have to go!”

.

.

© Nancy Fierstein

.

.

.

.

A Message from the Planet Doctor, by Julie Anna Douglas:

.

The Planet Doctor

.

The Planet Doctor
took one look at Earth,
and said,

”I have a diagnosis.
Your health, it seems, is not so good.
In fact, it’s quite atrocious.
Your temperature is rising.
Ice caps are melting into the seas.
You need to breathe in clean air,
so, why do you cut down your trees?
Smoke and smog are clouding your skies.
There’s congestion on every motorway.
Your oceans are full of rubbish,
and more is dumped, day after day.
Many species are disappearing.
Once they are gone, they won’t be back.
I can’t bandage your Ozone Layer
or fix global warming with an ice pack.
You must look after yourself, Dear Earth.
I’m afraid there is not much I can do,
except advise you to clean up your act.

The rest is up to you!”

.

© Julie Anna Douglas

.

.

.

A poem by Marsha Warren Mittman:

.

Children’s Song

.

Come children sing the war-making song

A game of skill and chance and greed

And power across the board game called

Earth

.

Come children, war game pawns, sent

By generals dictators war lords to manifest

Capricious bidding and misguided strategy

To blaze, not in glory, but in destruction pain

Death

.

To scorch the board game called Earth

.

Come children sing the money song so

Weapons may dance on the graves of

Innocents sent by blind manufacturers

Generals dictators war lords gleefully

Anticipating profit and glorification from

The scorched devastated board game called

Earth

.

Come children win this bloody

Masochistic board game called Earth

Come sing a last lonely plaintive song

Whose words have been forgotten

Whose melody is tremulous

Sing out before its memory dies

Come, sing the glorious song of

Peace

 

.

© Marsha Warren Mittman