Tag Archives: Nature

Know Your Place

Whether we walk by the mountains or sea

We consider ourselves on the ground,

But the birds and the fish far below disagree

And render the notion unsound.

The birds up above sing to each other

Of how humans choose not to fly,

Enjoying the feeling that comes from remaining

Always at the bottom of “sky.”

The fish and the whales and coral and seals

Think of our waterless place

As one way a heaven, in other ways hell,

Just as we humans must think of space.

We are at the apex, we are at the bottom,

All trapped by the pull of a star.

To some we are Gods, to others we’re vermin

And I’m just content that we are.

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How Much Would You Cry If You Had 17 Eyes?

There are ten-quintillion insects

In the world, we estimate

Who deal daily with the fact

They’re objects of our hate.

They’ve never read a poem

And they’ve never seen a play

And we just go and murder them

As they go about their day.

Lots of people say things:

“Love your neighbor,” “Peace not war,”

But they don’t even bat an eye

When vacuuming their floor.

I think when we begin to care

For the welfare of bugs

Humanity will finally see

The real value of hugs.

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Beauty Without Photoshop

Willow, willow, don’t you weep.

Just calm upon the Earth sit.

Your loveliness has but one name:

Arb’oreal: Because you’re worth it.

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It’s Not In Their Nature

If you toss a baby bird in water

It will probably die.

If you toss a fish from a nest

It will not learn to fly.

If you’re nice to someone rude

They’ll likely stay a jerk,

Yet the government employs people

And thinks that they will work?

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The Arborist’s Dilemma

In the pandemic work has been scarce

And rent is still not free

So I was ecstatic when an old hermit

Said he had yard work for me.

He showed me what once was a noble old cedar

That once proudly stood in the park

Until some young people, for whatever reason,

Stripped the old tree of its bark.

The old man had hired me to glue to the cedar

A fresh set of bark, to restore

A tree to its glory. That ends not the story

Because, yes, you guessed it… there’s more

For In the pandemic, unemployed and discouraged

I’d taken to habits of drinking,

And on that bright morning I set off to work

I was out of the habit of thinking.

With heart full of vigor and head well hungover

I glued on a bucket of bark

And though the idea at first seemed uncanny

The contrast, in hindsight, was stark!

And then the old hermit came to see progress

And laughed with a senile glee,

Saying “I meant the cedar beside the bench, boy.

“I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree!”

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A Sonnet For When Your Vegan Girlfriend Puts You In The Doghouse

How soft the calling of the rose in bloom;

Its rage not diminished by its small size,

For it has seen a man deliver doom

With not a drop, remorseful, from his eyes.

The rose who screams has seen its brothers fall,

Cleft and tied as trinkets for a hot date.

It cries without lungs, giving it its all,

Petals in bloom, show’ring it foes with hate.

Then red and white and pink and gold align

Together in the vengeful rose’s song,

A harmony unheard by humankind

Until they are a dozen voices strong.

Then weep! The florist ends their final day.

Aren’t you relieved I brought you no bouquet?

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Preservation of Mass

You were the light of their life,

A celestial body just for them,

But there were a billion stars

Brighter than you.

Your heart was a mountain,

Climbing to the sky,

But roads need gravel

And miners need jobs.

You were the wind and the water,

The rabbit and the fox,

The fish and the hook

And you fed them for a day.

Stars burn out,

Roads are passed by,

Winds stop blowing,

Foxes stop chasing,

And when its dark and still

And you forget what you were,

How you burned and grew

And bit and blew,

You’ll become a part of the world

You thought you were above;

A spark, a stone, a cell, a drop,

What you always were

And always did:

Matter.

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The REAL Cause of Global Warming (and How to Fix It)

Before the internet was made

Antarctica was nice:

Just peaceful people chilling

On an endless sheet of ice.

But after wifi came along

Antarctica, once fine,

Fell immediately into

Inescapable decline

Because one lonely penguin

(Or perhaps a polar bear)

Signed on to ye olde internet

Just to see what’s there.

That was when the searcher

Received the first and fatal clue:

“Are you feeling lonely?

“Check out hot singles near you.”

Now I am not a penguin

(Nor am I a polar bear)

But whatever sorry animal saw

The advertisement there

Went looking for hot singles

Due to loneliness they felt,

Not thinking that the hotness

Just might cause the ice to melt.

Now we find Antarctica

Is little more than ocean

Because of one’s animal needs

(At least that is my notion).

So if we want the glaciers back

And want to stop tides rising

My must delete the internet

(At least that’s my surmising).

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Self-Portrait as Crappy Little Beach

It’s forty-seven Fahrenheit;

The sky and I are gray.

No one smart will sunbathe nude

On my poor sand today.

The waves are lapping loudly

Redefining what I am:

I’m a crappy little beach

In a town called Bellingham.

Observing me are humans,

Ages 3 to ninety-five

And a pair of lazy seagulls

Simply glad to be alive.

My face is made of footprints

Carved from mud and little feet

And a single tiny castle

Built in days when there was heat.

A single browning leaf still flies

Above the tiny moat,

Unnoticed by the passerby

Who try not to emote.

Beside me are some benches

With some names carved on their backs

Of love too poor or humble

To be featured on the plaques.

A lovely woman sits on me

With eyes locked on her phone,

Avoiding passing glances

Though she’s scared to be alone.

I’m here in every season

And I listen when you talk,

Supporting you in silence

As upon my back you walk.

I’ll be here with the sunset

And I’ll welcome you at dawn.

I’m a crappy little beach

Here until you’re long since gone.

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What’s In A Nest?

Let me show you my nest,

The place I rest my head,

Full of feathers and down,

The protection we shed.

We’ll regrow them in time.

They adorn my haven,

Nothing but sticks and mud

And a home for a raven.

My nest’s in a tree.

The tree’s made by rain.

Rain makes my wings heavy

And makes flying pain.

If the sun comes around

And then refuses to set

I’ll have no tree or nest,

So I pray to be wet.

Bugs and worms fill me up

So I may keep eggs warm

So my nest will be full

With a small raven swarm

Who complain of the rain

And fear losing a feather

And I don’t mind their kind

And I treasure “together.”

Soon they’ll be showing

A tree with their nest

And “together” is gone

And it’s all for the best.

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