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‘R’ You Saving The World?

globe of the Earth with a supportive hand underneath it
Some of us R trying:
Recyclers, re-users and repairers;
riders of bicycles and rev-ers of electric cars;
reducers of emissions with bio-mass boilers,
roof solar panels, and residents who use them,
really sustainable developers,
       with rainfall harvesters and run-off tanks;
regular givers and those who limit usage of finite resources;
radical learners who know what’s safe, not toxic nor wasteful;
radiant fashionistas in natural fabrics, not man-made rayons;
rich beauties who never use micro-beads in ‘products’;
radgie gadgies who put their newspapers into the blue sulo;
ruddy faced growers of organics who reject chemicals;
reflective designers of biodegradables who create wrappings
    and rubbish that rots rapidly;
religious genetic engineers who’ve worked out the ethics;
researchers who grow food with hydroponics;
readable writers who explain global warming,
    so oRdinaRy people understand;
realistic politicians (The Green Party)
    who plan for the planet not just for now;
revolutionary citizens who vote ecologically,
resourceful pupils in gardening clubs, growing radishes and runners,
retired folk, volunteers in conservation projects, who make compost;
Rwandan game-keepers who care for rhino,
Russian zoo-keepers who breed endangered raptors,
rustic bird lovers who refill seed feeders regularly,
retailers who refuse to sell plastic,
people who use renewables over and over again,
and I refill a reusable glass bottle to rehydrate.

Sue Foster



Photo by Greg Rosenke via Unsplash

Currently Popular Poems:

Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess

Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan

Seasons

To each a season: the planets Turn in Kepler's gyre, Swelling the mental weather, Fattening the wealth Of light and dark I weekly Feel in my own solitude. To each a season: a death Of what was hard and cold: A burst of sun to break My hoary sadness And gild the shining tower I build around your smile. But let's not talk of sun But speak instead of life And all the things I feel When living through mortality. The lovely times We feast and meagre times We only feed on memories. I have my seasons. Tim Holt-Wilson

Hawk Moth

Hawk moth Waiting alone Tenderness revealed, In the Shadow of the Friary. Cushioned wind Stifling air Song thrush Beckons the Spirit of the summer. Afloat with thoughts Memories of Parched earth and forgotten Spheres. Suzanne

Thoughts Beside a Stream

Flowing alongside water's edge An overflow of activity And constricted Jumbled thoughts. Broken passages and swollen memories of channelled energies And intermittent promises. Hungry vines Competing for light Succumbed to the fragility of life. Awash with echoed considerations Downstream they float Towards a bareness. Dynamic vitality Sparkling from the frontier Invigorated to the final source. Daniel  

Voices Unknown

An unknown voice Aside the thought Asked who am I? Replied the force within, “I am all I can feel And reach. “ Daniel

Torn Apart

Afterwards it was a long process, two years rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out. She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk or camomile, paced all night. She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium and rose oil hot baths; and only talked to those friends who made her laugh. No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine frothing, drowning she fought for breath. She tried counting her blessings. She put on the lost smile, pretended. She made consciously positive statements about herself, about others. No-one knew. She went to happy places, spent time with good people. She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness. Sometimes, now, even after all these years words needle her memory, but that is the stitching pulling, snagging. Soon there will only be a scar. No getting over it. Just a mend to staunch the bleeding. Sue Foster

The Sadness of Plastic

I ha ve known the inexorable sadness of litter on countryside walks thrown along hedgerows of gleaming berries out of place but in near sight. The misery of mucky polystyrene food boxes amongst marsh marigolds and achillea flung from cars and wrappers of sandwiches hinged like dentures to snap shut over hungry hedgehogs or thirsty toads. ‘M’ or ‘Starbucks’ cups with unnecessary plastic lids harmful havens of no return for tiny creatures. The selfish scattering of chocolate covers torn, sweet papers – all plastic – strewn and cigarette butts, heeled into verges of daisies, buttercups and dandelions to blow about in breezes or to be caught under hedges, in ditches, and amongst the wild flowers left by the Council for bees and butterflies who now do battle with all this human debris. Here lies the detritus of greed, the refuse of recalcitrant rebels who refuse to listen to the pleas in the news, online, in social media, at school – everywhere – about rubbish and pollution, global warming ...

Tins

Back then, I couldn't understand. Why so many tins, mum? Towers of carrots, beans and soups. Spaghetti in tomato sauce. She was shaped by war and disability. Rations and depletions. Unreachable shops. The anxiety of uncertainty. Now I'm shaped by the virus war. Rations and depletions. Unsafe shops. The anxiety of uncertainty. I understand, now, and worry. Look at my own tin towers. Just ahead of the panic, Stores drying up, fear building. Ashamed of how I mocked. Unable to say sorry, To say that I understand. Complacent no more. by Adrian Image by Ti Wi via Unsplash

From one frog to humans, or 'Go dig a Pond'

Burnt summer, Another hot summer Without a drop of water I wait It’s only June. With ochre hives And forgotten tones Of emerald green Parched fields and thorny hegderows. A dead speckled wood I’d rather eat fresh Is on the menu today, tomorrow unknown. A bleak summer ahead, Our long forgotten cousins Creep steathily unseen Waiting silently for clouds. A buttercup-yellow Marsh marigold forest Croaked from Floating reeds and choked crispy chickweed. Andrew Toms