Poetry
• what i worry about - krista
schwimmer
• Environmental Angels - Jim
Smith
• The Seeker – R.H.
Dolman
what i worry
about
by krista
schwimmer
that the squirrel i feed
daily
will be hit by a passing
car
in front of me
--
that my husband will walk the liquor
store
& never return
--
that i will accidentally
kill
my pet crow in a fit of rage
--
that i will be largely right about
people’s
indifference
--
that the toilet will be
dirty
when a stranger comes to visit
--
that i will hate my old age
body
with all its aches and pains
--
that i will spend time in
prison
for no apparent reason,
arrested
for a crime i don’t remember
--
that i will wake up too
late
to my own beautiful life
--
that i will not be able to
prevent
what i am able to prevent
--
that this worry will wind me
up
& choke me
--
that i will be writing
poems
when i should be writing songs
--
that at the end i will not
matter
even to my
self.
------------
Environmental
Angels
By Jim
Smith
The environmental angels are
coming
They'll be watching you, and
waiting
They'll see you when you dump
your plastic
In our beautiful and living
ocean
They'll see you hide your nuclear
waste -
it's a time bomb sent to the
future
They'll see you when you burn
carbon -
wood, coal, paper, gasoline -
without thinking
They'll see it all -
your high crimes and misdemeanors
Don't think
that you can get away with it
They are
coming from the bowels of the Earth
They are
coming from the apartment down the
street
They are coming from a bedroom
in suburbia
They are coming from within
you.
They'll work in your offices, on
your ships,
in your factories and
fields
Day after day, for years on
end
acting so innocent and
dumb.
Then they'll come at you - oh,
yes
When you least expect
it
They'll take you at night and in
broad daylight
No tears! Your case is closed,
your deed is done.
The crime is
ecocide
Your punishment is our
salvation
Some might call them
terrorists
others will cheer them as
saviors
They're angels, all
right,
coming to save us from
ourselves
-------------
The
Seeker
Before the
pulsing
crowd
returns
he sweeps
his magic
instrument
over the
beach,
picks up a
signal
in his
headphones
and he
abides.
So do the
clouds
and the
birds.
He bends
down,
sifts sand through a perforated
pail
and
examines
what he has
found.
If it’s of any
value
he stores it in a
pouch
fastened around his
belly.
If not, he tosses it
aside
and moves
along.
–R.H.
Dolman
Posted: Tue - April 1, 2008 at 08:10 PM
