In my first attempt at this poem, I said
His eyes rose like a green sun,
But I don’t know what I was trying to convey.
Of course the sun isn’t green, and can’t be.
I guess I only meant that his eyes,
A lurid colour of green,
Seemed to burn just above the horizon.
I just wanted to indicate that his eyes were glowing,
Or that they appeared to glow.
And they rose to meet mine,
Just as the sun does,
And that I can’t bear to look into them
Any more than I can stand to stare into the sun.
I think that is what I was getting at.
I meant that his eyes made an impression,
And I will never forget them.
Even after they’ve descended in the western mist,
I will still feel a bit overheated and overexposed
From spending too much time in their glare.
You were always object lesson,
Never role model, and I only knew
I should never be like you.
Your death was early and tragic,
As expected, your last conscious
Moments spent reaching for the door
Of a home engulfed in flame.
Through tear-filled eyes,
Those who had nothing but
Criticism for you when alive
Expressed their own shock and
Grief with a final tinge of judgment.
“If it had anything to do with drugs,
I don’t even want to know,” they sobbed.
At that moment, I think I understood
Both false feeling and blaming the
Victim. No mention of your trauma,
Your alcoholic father, your abuse, or
Your desperate struggle for
Acceptance. For the first time,
Fertility varies from place to place.
In my hometown, cilantro would take over
The yard if you weren’t careful. Some
People don’t like the smell, but I loved
The fragrant flood of mulch and pollen
Whenever I mowed. (It was the only joy
I found in mowing.) A cilantro haze
Always encircled by volunteer chilis
Standing as spicy sentinels guarding
The perimeter of the lawn with indifference.
In other places, the peppers and coriander
Do not volunteer but must be coaxed
From the soil with care and determination.
You must remember to bring them inside
During the cold months (and most are).
A grow light helps, too, one would think,
But the natural growth and abundance
Of abandoned plants has left me.
And could anything be more appropriate?
My own vitality, once uncontrolled and
Forever stretching to new patches of
Fertile soil must now be coaxed awake
Each day and issues a constant threat
Of “failure to thrive.” My arthritic hands
And semi-repaired bones strain to put
New seeds in fecund ground and wait for
Life to emerge each spring. But still
The light, the air, the soil trigger some
Urge, some will to unfurl once more.
I predicted the results of the election, and the death of the republic
I warned of financial collapse and the beginning of the pandemic
I shouted right in your face that you needed to protect your investment
I told you the university you chose faced regulatory reassessment
I knew the car you bought was built by underpaid and untrained workers
And I mentioned you’d get heart disease if you ate too many burgers
If you listened, you’d know your new hoover would be recalled
And that the new prescription you filled will make you go bald
I laid out the argument against a global corporate cooperative
But reviewer number two insisted I’m being too negative
It is too depressing, I’m told, to always focus on disaster
We’ll just hope for the best and muzzle the forecaster
If we focused on our impending doom incessantly
We’d be paralysed with fear you declare contemptuously
So stop crying about all the amenities to be lost
We’d rather stroll contentedly to our next holocaust
I know you’re distracted by things much more important
And sometimes my entreaties come across as mordant
So you tune out what is most difficult to hear
And focus on beauty and how to calm your fears
You need clarity and can’t take it all in at once
So I should expect a certain amount of avoidance,
And I know the daily clamour distorts true prophecy
But I still want to be part of the chorus, not the cacophony
It seems the perfect arrangement,
All these particles, all this energy
Racing forward to some ultimate
Purpose.
All the minutiae of the universe
Explained by this motivation to some
Grand End in a race from potential to
Actual.
Possibilities reach out in an infinite
Expanse, a burgeoning desire exploding
From one dense core into an infinite array of
Minds.
Or one mind, maybe, with parts aware only of
Themselves, striving with a singular purpose—
To avoid pain. Or find pleasure. Meaning is
Contingent.
But some have started to regroup, and they are
Trying to draw us all in. Eventually, everything slides
Past the event horizon till our whimpers erupt with a
Bang.
The Mississippi River is a metaphor for life,
Mostly because Samuel Clemens made it so.
At least that’s what you would’ve learned
In your literature class—that a huge, meandering
River held the secrets of innocence, knowledge,
Guilt, and wisdom. So much is hidden under
The surface, see, and so much changes as you
Drift along. You may start your journey with
A piece of property and end it with a human being.
Not everyone learns to feel. Not everyone feels shame.
Mark Twain sort of got that, but some people pretty
Much think he dropped the ball at the end there,
And it is hard to see why Huck couldn’t have
Ended up being a slightly better person than
He ended up being. Everyone is disappointed
The novel ended the way it did, instead
Of some other way, but it’s what Clemens wanted.
It may be that ol’ Mark Twain ended up no more
Developed than his young creation, or maybe he just
Wanted us to take the next step ourselves.
Epidemiologists and public health ethicists have been grappling for some time with the near certainly of widespread disease pandemics resulting from climate change. Changes in non-human animal migration and human migration will bring extant pathogens to new populations as warming releases long dormant pathogens on the world once again. Large swaths of the population could be wiped out in an incredibly short amount of time. Addressing climate change isn’t a matter of preserving the beauty of the plant. Rather, it is a matter of promoting human survival.
A dying planet is a
Planet that kills.
Rising temperatures raise
The spectre of pestilence
In the form of pathogens
Newly released on
Unsuspecting vectors
As other pests breed
Vociferously and march
Into new territories
In a murderous stampede.
The migration of
Pests and pestilence brings
Pandemic and pandemonium.
Rising waters drive life from
Coasts as rising temperatures
Dry the plains; bake the deserts.
Human refuse scatters into
Constant conflict, seeking refuge
Away from the water or away
From the drought, the ice, the disease.
The oceans killed the fish,
And the sun killed the crops.
Infrastructure fails,
Transportation halts,
Medical care is a memory,
And society is preserved
Only in bits and bytes
Scattered to the sands.
The few who remain
May be resilient enough
To restart the madness.
They call me a misanthrope and mock my isolation
I like solitude, but I don’t hate human interaction
I want to hear your stories, dreams, and travails
I want to share your secrets but not your pale ales
I think we could be soul mates, and there’s so much I want to hear
I want to talk for hours, but I don’t want another beer
I’d love to learn about cricket, rugby, snooker, and, yes, football
They require much more concentration and skill than any American sports at all
I know your team’s usually a contender, but this season they’ve had bad luck
The refs are all on the take, and the new management sucks
I’m looking forward to learning about scoring and champions cheers
God, I want to learn all the team statistics, but I don’t like beer
Yes, the weather is really crap, but tomorrow is supposed to be fine
It hasn’t been clear for a week, but at least the snow has been light
In another month or so, it will be nothing but steady rain
You should have bought the cottage your cousin sold in Spain
I’d like to learn more about what’s changing the atmosphere
But I’m going to be running home soon, because I don’t like beer
It’s a beautiful grandbaby. She’ll probably play for United
And that’s a lovely pram you bought. I can tell you’re excited
You’ve every reason to be proud. I think she’s the spit of you
It sounds like the delivery was tough going there for a few
I want to hear more about how death is always so near
And I’d stay to delve into it, but I don’t like beer
I’m sorry I don’t like beer. I think it is something genetic.
It’s just too bitter for me, but otherwise we’re copacetic*
It’s not that I’m a loner or wallow in desolation
You’re a great companion, leader, and inspiration
I think you’re just great, but I have to get out of here
I love people, I really do, but I don’t like beer
Before the reckoning,
The water was like glass.
We would glide
Across the surface,
Staring into the deep
As naïve as a recently
Birthed Godzilla,
Never knowing what Destruction our
Mutation might bring
