Wildlife Heart # Haiku

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Inspired by Wild Heart Wildlife Foundation

Leave us with footprints
And the pictures you must take
Kill nothing but time

Shark Fins – Soup… Anybody?

Why not?

As it Comes

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Thousands of sharks without their fins die out
there in the tortured waters – unable to breathe,
and left to suffer immeasurable pain
as they spiral through the depths of aqua marine
to be feed for marauding fish. Without movement
these ancient creatures cannot extract oxygen from
the water, from its life source and in the world they
have ruled for 400 million years this caretaker of
the oceans falls prey – guilty of a bad
image -to hysteria and legend, to the uneducated,
the myths, the whispers and ignorant reasons – oh yes,
and soup; an affectation that comes at a huge price
with all the benefits that high levels of mercury
and hydrogen peroxide brings. So pretty up those
fins for the masses – enjoy your soup and fake
remedies! Butchers line the pockets of those who
flaunt regulation – the real culprits who care
little about their own health care even less

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Monsters and ‘Artists’ #Haiku

For Haiku Horizons prompt ‘File’.

Piles of single file
Each yard a pace to slaughter
Carvings have no soul

Declaw the Beast

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Egotists declaw the beasts
of their dangerous burdens
– of knife edge, soft pads
trekking hunger with panted
breath hung in arid air, before mercilessly
staining them with the blood of gun shots.
Poachers declaw the beasts
of their precious cargo;
– of motherhood, calves and memories
– of backward superstition’s faux medicine
– of life, their sanctuary and freedom
dripping with the blood of machetes.
Cowards, greed and ignorance aid extinction’s
drizzle with cold calculation and callous evil.
Conveyor belt meals for the wake
of vultures feed the only other winners
in the game; the scourge this anthropocene age.

Stalked by Ego’s Greed #Cinquain

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Listen.
Watch us, silent grass.
See without avarice,
We know you, yet bid you no harm,
Hunter.

Carved Hearts

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Ivory Madonna
abandoned in the dust,
carved from infants’
blood laced tears –
their hacked off faces
seduce the lust.
See the whole world weeping,
carrying the pain,
heading for disaster’s
burden of beast’s and famine
when winter comes again.
Wasted, starving children’s
ghosted sockets cry,
begging us, their saviour,
for manna on the plain.

Drops (Cinquain)

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Rain’s cool,
clear consciousness
evaporates with dawn;
teardrops tasting of fresh mourning
explode.

 

Mad, Bad, Sad

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A one syllable word poem (  I hope).

The call of the wild
is like death in the night.
Bleak shots ring out
in the air full with howls
let loose like doves,
but it soaks them up,

for there is no peace
as those with warm blood
and soft eyes,
have their blood spilt on lush
blades that in sun’s light
are a pea green sea
of frills, which turn to black
laced sport ‘s barbs of dried kin
on torn rags –

grass is stiff from blood rage,
tears hide stains
on sods of red earth, damp
with the id’s
drip of sweat and hot shells
strewn – a young fawn’s
cry is mute.

my life as a piece of string

... from a silent space

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