[The Produce]

Looking closely I realised your bushels
were just full of tumbleweed, the silly seed.

You gathered so much just to make it weigh
down on your back, and make it crack.

Sound effects for a minstrel's play,
I sing in tune -- you flush and fume.

But you can harvest all you want,
for parasites, are inner blights.

[A Scene from the Window]

Late evening -- the sun still muddies
the waters of air and leaf-fall.
How oppressive the atmosphere
for so jewel-like a scene, the gold
winks from the paleness of a community building.

It seems that the trees are frozen
to bear this glorified weight.
No breeze to let them breathe,
nor raindrops to feed the roots and trunk,
as the heat claims center stage for all.

The Anthropocene Hymnal is out!

That’s right, the book is out! As I’ve announced earlier on this blog, The Anthropocene Hymnal is a wonderful anthology of poetry about the climate crisis edited by Ingrid Wilson. All the proceedings from its sale will go to the World Wildlife Fund. You can find out more about how to support this project here.

[the watchers]

too many people talk about hiding their pain,
as if none of us noticed its aura
purple-black-red, seeping out like a taunt,
like an omen. you should know especially,
i'm not as oblivious as you might want me to be,
i reach out my hand at the slightest
shift in the air, but not too far because i know
you will slap it away with a laugh.

maybe it's sadism,
hoarding tomes of dark knowledge to yourself
so you can watch the rest of us suffer
from not knowing, clipped of our paper-wings.

or maybe it's a misunderstanding,
a careless eye flicked over the page
of how we are programmed,
to reach out a hand, pallid and empty
at the slightest zero-shift
in the air, in the water, in the love. 

[A dewdrop contemplates their neighbours]

I'm the special one, not you. You are a pearl believing itself to be a dewdrop, and not a milky calcium deposit. I could live with that, maybe. Live with the way you present yourself resplendent in necklaces, declaring that liquid sunrise was meant to be entrapped and imprisoned this way, like confining music to the five songs everyone else is listening to. 

But then you cower in the face of harsh winds, rolling, refusing any longer to hold your place in the web, and suddenly I'm not so sure I can tolerate your presence, and sit back in the rose light while you blunder. 

Announcement: ‘The Anthropocene Hymnal’ Release Date

Image of the book cover.

I’m excited to let you know that The Anthropocene Hymnal will be released on the 24th of July 2021. This anthology covers the climate crisis through poetry and art, and the money used to purchase a copy will be donated to the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). The editor is the wonderful Ingrid Wilson and the fantastic cover image was created by Kerfe Roig. It has been an honour to contribute to this project and hopefully do something for our planet.

You can find out more about the publication details here.

[I let go of the arrows]

I let go of the glass slide
where someone has scribbled in marker:

Arrows in every direction. Strong, thick,
convincing arrows that
block out the light, casting
a shadow of accusation.

I let go of the arrows, I let go
of the shadow. 

In every direction, the morning can bounce,
and the evening flows back
to fill the holes where this all started,
where I can now rest my feet.

[When you think you’ve grasped the core]

On the shining glass coffee table, squat in the living room, a package.

Brown and loose paper wrapping held together by persistent string
that frays in annoyance when you sit down and unravel it.

A person is like its contents. Strange. Loose in the hand.
Just enough marbles to fill a purse, and a throwaway memory of collecting them over a lifetime of street-sides.

You sit on the sofa with your daily mail. With impatient, trembling fingers,
you attempt to imprison something that shivers in the morning sun like a dream. 

Origami anticipations bubble in the now-frothy mid-day air,
when you loose the fourth or fifth layer.

Inside there is
a paper frog, 
that leaps out onto the floor
and hitches a ride on the breeze.