Unnatural Nature

Here? Fields we rambled, played and picnicked on  
adjacent, there, the forcing rhubarb sheds,  
those black tar-papered sheds, those also gone,  
ground under concrete and forever dead.  
   
Here, can you imagine it, hedgerows grew,  
flourished even beside old dry-stone walls,  
beaten pathways on hard packed earth these flew  
between farmers fields where green crops grew tall.  
   
Nothing remains but imaged memories  
and these, alas, graved on my simple mind,  
all those crops, trees and country greenery  
lost to the progress of the human kind.  
   
Drive on this superhighway under which  
Lie farms, fields, picnic spots and cricket pitch.

In time to come in northern lands
will folk speak of hardier man,
who braved the snow the frost the ice
enough to chill to paradise,

and, in praising those bygone men
in bringing home the goat, the hen,
wonder where this fabled weather went
from Iceland's streets or towns like Ghent,

pondering on this thing profound
with naked toe in soggy ground,
wander home their bedraggled way
through fields of rice, through steamy day...

The flock of majestic birds
Flew in its usual V formation in the dark of night
In the distance the leader saw the light
Flew directly towards it

The flock ending up
Hitting the windows of the tallest building around
And crashing dead to the ground.

*    
   
Though stepped in climate change a little far,    
should ignorance and greed no deeper wade,    
should excess grasp its duty and devoir,    
the planet yet should drown in waste man made --    
too late for industry to nice return    
its fossil-filthy lucre to the ground,    
too tedious for prayer and rapt concern    
to chain consumerism's god unbound --    
the human having loosed Jurassic times,    
Somali droughts, Katrinas, North Sea floods,    
Mosquito fires cross California climes,    
Brazils and Osos tombed in mud-pie muds --    
and as each horror ceaseless comes to pass    
man's nature on its ass farts methane gas.    
   
*

The village had been built jigsaw pretty,  
cottages were white washed and thatched,  
they lined the lazy lanes and quiet roads,  
centered by a pagan cross  
daubed with yellow roses  
and vibrant climbers.  

I caught the cold air, the last  
to leave the pub, it bolted shut  
behind me. The light didn't bleed  
onto the night, stars crowded  
like snow flakes over my hands  
between my fingers, wrapped  
all around me, only me.  
 
Such stumbling quiet can only be heard  
by the drunk, I was inside its vacuum  
carried blind by beauty.  
A wrought iron bench was waiting,  
its arms welcomed me and curled intricate  
fingers over my shoulders.  
 
At first I could only sense movement
approaching  as timid as a shy duck
being enticed by bread.  
A rustle beneath a hedge,  
the earthenware scrape  
of a dragged plant pot.  
 
The night had begun to trust me  
its light came out from corner clouds  
watching roof tops fall on to gardens  
even shadowed doorways shifted  
in to grey-scale. That's when I heard  
the chatter, everything spoke in an old  
language, garden forks talked in rhyme  
as they turned over flower beds,  
plants self pruned and shifted positions  
whispering in a dialect of dark green.  
 
Every garden, the whole village was alive,  
fallen leaves where being raked, blades of grass  
snipped short, plants were discussing  
how they should arrange themselves.  
A discarded coke-can tapped on the side  
of a rubbish bin that snapped open  
to swallow.  
 
I tried to move for a closer look  
but the iron bench moved inside me,  
thin needles had entered my skin,  
energy surged  
across the connection.  
 
I could feel every movement,  
every part of the village,  
the cold brick of the cottages, the warmth  
of bodies as they slept in their beds,  
the padded footsteps of cats as the strutted  
the tops of garden walls.  
 
I began to panic, a body rejecting  
its donor heart, images flashed,  
my mind a flicker book, billions  
of people connected to the earth  
energy drawn from one to another.  
I could see the whole planet trying  
to heal itself, using the created world,  
man made object colliding, collaborating.  
 
I could see the whole plan  
as it mapped itself to my mind.  
I relaxed and allowed myself to go deeper,  
It was then I heard her voice.

We all have talent  
and the audience must sit    
through so much of it,    
when a five-pound note    
rolls up to shine.    
    
We funnel words down cables    
hoping digital fish      
will swim across our table,    
Sealions clapping backwards    
for rewards.    
     
but what of fame,    
however it’s earned,    
we sleep with the same      
mask of reality    
and wake with the mistakes    
of our morning paper reviews.    
     
The talking cats have a billion hits    
as the janitor plays Bach    
in the shopping centre.      
The world looks on      
through theatre glasses    
and everyone’s a critic    
     
and we all crave our own five minutes,    
desperate to be in it,    
as the right hand goes into the liquidizer    
the left is still filming    
and the rest are just waiting      
to watch.    
   
So stand naked in your fields    
feel the ground beneath you,    
vomit the data bile    
in gushing screaming streams    
then kneel and fill your hands    
with hard earned earth    
   
and ask the forests for your forgiveness    
for they will be the guides    
and they alone will sustain us    
as the rest of the world dies    
in endings yet to be written.    
   
   
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
 

In nature's grasp, a tale unfolds,
A story of a killer, untold,
For Mother Nature, fierce and wild,
Is both creator and destroyer, styled.

Her floods, like torrents of despair,
Engulf the land, beyond repair,
Innocence she drowns, without remorse,
A serial killer's deadly course.

The fires, her incendiary art,
Burning forests, tearing worlds apart,
Innocent creatures, homes ablaze,
In her inferno, she sets the stage.

Earthquakes rumble, a deadly dance,
The earth's core, a lethal lance,
With tremors strong and ruthless shakes,
Innocence, she ruthlessly forsakes.

The deserts vast, a barren land,
She spreads her lethal, shifting sands,
With thirst, she leads her victims on,
In her arid grip, all hope is gone.

Rivers wide, a deceptive smile,
As they twist and wind for miles,
Beneath their currents, secrets hide,
Innocence swept away with the tide.

Trees and vegetation, seemingly benign,
Yet in her grasp, they intertwine,
In poisonous beauty, they enthral,
Innocence, they silently appall.

Mother Nature, a serial killer, true,
With every element, a different hue,
She shapes, she maims, she takes, she gives,
In her grand design, all life she sieves.

But remember, in her chaos, she's the cure,
In the darkest times, she's the allure,
A balance delicate, a paradox of fate,
For in her hands, our world does create.

      
     
life is dead      
     
decay births on a marble cake night      
     
flesh of truth falls, fracturing earth      
     
hyena sky watches and waits      
     
     
     
   
 

 
The east coast gets those devastating hurricanes
While the west coast goes into long drawn-out drought
I just saw a video of Canadians getting tornadoes
While climate change deniers are still spreading doubt

A U.S. Senator escapes the freezing temperature
While people suffered and died in the terrible cold
Whether it’s Fahrenheit or Celsius for the wealthiest
The weather is always fine in their palaces of gold

Now an unbearable heat is sweeping across the land
Diligent and responsible water conservation is a must
Why won’t dumbasses listen to experts and scientists
But they swallowed a lie and don’t know how to trust

Dig and drill for coal and oil? Sell your soul for spoils
Raping Mother Nature seems to fill some deep pockets
Take all that you desire, as forests and gulfs are on fire
And the richest? “I’m outta here in my private rocket”

We are only here but for a mere sec in the spec of all time
And need to heed the warnings if we don’t change our ways
Or else future societies will cry for us for not seeing the signs
Because she might take it back, she will take it back, some day

Only time can attest to the fact
of the moment we made the pact
to sell our future for profits,
idolizing machines like mechanical prophets
bringing forth a new and unholy reign
in their neverending glittery campaign.
Buy! Consume! Betray your integrity!
I need it now, my new age serendipity.
So ask yourself now, as we descend into hell
as your forget your humanity, is it well?
Was it worth the price of admission
to see your cancerous ego go into remission?
Tell I'm beautiful, lie to me o metal one
validate my existence my new sun!
Shine upon your humble servant as we
worship your very presence that causes to be
our jubilation and glory,
please O shiny god, rewrite our story!
Is it well?
Only time can tell...