Snow Arc #Haiku

  Picture: Pixabay  snow fox-writingasitcomes-snow

Black frigid snow stares
Streaming arctic fountain floes
Fur lines the tundra

Arctic hunter’s bow
January’s polar child
Invisible spear

I am a fox
I am January
I am a polar child
I am snow

Distant voles quiver
Magnetic sense tickles ears
I can hear you

Notification brings me in

I’m apparently celebrating  three years of WordPress, which also means, I am reminded of the reason for my blog and the bare, three years without my dad.  But, please, when you find yourself there, do not despair;  remember that life happens.  It is what it is.  Enjoy your life, regardless.  I know he would be thrilled that I have embraced more than he ever saw as an inclination within me.  I got married.  I continued to write, became published, even became the activist in word and deed.  He always saw that, but I did not.

I don’t have it in me at present to write.  I could reblog, but for me, that doesn’t always  matter.   What does matter is that the souls of the young are not tarnished, not disillusioned by life in whatever form it manifests.   I can just ask from experience that you – love it, live it, create, and be your best to help this world and those that inhabit it.  We are ALL sentient beings with feelings.  To that end, we must campaign, build a better life for us and those without a voice.  We need to campaign,  petition and nag our political parties to eradicate endless suffering of us and our animal counterparts.   We should not be allowed to rule with impunity… simply because we can!  Climate change is real as is death and taxes.  Learn from it.  Use it.  If only to leave behind common decency.

Golden yellow cups
dressing the fields in harmony
soon drowned in water

Declaw the Beast

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.

Mad, Bad, Sad

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.