Showing posts with label Global Warming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Global Warming. Show all posts

Monday, 25 February 2019

POEMS FOR THE PLANET - What can I do? (One and a half degrees)

What can I do? (One and a half degrees)

Throwing away a plastic carton
On a train, not taking it home to wash
And recycle;
It's grubby and will get over my bag,
Like the paper coffee cup
I took home once and decided
That was not a good idea.

When I click the order button
On the online clothing forum
I try not to think of the person who made it;
In a factory in China
Where workers sleep on the premises
Or in India, where factory effluent
Seeps into the rivers,
After seeing the gallons of water
Used to make cotton
I don't want to buy it-do I check all my labels.

I can't as a rule, afford organic;
I've discovered the market
For seasonal veg-
Who needs strawberries in January?
We aren't driving, anymore
Our flying footprint is very low
Is it enough?

Making steps forwards and backwards,
Perhaps better than just backwards-
Big, guzzling consumers devouring the planet;
Climate change deniers
During the big freeze Trump asked for global warming-
He has it now, for the next ten years;
Warmer temps shifting up the
Thermometer pole
To be aware
Is not much to ask.

© Amanda Derry

Climate change: World heading for warmest decade, says Met Office

Amanda joined a Creative Writing class, following a breakdown, which played a significant role in her recovery. She now embeds literacy skills into classes that she teaches.

POEMS FOR THE PLANET - Eschaton
















Eschaton

The truth of it: 
these are the end of days 
unbiblical and profane.

Blind fools have taken 
too much of everything
and bled an entire world dry.

No-one cries ‘Stop!’, 
no-one can agree when or how;
dominion over the earth:
a fat lot of good.

Power but no shred of respect:
air, land or sea, whatever was in them
ours, anything, we held, possible,
because of who we were.

Time, though infinite, 
is still running out, no longer a technicality 
contained in the mainsprings of old-world clocks
nor the digital drip of it, slow and steady,
on our heads like ancient water torture.

We’re fucked, if no-one has the courage
to read the signals beaming at us across this bead of rock 
as it spins around the sun, on its ravaged way, nowhere special, 
as insignificant as every other smudge of dust.

We are squabbling brutes of bone and meat
who swagger and huff; huddled masses with arrant lunatics 
who lord it over us, who eye the marks they make on history, 
never see the scars, whose hearts are set on glory 
never on how the weary world turns and we are squealing vermin, 
their glorious red carpet, dyed with our bloodstains and sorrow.

So, I said, suit yourself, dress up in fine clothes, look smart, 
parade and prosper, limo yourselves away to condominiums,
to compounds where your illusions are still as safe as money; 
trap us with your conspiracy politics, your sham of freedom.

And still I stand up and say, conjugate the verb ‘to fuck’,
it’s past participle, it’s metaphorical sense; 
to hell with literal, too late for that: 
I am, you are, he, she or it, (oh, shit) is, 
we are, you are, they are, 
fucked…

© Brian Hill


Brian has been 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.

POEMS FOR THE PLANET - Project Fear

Project Fear

A day filled with Friday life 
a February blue sky 
counting seventeen degrees of sun 
absurdly sitting outside,
shining shoes reflecting rays 
birds singing happily confused. 

I fear the shrubs will bud 
and be lost in next week’s frost. 
I fear this may Be It, 
an early Spring lends to Summer, 
March will bring a heatwave,
April May a drought. 

By August we’ll have wilted 
unable to brush off flies, 
the lawn withered and died. 
The sea will be upon us, 
lapping at the fields 
all of Brussels flooded
waste tangled in the trees. 

There will be no streets
for the young to march upon 
The rich will move back up the hills,
the poor fighting for a home
thirsty and destroyed.

And we will remember 
our discomforting pleasure 
on this warm winter day 
shining shoes outside.


Emma is a social activist and poet living in the Belgian countryside with her family and many animals.

Saturday, 13 October 2018

Tick Tock













tick… tock…

aftershock
the geological clock
is a binful of decaying atoms no-one pays heed to all that rock
and rubble all that oceanic telling precisely all we have to do
with a time bomb wired and primed bound and strapped to the world

tick-tock

hellos goodbyes
how time flies
no more lies!
come on! we were the ones (the eons) whose half-open eyes
witnessed the end of history when concrete came and the jungle
and the wild tiger made lion-hearted prey for our predator metal
our digging in the dirt as we dug for gold for gem and stone
for thick black oil to flame and grease the open palms of tomorrow

         for us          all for us    but not for all of us

tick tock tick

time is at hand
the final grains of sand
silt an empty hinterland 

tock tick

eleven years more till our greed its trickling water-torture knocks at our skulls
in one last sign of madness at our delusion of competence we are just plain nuts
or bolts the stable door unhinged in the way that being human is an illness
a state of mind broken thinking otherwise somewhere truth lies dead and buried
the truth and nothing but the truth so help me god so help us oh god because
beside truth’s corpse every godhead every single one is another rotting stiff as are all
those feeble things of flesh of which we knew but cared so little and now too late

tock

tick tock

tick…

© Brian Hill

Final call to save the world from 'climate catastrophe'

World has only 11 years to stop catastrophic climate change, experts warn

Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Iceberg

Listen
hear me
as I break apart

Early morning

My massive frozen body
begins to soften
hard edges smooth away

waters around me are warming
my surface dissolves around the waterline
ablation takes my top layer

as I vapourise
drop by drop
into whispers of air over cold ocean

Melt ponds form in my centre
drip by drip
water seeps, murmurs and bubbles

Fissures form
among my crags, wider and deeper
until a gulch widens

pulling a crazy crevasse

chasm becomes abyss
my central ridge
fractures

I am breaking apart

my groans echo through the seas
mix with the songs of whales
as I am riven

my disruption makes waves
ice chunks break off
float away

I am splitting
sinking, rising again
and suddenly

crack crack crack
a battalion fires a million barrels
into fine clear sky

ack ack ack
the roar of planes
one after another

after another
after another
air rushing rushing rushing

whoosh whoosh whoosh
shells explode and smash
mortars rumble

water sucks gushes
as I rupture
as I break and breach...

         These are the sounds of the Earth

© Jackie Biggs

Large iceberg breaks off from Grey glacier in southern Chile

Jackie Biggs has had poetry published in many magazines and anthologies, both print and online. Her first collection is The Spaces in Between (2015). She blogs at: The Spaces in Between. Twitter: @JackieNews