2017-04-19
by
Eleanor Goldfield
Let us speak of this Fable for Tomorrow.
The winds of change that bring our sorrow –
the future gains from which we borrowed,
these wells —
are dry.
The arid creep –
that slippery slope
It’s steep.
Slick with oil, this barren soil –
did we really toil —
so hard
for ash?
For numbers on a screen –
that drowned out all but greed –
sucking air but we can’t breathe…
The threat of death won’t sew regret –
affluence and smug contempt –
we do not live as if we’ll die
from errors that we carved –
into a choking sky,
from sickly sludge we forced into the veins –
these river, lakes –
the capillaries take –
these poisons, our mistakes
To every cell that cannot help –
but try to live,
for dying hosts
Who didn’t lose a paradise –
but pawned it off for hell –
our souls we’re glad to sell –
to keep this body politic –
well
oiled.
So slick we slide, the warning signs –
pass us by, our eyes –
look up – away.
Closed they dream of 1’s and 0’s,
crisp new bills – piled high
a paper skyscraper – in a clearcut mine.
A forecast speaks of fire.
With a glimmer in our eye –
we ride into the sunset –
burning with our pride.
———-/——————-
A Silent Spring –
and who did, who will – bloom –
to rise, to scream –
to fill the silent din –
with echoes of the life within.
Winter’s warm so let it be –
the Summer of our discontent.
The peak of fight, our souls ignite – in this —
our place,
our time.
No pause, rewind –
the Fable for Tomorrow
starts today.
Desert Flower. Image by Eleanor Goldfield 04/03/17