Tucked in the lake’s far corner
Amongst the mud and driftwood
From shattered boats
The most beautiful flowerings
You could possibly imagine
But who could’ve thought
That such wondrous flora
Could have barcodes?
More at https://medium.com/@ha_coverley.
Did you know that
–dandelions grow through lava, laughing
in tongues of wildflower flame?
–crabgrass grows through melted ice,
sprouting in waves of crustacean corpses
and spouting skyscrapers?
–pipes grow through bones?
More information is included in your handout
along with your complementary gas mask
that can be personalized right from your phone
courtesy of our sponsor –
More at http://arsamandica.wordpress.com/.
This global warming, what is the big deal?
Someone really needs to reveal.
Father says it is a big cause of worry.
Grandma says it is caused by that fancy Ferrari.
Some say it causes the glaciers to melt
And is caused due to the depletion of the ozone belt.
Others say the Earth is heating up
All because of our human pileup
They say our factories and vehicles are the root cause
Along with our petty human flaws
Of pollution and deforestation
And our earthly adulteration.
So what can we do to stop this?
And cover up all these splits.
Plant trees, stop pollution,
Find another solution
For our polluting vehicles
Use bicycles, walk, do anything to stop those chemicals
From rising into the atmosphere.
For they are the only cause of fear.
So now we know why global warming is a big deal
And how it may our very existence steal.
So let us take this pledge today
To stop global warming from making a getaway.
There was a time
When chirping birds sang
Good Morning into my ears
Amber and gold showered
From the Eastern horizon
A sweet redness heralded
The sunrise!
Another day awaited
To test man’s endeavor
Sweat dripped and mingled
Showers slushed; pools filled
Germination of hope!
There was a time
When hope conquered despair!
Where have all the sparrows gone?
From the top of those steep sloping green hills
they sat relaxed on horseback to marvel
in awe at the natural beauty of unspoilt land
uncorrupted by the destruction of progress
taking away the virginity of the landscape
where creatures safely interacted unharmed
by callous hands in pursuit of their immoral gain
the countryside balance they did not maintain.
With no tall grotesque buildings to sully the view
nor chimneys from factories regularly
spewing more deadly toxins to choke our lungs
above air clear from human impregnation
from more suspected elements of depopulation
weather harsh but the seasons defined
there before pollution and technology encased
our lives and the nightmare future to face.
More at http://www.malctg.wordpress.com.
This forest
Will remain anonymous
Until a couple declares within it their love,
Until a child runs on its paths,
Until a rare breed is discovered within it,
Until they start cutting down
The source of its pride.
—–
Zohar Teshartok lives in Ramat-Gan, Israel. He is a graduate (BA) from Bar-Ilan University in Israeli literature, Jewish art and Information Science. His stories and poems have appeared in magazines, anthologies and in electronic format in Israel and abroad.
Many who had hiked through Canadian wilderness
[ A century ago ] Took notice of a bird in flight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
At once: a hunter, a guide, a trapper
A living made from the furs in his sight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
Into his forest lair, he gave shelter to a pair
Of beavers & a female pony
Beautiful, willful, contrite
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
He recorded every caper onto pages of paper
Turned articles & books
Thousands read his every insight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
He took bold strides to speak for trees & wild lives
Nature’s preservation against devastation became his plight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
Then he travelled to an evening pow-wow,
Where he’d shown native chiefs how
He embraced their ways,
Mastered their sacred dances by firelight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flies by night
In Canada & England, news had spread:
One day at home, he was suddenly dead
His secret’s out: The “Red Indian”
Was English & White
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flew by night
But never mind the buckskins, the feathered headdress, the moccasins
Or false tales about his past, every sleight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flew by night
His other steps were true, after all,
Preventing ecology’s steady fall
What mattered was the nature of his fight
A rare one the Ojibwa called
Washa-quon-asin–He who flew by night.
______________________________
W: Canadian Aboriginal Day 2014
[ For Archibald Belaney a.k.a. Grey Owl–1888 – 1938. ]
*OJIBWE: “Grey Owl”.
Why are we trimming our precious greenery?
Is to make space for our machinery?
Machines may make our lives fun and easy,
But without the oxygen, we might not be half so breezy.
Trees are our ultimate supporters
They are our food and oxygen headquarters.
They make their own food
Only to be devoured by the human dude.
We are replacing trees by our own industries
And other human facilities
But it is time to realise
That trees are our ultimate allies.
Think about all the wildlife in the forests
Whose homes we are to demolish.
How would it feel if someone
Would break down our houses one by one?
So let us stop this negative yielding habit
To make sure we still the Earth inhabit
For deforestation may contaminate your very life
And it may hurt more than any knife.
Close in.
Be a cow:
cusp of a curve, small
green hill, cuds of clover,
(all you want), beauty in
the soft, the randy fur,
the hard silk of horns.
Beauty too in the brown
guileless eyes. Fit fingers
about the head, its hard square
horns, the kissable nubs,
the whiskered ears
& jaw stronger
than Rushmore’s Washington.
One look, touch, & no harm
could be sought, only, at most,
the mild whip of a tail
flicking at flies.
Hug the neck, arms like garlands
& it’s entering an aviary,
just chatter chirps, intelligent
feathers tapestried in winds
the color of a changing angel.
You as well, pastoral chameleon,
breathe the sensual range between
cool damp & tropic heat,
flesh showing the vulnerable bones
& muscles cloths might hide.
Those aren’t oceans,
Unless as imagined as so,
& intimacy finds others, licks, lives
the inner
while in some rooms buttons are boxes
& we say:
Mr. Executive, keep hands off.
More at http://stephenmead.weebly.com/.
If he had
Danced a slow foxtrot
She would not
Have vanished
Had he swayed
With the music
Never could he
Have forsaken her
But the rains came
With deafening voices
And the fires
Yet triumph
How foolish
Were they