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 –



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