Your feet sink deep into the gunk
coating Ma Earth, trapping you;
you, who would save the world for
another Walt Whitman, or a poppy
spreading its seed across untrampled
meadows, not K-Mart's new parking lot
or tomorrow's Trump Plaza.
Kent State was only a preview,
Charles Manson, a mini-holocaust.
Blood soon will be shed over gas masks
and bottles of clean water.
Our rivers will run red.
Rachel Carson moans in her grave,
but dumpyards keep filling
with last year's TVs
while icebergs melt
and hurricanes race through
A woman ducks into an alley;
struggles to reach her cardboard home
before night drowns the tired sun
and stars start their sad trek across
paths already vanishing beneath them.
(this poem was inspired after reading some of s.a. griffin's powerful poems about making things right with the world again..or wishing that we could.)
Monday, January 30, 2006