A magnificence of feats,
if dear hearts survive testimony,
witness to the ills of humanity;
stubborn as it is smart,
lethal as it loving –
doomed from the off.
If one red breasted heave
survives our test of time –
life has not been in vain.
A Quadrille consists of 44 words.
Memories are slim chance shadows
That glide between the light and darkness
Imagination is a fat cat
Waiting to swell our indifferences
Hope is a ritual seizing of every chance we have
Breathing is an exercise performed daily
Waiting is a nervous habit, what are we waiting for?
Doom is nearby and calling cards are left
Defiantly… What are we going to do?
If you don’t believe the earth is not flat
Or that it revolves around the sun…
Phalaborwa, South Africa
Sans human folly
Cohesion of nature’s heart
and tiny drops of rain
are jagged breaths of air.
Sea swells and angry tides
confide their bitterness to us.
Dry mouths without food,
are sat cross legged, swollen
on ruptured cracks,
feeding on breaths of air
while heat rises and crawling oceans
rage with less canopy to soothe
those savage flames.
Shadowless creatures scurry,
falling between the cracks
regularly bulldozed, and become mislaid –
lost to a civilisation
bereft of compassion, fed on
self serving plates of greed
and corruption that
co exist, as
man and beast should co exist –
and why hoards of humanity
starve, drown or bathe in their own plastic
prophets of doom
bubbling and strangling
everything in earth’s amniotic fluid,
sustaining only the havoc
we have wreaked.
Fascist dealers in this world
must change (or be removed)
like the orangutan,
four on an endless list,
before the climate changes us,
Walking though the world
Hand in hand with nature’s dilemma
A cool breeze still blows
She is faceless
where colours bleed
from Amazonian veins.
Lush, rich, rainbow roots grasp
with gnarled fingers
last gasp branches
flowing in raging hurt.
Canopies echo mistrust,
and all life flies off,
runs for calm cover,
A Quadrille is a 44 word verse.
Exquisite photography by Nick Brandt
Who will inherit the dust
after weightless ghosts
finally fall under swirling clouds,
where once mighty shadows
walked on crusted earth.
All will soon be lost like dried reflections
in still lakes
to join the halo of hoofed prints standing visibly
as relics of the past
in the rubble of wasteland’s
grit and bones;
grazed lands bulldozed by long necks,
craned where the giraffe would stand tower high
to machines, where
visual echoes of elephants walking through grass
become archways of elephant tusks –
a legacy of brutal remains,
killed by man’s hands –
now held by man in reverent pose
to spur magnificent footsteps to death
inside of an elephant cathedral,
perhaps to join with them in mourning,
or so that we might better understand
and stop the apocalypse
this time around.
evaporates with dawn;
teardrops tasting of fresh mourning