April 2008 – Poetry

• what i worry about – krista schwimmer
• Environmental Angels – Jim Smith
• The Seeker – R.H. Dolman
what i worry about

by krista schwimmer

that the squirrel i feed daily
will be hit by a passing car
in front of me —
that my husband will walk the liquor store
& never return —
that i will accidentally kill
my pet crow in a fit of rage —
that i will be largely right about people’s
indifference —
that the toilet will be dirty
when a stranger comes to visit —
that i will hate my old age body
with all its aches and pains —
that i will spend time in prison
for no apparent reason, arrested
for a crime i don’t remember —
that i will wake up too late
to my own beautiful life —
that i will not be able to prevent
what i am able to prevent —
that this worry will wind me up
& choke me —
that i will be writing poems
when i should be writing songs —
that at the end i will not matter
even to my self.


Environmental Angels

By Jim Smith

The environmental angels are coming
They’ll be watching you, and waiting

They’ll see you when you dump your plastic
In our beautiful and living ocean

They’ll see you hide your nuclear waste –
it’s a time bomb sent to the future

They’ll see you when you burn carbon –
wood, coal, paper, gasoline – without thinking

They’ll see it all – your high crimes and misdemeanors
Don’t think that you can get away with it

They are coming from the bowels of the Earth
They are coming from the apartment down the street

They are coming from a bedroom in suburbia
They are coming from within you.

They’ll work in your offices, on your ships,
in your factories and fields

Day after day, for years on end
acting so innocent and dumb.

Then they’ll come at you – oh, yes
When you least expect it

They’ll take you at night and in broad daylight
No tears! Your case is closed, your deed is done. 

The crime is ecocide
Your punishment is our salvation

Some might call them terrorists
others will cheer them as saviors

They’re angels, all right,
coming to save us from ourselves


The Seeker

Before the pulsing
crowd returns
he sweeps 
his magic instrument
over the beach,
picks up a signal
in his headphones
and he abides.
So do the clouds
and the birds.
He bends down,
sifts sand through a perforated pail
and examines
what he has found.
If it’s of any value
he stores it in a pouch
fastened around his belly.
If not, he tosses it aside
and moves along.

–R.H. Dolman

Categories: Poetry

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