More

    GAIA’S LAMENTATION

    Date:

    On a dolphin snout a plastic bag
    Invites a slow starvation
    Fins restrained by fishing nets
    A momentum strangulation
    Seabirds’ necks are question marks
    Tied up with six pack rings
    No more sky, no more flight
    They flap with useless wings

    And all the while
    deniers sing
    their demented
    bat-blind tune
    ‘It is ever thus
    And will always be
    The science isn’t in’

    Fires burn beyond control
    Seen where they’ve never been
    The Arctic Circle fence is breached
    Its forests drained of green
    Citizens of Europe swelter
    Drowned in summer sweat
    Nowhere left for them to run
    From this roiling carbon threat

    Snide leader jokes
    In whispered voice
    To fellow
    Leaking sore
    ‘Time means nought
    when you’re caught
    with water lapping
    at your door.’

    The reef succumbs beneath the seas
    Coral sticks bleached white
    Dead from farm efficiencies
    Dead from mining’s blight
    Land is cleared with massive chains
    Rain drains its murderous load
    Of fertiliser and pesticides
    Into a coast commode

    The solution is
    a pile of dough
    To men who know
    Its worth
    Moneyed men
    Who will defend
    Their right to loot
    This earth

    Beneath hot sun, a million ‘roos
    Lie parched on boundless plains
    As farmers scan the empty skies
    For never-coming rains
    Wrinkled brows in perma-frowns
    These desperate broken men
    Limp across this wide brown land
    Where crops won’t grow again

    An oafish man
    Brings lumps of coal
    Before the
    Peoples’ place
    Arrogance and
    Hubris drips
    From his greed-entitled face

    There are stirrings in the capital
    Rich white men are upset
    Saner heads are blocking them
    From all they want to get
    So they lean on passive solar
    And they lean on windmills too
    And they lean on anyone who might
    Impede their tantrum coup

    In far north lands
    Strangers stomp
    On sacred
    Holy lands
    And bide their time
    ‘til greedy men
    Give in to
    Their demands

    We’re not the ones to go alone
    Why should we sacrifice
    Our comfort, wealth and vantage point
    To watch the melting ice
    Let’s monetise that blockbuster
    Let’s record our own demise
    We’ll shore up our prosperity
    While all about us dies

    Meanwhile,
    The dimwits and
    the foolish whose
    Job it is to serve
    Are gorging on
    Each other
    Are these the stewards
    We deserve?

    To those fossil fools in Canberra
    You know who you are
    Your clothing dank with coal smoke
    Your fingers dripping tar
    I hope you still have wit enough
    To remember what you’ve done
    When the tides reach just below your nose
    Your brain is boiling in the sun
    Howls of grief let bowels release
    And as you head for the abyss
    There comes the awful knowing that
    It was you who did all this.

    ©2018 slightlyangryguy

    Contributor
    Contributor
    Our content is a labour of love, crafted by dedicated volunteers who are passionate about the west. We encourage submissions from our community, particularly stories about your own experiences, family history, local issues, your suburb, community events, local history, human interest stories, food, the arts, and environmental matters. Below are articles created by community contributors. You can find their names in the bylines.

    Your feedback

    Please enter your comment!
    Please enter your name here

     

    Share

    Latest Articles

    Latest Edition

    #93 February 2024

    Recent Editions

    Subscribe

    Become a supporter

    The Westsider is run on the power of volunteers. Your contribution directly contributes to ensuring we can continue serving and celebrating our community.

    spot_imgspot_img

    Related articles