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Simon Quperlier Oct 2013
My grandma planted a seed of joy, and it grew to be a family tree, but prior to the remarkable development, my grandpa nurtured the seed with wisdom, and every morning the foliage sprouted, with a promising colour of chlorophyll, unpollinated flowers danced in their purity, the flowers of kismet and blessings, as if haunted, bees never huddled, except butterflies like tiny angels, which anointed the stem, so it could grow longer and stronger, no whirlwind could sweep it away, the branches and twigs have become mature now, mature enough to hold the fruits, fruits endowed with wisdom, and I'm one with the gift of poetry, now my grandparents are seated, under the roots of the family tree, ensuring it's never faliing.
burning rain forests
wild animals with shrinking space to live
growing air pollution
smog in major cities
more than 3,5 million deaths
     due to respiratory diseases
global warming
new insects and other beasties
    in the formerly cooler regions
extreme hurricanes  rainstorms  heatwaves
excessive use of fertilizers by agro-industries
bees are dying
blossoms are left unpollinated
biodiversity is in a flat spin
deserts keep growing globally
fossile fuels are still polluting the air
curious dolphins die in the water of the Thames

after so far hundreds of thousands died of Covid-19
it is high time to see the larger picture
to comprehend interactive phenomena

the pandemic brought earth a little recovery time
the waters have cleared
you can actually see fish in the canals of Venice
satellite pictures show clear air over metropolises

suggesting: the new normality after the pandemic
must be significantly different from the old one

do we really need hundreds of thousands to die?
does it need a virus for us to understand

that we need a different relationship to nature?!!
Mitch Prax  Mar 2021
Pollination
Mitch Prax Mar 2021
My heart
is a field of sunflowers-
she leaves no petal
unpollinated.
Caroline Shank  Aug 2020
Prophecy
Caroline Shank Aug 2020
I’ve said it now, twice;
I’ll be dead by Thanksgiving.
November is the cruelest month.
That’s when it happened to you
Ma.  You left with the harvest,
reaped by the devil cells
bearing their fruit in your
bloated throat.

You fell to the floor, rotten
from having hung too long
in your ***** cellar.

I wish you’d died in
But no, you waited
to see me grown, my own
body breeding your foul
flowers.

Now I am broken in my stem
and unpollinated in my mind.
I wait for some death
(I’ll take any) and inch
by inch boredom chokes me.

I cannot outlast this harvest.
I’ll die before you did
with both ******* on
and sober.


Caroline Shank
Written in the 70s@1979 I think,  Won $50.00 first prize in a poetry contest in Primipara magazine.
Fall/Winter 1981/1982  Vol VII:ii

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