Thanks to the many poets and readers who have submitted texts, images and links to climate-change related sites. A selection had to be made for this issue, not an easy task.

 PLT Interactive is available for further posts: Just log in, reload and click on "create content" to publish your ad, comment, poll, blog entry or book entry.

Featured poets this month include --in random order: Geraldine Moorkens Byrne, Gordon Ramel, Len Bourret, Ian Thorpe, Taylor Graham, Jim Dunlap, Deborah P Kolodji, David Harrington and Ed Kostro.

Please scroll down the page.


Results for our last Readers' Poll: Top rated poems were those published by Jim Dunlap. All poems will be found in PL&Times July 2007~Featured Poets.
This was our last poll for this summer:  the section is now under revision.


____________________




Gordon Ramel is a scientist who has "come to poetry as a scientist." His university degrees are in ecology. He won a first poetry prize at the age of 14, but didn't really find "time to water the seeds of creativity" until he was 43. His poem "Darkness" is based on what might be called a "waking vision".

*

Published by The Hypertexts: Further Reading


 Gordon J.L. Ramel is a well-published poet who also holds a Master's Degree in the Ecology of Soil Arthropods from the University of Exeter in the United Kingdom.

"Tiger, Tiger Fading Fast": Further Reading




GORDON RAMEL


Darkness


As yet another dolphin dies a voice I cannot see
calls out "Enough. Enough. I will not let this be."
And a dark cloud quickly rises from deep within the sea
as a beast with many shapes takes form in front of me,
its arms raised to the heavens in prayer or else in plea.
 
A thought inside me whispers. "Be careful child, take care.
this is no normal summer storm that is abrewing there."
The atmosphere around me is heavy with despair.
There's a shiver down my spine and static in my hair.
From the beast a voice of thunder shreds the fragile air.
 
"Behold I Am the Darkness.
And I am the pain
of a thousand species dying
and of one that is insane.
Enough! 
Enough, I say again.
Let retribution come to those
who live with such disdain."
 
The air is full howling and the beast becomes forlorn
defeated by an anguish that never can be borne;
it drops its mighty head and arms as if about to mourn.
Then a gentle breeze arises and shreds the bitter storm,
in just the way the rising sun dispels a mist at dawn.
 
A barrage of emotions sweeps across my timid soul;
I find that I am crying, weeping tears I can't control.
For all at once I know our planet as a living whole
and I see how hard it is to live without a greater goal
and know how far we have to go to fill our promised role.
 
A quiet voice speaks next, across the troubled sea:
"The story is not finished, and you must let it be. 
Though they have left your world, they're living still with me.
You cannot stop them dying so long as life is free.
So return now to your dreaming and let the living be."
 
The darkness then descended to the molluscs and the krill;
The sun once more was warming, the waters calm and still,
and I wondered at the gentleness of such a mighty will.
Yet my heart within me trembled and I felt a sudden chill,
remembering the ease with which humanity can kill.
 
Then I heard the darkness bellow from deep beneath the brine.
"The innocent may well be yours, but the guilty will be mine."
And I heard the daylight answer as clearly as sunshine:
"It is only for a little while that you will call them thine,
then they, like you, will come to me, for this is my design."

October 6, 2004


Footnotes to "Darkness"
by Gordon Ramel


As the result of a long-distance conversation with THT Editor Mike Burch, I have been persuaded to write something about my poem "Darkness," which was published by Joe Ruggier in his yearly poetry magazine The Eclectic Muse.

Several of my poems have arisen spontaneously out of spiritual or inner dialogues. (...)

"Darkness" arose in a slightly different way, in that the contact was far more intense. My diary entry for the 5th October 2004 (by which time I was living in a small village in Northern Greece) is rather dismissive; it says as an afterthought: "In the afternoon I wrote a poem that was in effect an inner dialogue; it will probably be called 'Darkness.'"

In the genesis of the poem "Darkness" I was possessed by the central spirit of the poem. I can remember walking from my living room into my office with Madonna's "Ray of Light" album playing in the background. Earlier that day I had been reading about the dolphins dying as a result of various crude fishing techniques, when suddenly I saw within my mind the rising of a massive wave of darkness, seething with a violent anger, but given life and form by love. (...)

Behold I am the darkness, and I am the pain
of a thousand species dying and of one that's gone insane.
Enough! Enough, I say again;
let retribution come to those who live with such disdain.

(...)
The second pillar of the poem, the answer, came from I know not where; it came literally out of the blue, and it was as quiet as I say, yet it was equally impossible not to hear it. It came accompanied by an intense awareness of peace and a sense of rightness that haunts me whenever I think of it.

"The story is not finished, and you must let it be.
Though they have left your world, they're living still with me.
You cannot stop them dying so long as life is free.
So return now to your dreaming and let the living be."

The final stanza of the poem came later as I revisited the time/space locus that was/is my memory of the poem in my attempts to flesh it out and make it into a presentable story, but I remember the feeling of satisfaction and completeness that came when I finally sorted out the last line from among my own more feeble thoughts.

I believe I was given this message to give the world; the parts I actually wrote stand out like childish finger-painting amid the real message. I do not know why it was given to me; on the surface it seems contrary to all I fight for, in that the extermination of whole species, which is part of my constant argument with my own species, and which I consider to be unforgivable, seems to have been rendered almost inevitable and deemed beyond retribution.

Does this mean that I should just sit back and let the destruction pass without comment? I think not. I have chosen, perhaps erroneously, to interpret it as meaning that the answer lies not in hating mankind for its sins, but in working to open its eyes to the beauty of the other creatures that share this world with us. However the temptation to judge and condemn remains an ever-present thorn in my poetic side.

I have known for some time that the creative act that is poetry sometimes takes me beyond myself. While I am working on such a poem I often see much further, deeper and more wisely, and feel more intensely, than I do in my everyday life. Somehow I touch something that is far greater than I, something that is often beautiful and often irreverent of the things I/we feel are important.
(...)
Gaia is my muse, and poetry is becoming more and more the staff that
supports me on my path to her. When I am asked if this was a vision from a greater intelligence or merely a momentary reorientation of my own subconscious caused by a passing configuration of tendencies and
predispositions, I can only say I do not know. It was and is a part of my life; I have felt it appropriate to share at this moment in time; the moving finger writes and the dominoes keep falling; we live creative lives and we live in a beautiful world; to see it clearly is to love it. I wish you well.

Gordon Ramel
25th April 2007




_______________________

LEN BOURRET


The author, who uses a cognitive-behavioral approach, has completed numerous graduate courses in social work at Springfield College School of Social Work and Roberts Wesleyan College, where he has received a cumulative average of 4.0 (an 'A' average). Additionally, he successfully completed social work internships at Project Aim and Continuing Developmental Services. He completed research studies, on the topics of depression and effective anger management, using a cognitive-behavioral approach, single-subject and single-group designs, and multi-dimensional assessment (including, but not limited to, standardized measuring instruments). The author's research study, on effective anger management, is used as an ideal in graduate courses taught by Dr. Jonathan Lieberman, at University of New Haven. His writing has also appeared in Poetry Workshop, Point of Life, and Vinland Journal.

 

Len Bourret, Poet and Writer
40-B Pascal Lane
Manchester, CT 06040-4626
Phone: (860) 647-9606
e-Mail: Len9876@juno.com



Read poems previously published by Len Bourret:

Featured Poets PLT





Early Global Climate Warning?
by Len Bourret (Copyright 2007)

Noctilucent, "night-shining" clouds, are so engaging,
so bright, yet from darkest depths of polar regions,
constantly on the move, their travels so far-ranging,
attracting the curiousity of researching legions,
with signs that earth's atmosphere is changing,
indications of cloud alterations that are so clear,
not understanding how, why, or what they mean,
causing consternation, worry, and fear on the earth,
as well as 50 miles above the earth's surface,
in the upper layer's mesosphere,
appear like soft cottonballs of water vapor,
scatters of moonlight or sunlight in different angles,
reflect and refract,
bouncing off ice crystals in the atmosphere,
displaying spectacular sightings of exquisite halos,
above northern and southern hemisphere's poles,
akin to the technicolor images of prismic rainbows, 
so how much are these conclusions worth?
figuring out why the "night-shining" clouds form,
how the clouds relate to global climate variance,
as compared to a global climate norm.
________________________

Link: www.livescience.com/environment/070628_night_clouds.html
A new NASA satellite has recorded the first detailed images from space of a
mysterious type of cloud called “night-shining” or “noctilucent."

The clouds are on the move, brightening and creeping out of polar regions, and researchers
don't know why.

Humans Use Almost One-Quarter of the Sun's Solar Energy...
www.smh.com.au/news/environment/human-greed-takes-lions-share-of-solar-energy/2007/07/02/1183351126304.html

Additional Links:
www.its.caltech.edu/~atomic/snowcrystals/
www.atoptics.co.uk/bows.htm
http://eo.ucar.edu/rainbows/



________________________

JIM DUNLAP




Jim is in the Marquis, Who's Who In America, the Marquis Who's Who In The World and in the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.

His list of publications include Candelabrum, Lyrical Iowa, Mind in Motion, Mobius, Neovictorian, Paris/Atlantic, Plainsongs, Potpourri,  Prophetic Voices, Sonnetto Poesia, and online on Poems Niederngasse, Poetry Life & Times, Poetry Repair Shop and many more. He is a resident poet, and an Alpha poet at the Poet's Porch, and has had about six hundred poems published to date. He has been in the Writer's Digest top 100 three times, and is currently Research Editor For Sonnetto Poesia.

Click here for Jim's website

His work also appears online at:
authorsden.com

http://www.aceonline.com.au/~db/
http://www.valmagnuson.com/

and in a number of other places as well.

His website is :  http://www.mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/
&
http://allpoetry.com/user/show/ecrivain01



Read more:
A Recent  Interview with Jim Dunlap







Fable Majeure


Great Jupiter swings majestically
in orbit around the sun –
the Earth flies just as freely,
When all is said and done.
But once upon a time they spoke
of relevance and size.
"You're puny, just a paltry joke,"
said Jupiter, to Earth's surprise.
"Why come to that", the Earth shot back,
"You're just a bloated ball of gas."
Jupiter said, "Such spiteful flack"
from a planet so sadly short on mass."
"Well, I have something you've not got",
the Earth shot back at once.
"Here, intelligent life has found a spot".
"My, it's obvious that you're a dunce"
said Jupiter with unholy glee.
"They're parasites.  Just shake them off.
I'd never allow such creatures on me."
"Your gravity's enormous", Earth gave a cough;
"and the heat and poison gases prove
you need a personality overhaul."
Jupiter snorted, "Get back in the groove.
Your cheery attitude's starting to pall."
Earth laughed.  "My humans may do great things.
I'll be known to the ends of the Universe."
Jupiter sneered: "When the fat lady sings,
your situation will hardly be worse.
You've been sacked, looted and plundered;
you'll have nothing at all left to give."
Then Earth said, "I've often wondered
if you'll ever really find out how to live."
Jupiter said, "Don't waste sympathy on me.
All that I've told you is patently true.
When time finally dies, I'll be here to see.
Pollution and greed will eradicate you."


Thoughts On Global Warming

for Linda Allbritten


My friend and I disagreed
over what to do
about global warming.

California passed a law
to require automakers to fix cars
so they don't emit so many pollutants.
I said we need such a law.
She says people should just be responsible,
and we wouldn't need laws like that.

Ta dum.  Ta dum.

In a perfect world, that would be true.
But in a perfect world,
we wouldn't be
having the conversation.


Author notes:

I was talking to a friend about California's law on pollutant emissions and we disagreed about it.  I then sat down and wrote this.
Written April 2nd, 2005



A Bad Landing


Green hills against a cobalt sky,
And sunlight, pure as molten gold --
One day of many streaming by --
A starship accidentally shoaled
Upon a long-forgotten world.
No trace of man remained at all
In valleys deep or seashores pearled.
No one extant to hear its call.
An ice age covered every trace
That time had not obliterated --
The home of one eccentric race
Whose destruction was self-orchestrated.
Polluted water, poisoned land,
Destruction on a worldwide scale --
The race that died by its own hand
Had left no one to tell the tale.
A million years elapsed, and yet
No normal life could thrive and grow;
And each day as that great sun set
Marked one more that man would never know.


Previously published in Pablo Lennis, 1992


Another Victim Of Global Warming


Will some future storm be the vehicle
Of the Gulf's liquified penetration,
And New Orleans suffer the fate
Of titanic and swift inundation?
Might Mardi Gras fade into memory
And carnival flourish no more;
While new marine denizens frolic,
And aquatic, finned creatures soar?
One envisions Neptune trailing banners
Of seaweed festooned with pale lights
Of luminescent and tiny sea creatures
(the souls of long gone water sprites?).
Storefronts will grow green with algae
As barnacles sprout on their walls.
Bright-colored fishes will gather in schools
To explore water-logged shopping malls.
Multi-tentacled, ink-spewing octupi
Might pass like cops strolling their beat:
Some people may say "not much has changed."
There'll still be sharks on Bourbon Street.

Written in 1995, Now published by Autumn Leaves and Poetry Life and Times.

c. All poems by Jim Dunlap, 2007.


_______________________


IAN THORPE

A happy child but a late developer, Ian Thorpe was born at quite an advanced age and remembers nothing more for several years. One morning he awoke and was aware of being in a large white room. The blinds were drawn but the furniture was real. A note pinned to the wall said XYZZY. "I've only got your word for that" Ian replied and the note threw itself in a waste paper bin. This experience convinced Ian that his destiny was to become a writer. He immediately composed his first poem "Ode to a Milkman."

Seriously, Ian has been away some time but is back with challenging proposals.

   Some poems by Ian Thorpe previously published at PL&T:

Featured Poets

  The Making and Unmaking Dance and other poems.


A message from Ian Thorpe:


Jenny Greenteeth, Englands most famous boggart or water spirit (Wikipedia biography) became tired of people thinking she was just a silly old wives' tale used to scare naughty children out of playing near water, so she retired from boggarting and decided to reinvent herself as a star of cyberspace.
(...)
 Read the interview to learn what Greenteeth is all about.
 




Feel The Burn

The desert slowly creeping
does not contemplate the weeping
of the mother whose milk ducts have run dry.
On a beach a rich girl, dreaming
turns a closed ear to the keening
of the woman who must watch her children die.

Watchers in the arctic station
contemplate with fascination
the spectral beauty of the melting ice
as they gather information
on the predicted inundation.
The scream of money mutes their wise advice.

While the city's raging thirst
deprives fields the mountains nursed
and sucks the river's flowing current dry
or winds blow destructively
and fertile soil is washed to sea
by the torrents that pouring on it from the sky.

As the wounded Earth complains
profligate humankind unchains
ancient monsters our forefathers faced with dread.
They are nature's retribution
for the relentless pollution
of the system that has been life's one seedbed.

Ian Thorpe, 2007 


Bitter Fruit


I tried to hit the bottle,
got lost in soaps on my T.V.
swallowed all the tablets
and mainlined therapy,
but still I cannot shut my eyes
to injustice, fear and pain,
the needy keep accusing:-
their empty eyes contain
a catalogue of our failures,
war, avarice and greed,
hypocrisy and righteousness.
The love of self our only creed.
The pious who would ban abortion
condemn an unloved child,
the quest for profit sets the price
as crops rot in the field.
A pharmaceutical panacea
may help us through the day
but there's no profit to be had
from curing a poor man's plague.
The rising waters ridicule
the mighty S.U.V.
and every lifestyle magazine
destroys another tree.

So here I stand conscience in hand
to ask what I can do?
This world we made points all to trade,
the exit routes are few.
Try to understand those who demand
far more than their fair share
commit the poor for evermore
to squalor, want, despair.
Its time to eat the bitter fruit,
to face the truth at last;
each continent has been exploited,
the golden age is past.

The worm within the apple
rotted it to the core.
Poison flows right through the system
from the mountains to the shore.
The fearful cry to heaven,
but heaven turns away,
only the brave can hope to save
the environment's decay.


  Ian  Thorpe, 2004

c. All poems by Ian Thorpe, 2007.


________________________



TAYLOR GRAHAM

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada of California, and also helps her husband (a retired forester/wildlife biologist) with his field projects. A native Californian, she studied for a year in Germany and has also lived in Alaska and Virginia. She and her husband responded with their trained dogs to the Mexico City earthquake of 1985.

Her poems have appeared widely, including America, Grand Street, The Iowa Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, and Southern Humanities Review, and she’s included in the anthology, California Poetry: Gold Rush to the Present. Her newest book, The Downstairs Dance Floor (Texas Review Press, 2006), is winner of the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize.


BEYOND THE MILLENNIUM


“This good green Earth is a handshake
between God and man.” After-dinner address
to the refiners of oil, who go on sniffing
their petroleum neat. Out on the street
littered with fast-food styrofoam,
the planters of trees
try to keep alive the harmony
of cambium and leaf with air, sweet music
wafting honeysuckle into a sky
still black with smokestacks.
But no one’s listening. Power-mowers
on every lawn, leaf-blowers on every side-
walk, air-conditions in every house.
Billy Joe guns his Hummer all the way
to Texas, proving it’s not SUVs and hair-
spray, nor every American’s 8 dozen plugged-
in appliances. It was predestined,
how Earth spins on her one lame axis,
every day a little closer to the sun.
Everything is connected and foretold:
melting of the polar ice-caps, Malibu
and Miami underwater, the forests
of the West ablaze, about a million square
miles settling back in ash. The Second
Coming. No wonder the great Mother’s
just a bit tipsy from all those petroleum
fumes, as she spins the chances
of that old elemental magic: Earth, Air,
Water, Fire. In these latter days,
shall we drown or burn?


THIS HOT SUMMER


No central air.
The cat's sprawled on the tile floor.
Through every window, midsummer sun
that never used to shine so hot.
At supper, the TV’s talking climate change,
global warming.

As the sun moves on around the globe,
I open every window, turn on fans.
It’s not enough.
I walk out in the field,
summer-parched and brittle.

One soapweed plant’s in bloom –
delicate white lilies on a common stalk.
Hundreds of pin-prick insects
swarm its stamens like black seeds. Native
plant I’ve never seen before in flower

with insects wild to carry on their life,
the life of the lily, as if
they believed
in next summer
and all the seasons between.

IN FOUR MOVEMENTS


1) Molto vivace

We weave it into myth and legend,
how the dinosaurs died
as the world they knew was shattered
under an ice-hammer
only to be reborn without them

2) Andante

a slow lesson that teaches us
about climate change
(is it myth or speculation?)
quite imperceptible, until

3) Presto

harridan glaciers screaming
down, all the natural elements
in revolt. But that was
prehistoric. Nowadays science
takes control.

4) Adagio non cantabile

And yet, beachfront property
subsides in aqueous submersion,
each month’s high tide
a little higher,
another something drowned.

Last night on the boardwalk
Dasmanni premiered his newest
grandest (as everything now
must be newer, grander
than the last) symphony,
Elegy for Earth.


top of page
_______________________

DAVID HARRINGTON
 


I live in Portland, Oregon with my wife, Dawn and two sons.  Besides writing, my other hobbies include reading, playing guitar, karate and football.

 David Harrington   dawn8217harr@yahoo.com
            
 I've published poetry in The Journals and Esoteric Quarterly (USA).

    "INCLINATIONS"

                                       Chapter 8
 
                                       Great Mother
 
  Disregard the Great Mother and she'll disregard you when it comes time to suckle her breasts.  You who hover above her while your bones turn to dust in her belly, have you forgotten her as well?

  Do her loving arms fasten you down as you wander aimlessly in the Land of Shadow longing to be free?  Where noboby has substance and nothing to sustain them but gravity itself.

  Remember then, the softness of your Mother's warm caress when she nestled you close to her bosom and brushed gently against your cheek.  Remember how you once slumbered peacefully in her womb and dreamt of a hopeful renewal.

  Remember, as you lie paralyzed in the stench of her bowels, the richness of her ethereal beauty and the fragrance of her flowery folds: The sweet aroma of roses and cherry blossoms, laced with lilac.

  So come all you blood drinkers and flesh-eaters to the Banquet of the Great Mother!  Watch how she trembles and shakes as you cut her to pieces and gnaw at her flesh.  Then burn her with fire and laugh in her face, leaving her to smolder in ash.

  Feel her icy breath upon you like a cold winter's frost, O you who strip away her dignity and rip apart her veil!  For even now her sorrows are mounting.

  Go ahead: Bind her wrists, chain her ankles.  Poke her with needles and stick her with pins.  But beware, children, it is because of you that our Mother is enraged.  She is as wroth as a cosmic dragon: Feel her fiery breath upon you like a hot desert storm.

  Her lungs are clogged with thick black smoke that fumes from her nostrils, rising up to overwhelm her.  The four winds swirl around her, one for every season.  Can you hear them whisper her name?

  So go ahead, plant your orchards and vineyards while her skin is still moist, O you who blind her eyes and leave her naked and shivering in the sun to die!  For even now her tear drops are falling.

  Behold your Mother's glory and kiss her on the cheek.  Lift the burden which weighs so heavy on her weary shoulders.  She was once a lovely young virgin, pure and unspoiled, in a garden paradise bursting with ripened fruits, sweet and delicious.

  But how we ravish her like wild animals, who can blame her for rebelling?  How much more can she withstand, this Mother of ours, whom we cast aside like a used up whore, all trampled and torn!  Has she not sung us tender lullabies and rocked us gently to sleep in cradles of swan feathers and pine needles?

  Be kind to your Mother and treat her with respect, I tell you!  Why must you thrust her full of holes?  Just how much venom must you sink into her veins before she becomes immune and rises up to swallow us like a viper?

  Step out into the light, O you Children of Darkness, and cover your eyes with coal.  Step out of the darkness, all you Children of Light, with your lamps trimmed way down low.  See how your Mother feeds the beasts of the field and the creatures of the forest that assemble at her feet, some by day some by night.  The lion, jackal and wildebeest come from miles around just to drink out of her hands and taste her crystal clear waters.

  Call to mind how she once flowed with milk and honey, and with wine.  And now, even in her old age, she is pleased to nourish us with all the essentials of life.

  What is it that is wrong with us?  Are we no better than the hounds and vultures who will be left to lick at her wounds and lap up her blood, or will we rescue her in time to save ourselves?  I think not.
 


_______________________





Deborah P Kolodji is the president of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (http://www.sfpoetry.com) and a member of the Haiku Society of America (http://www.hsa-haiku.org) and the Southern California Haiku Study Group (http://www.socalhaiku.org).  Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Modern Haiku, Tales of the Unanticipated, Simply Haiku, The Heron's Nest, Eclectica, Poetic Diversity, Autumn Leaves, Frogpond, Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, Scifaikuest, the Magazine of Speculative Poetry, and many other places both on and off the web.  Author of four chapbooks of poetry, she has a story upcoming in the next Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul.  She is the editor and co-founder of Amaze: The Cinquain Journal (http://www.amaze-cinquain.com).
 



____________________________________
A Message from Deborah P Kolodji

 The Science Fiction Poetry Association is having its second annual poetry contest. This year we're
 looking for sonnets - a sonnet on a speculative
 topic of your choice (science fiction, fantasy,
 horror, science, astronomy, surrealism, etc).

 Contest entries are free - no more than three per
 person, and we are now open to entries.? Entry
 deadline is August 24, 2007.

 Thanks to our sponsors and prize donors (Aberrant Dreams, Mythic Delirium, Tales of the Talisman, Dreams and Nightmares, Bruce Boston, Denise Dumars, and Kendall Evans), we have some great prizes this year.

 For more information:
 http://www.sfpoetry.com/2007poetrycontest.html

 Deborah P Kolodji
 President, Science Fiction Poetry Association
 http://www.sfpoetry.com

You can also read Deborah's poems here:

Previously published by PLandTimes




Deborah P Kolodji


Climate Change (A Cinquain)

Warmer
but not better,
no wildflowers this year:
I read your letter, almost wish
for frost.

The Missing Water of Arroyo Sequit


As children,
we scrambled over rocks
following the creek
up the arroyo
to our old swimming hole.

A black and white photo
shows four grinning kids
waist deep in coolness.
 
Today,
little trickles
down to the ocean.
Poison ivy covers the stones
of a dry creek bed.

Some attribute it
to global warming,
others to developers
siphoning water away.

I only know
it's not the same.



When Spring Blooms Don't Come


No rain this rainy season
with a summer heat in March,
I mourn in a dry garden.
No rain this rainy season --
even the earth’s tears are gone,
dry earth unnaturally parched.
No rain this rainy season
with a summer heat in March.


C. All poems by Deborah P Kolodji, 2007.




Geraldine Moorkens Byrne



A poet from Dublin, Ireland, her work tends towards an exploration of spirituality, nature, and the landscape of the soul. Published works include Bealtine (Jane Raeburn Anthology, USA); a selection of poems inc Cliona by the Shore and Saving Sylvie in the Irish Anthology of Modern Poetry “Where the Hazel Falls” (Electric Publications, Wexford, Ireland); The Homecoming and Irish Cowboys (Prairie Poetry, USA); Dowsing in the The Digest, (American Society of Dowsers) as well as other print and online publications. Works can be found online on Scriobh.com (showcasing Modern Irish Writers). Geraldine is the founding Editor of the Paganpoetrypages.com, an ezine dedicated to poems of spirit, human nature, landscape and spirituality and will shortly be editing an anthology of the best of the works published there since 2000. She has written for the Save Tara Campaign, and campaigned for the preservation of Sacred and Archaeologically important sites.









Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

Territory


First
was the spear shaft
spiked in my soft flesh
with anger and with fear
and I first heard the word
'mine'

after were many spikes
cranogs and fences,
ramparts and causeways
pinpricks that tore
perforated the completeness
of my soul
and many voices shouted
'mine'

soon after
deep scars
gashes across the face of me
a million hands all grabbing
all tearing
all shouting
'mine'

All using part of me
a sacred communion
throwing me like offal to pigs
drawing lines through my
energy
all building boundaries
all enslaving me
all claiming me,
'mine'

I contemplate
spinning out of orbit
into the ice-cold rind of space
into the red-heat of a burning sun
into the wasteland of eternity
and when their shouts have silenced
point at the endlessness of time
and tell them
'mine'.

Angry Rivers Run


The rivers run angry through the land. The Corrib
Overflows through Galway, and the Shannon
Seeks the sea with violence, striking though the
Breast of Ireland. Swollen by the rains. The rains
Swollen by neglect and pollution and despair
And chemical and lies. The Rivers swollen by the rains
Are filled to brimming with our hatred and abuse.
Angry rivers run through my land.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne July 2007


The Murder of Cliona


(Cliona is an old Irish Goddess of the Sea, Cliona of the Ninth Wave)

Cliona sits by the shore
Singing songs of love and loss
Like any underdressed lady of the sea;
passing as one of them, the myths and nymphs
Brushing hair with comb and bone
While all the time, counting waves.

The Ninth one is still hers. She yet
rides the horses of the surf
And Mannanán calls her from the west;
It would be best to return
not wait and hide and hope
for cornucopias of adoration

But she clings on still, a languid
survivor on a rock.
Connla calls by, Sinnan at his side;
they have long ago given up on us,
our ways beyond the
comprehension of mere gods.

They beg her, leave. Come with us
Into the glittering sunsets, into the
Land of Promises. Leave behind
the heartbreak of rejection. Sing with us
once more, don’t let them
poison you here, where you sit.

It’s true her hair is dull
her eyes are swollen and her lips
chaffed. O! mortals, you are killing
Her, killing Cliona of the Ninth Wave.
And yet she sits and waits,
Refusing to drown her hope.
________________________________________________

c. All poems by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne, 2007





-->Ed Kostro is a freelance writer with a passion for nature, animals, our valiant veterans, world history, Native American culture, nostalgia, and humor.  He's a member of The Society of Southwestern Authors and The Cat Writers' Association, and the Vice President of the newly formed  International Animal Writers and Illustrators Association.

The National Wildlife Federation, The World Wildlife Fund, Defenders of Wildlife, The Humane Society of the United States, The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, The Assisi Ed is also a veterans' advocate, an environmentalist, animal rights activist, animal rescue worker, and proud member ofFoundation, The Best Friends Animal Network, and AlleyCat Allies.

His latest book, Through Katrina’s Eyes, Poems from an Animal Rescuer’s Soul, depicts some of the stories of the remarkable animals and rescuers he encountered on the Gulf Coast.

This book has been awarded The 2006 Merial Human-Animal Bond Award, and several poems from it were read at a Katrina Pet Memorial Ceremony on August 29, 2006, at the Animal Ark Sanctuary in Hastings, Minnesota.

Their moving video tribute to Katrina pet rescue efforts can be found at:

http://www.animalarkshelter.org/katrina/Katrina.html

And Podcasts of a few of Ed's Katrina poems can be heard on:  www.unconditionalfriends.com and on www.allpetsradio.com.



Further Reading at "Mr. Ed"' site


ED KOSTRO

If Only Teardrops Could Heal


"In an age when man has forgotten his origins,
And is blind even to his most essential needs for survival,
Water, along with many other resources,
Has become the victim of his indifference."
Rachel Carson


"Thousands have lived without love,
Not one - without water."
W.H. Auden

Rain Forest Revelation


I am hunkered down in a rain forest
And it seems that I am very much alone
I have fled here for some much needed peace
Devoid of modern conveniences like phones

I sit serenely and contentedly at a tiny stream
Sipping cool refreshing water, and eating fruit
I'm enjoying listening to the songs of the birds
And far in the distance, an ancient melodic flute

Suddenly the rain forest becomes completely silent
I stand and feel the very earth trembling all around
Now, I gaze to the heavens in an easterly direction
And spot an enormous white sphere, quite profound

It seems to be heading directing for our planet
I soon realize that there is nowhere that I can run
So I silently stand there awaiting its deadly impact
It's growing in size now, much brighter than the sun

But just before it strikes our Mother Earth
I spot some very intriguing symbols at its core
I am truly astonished by its utter brilliance
But before it hits, I always wake up like before

And I always wonder, what it is that I have been dreaming
The giant sphere's dark center looks like a Galactic
Butterfly
Is this the start of new life, or the beginning of
the end for us all

Should I rejoice in this revelation, or should it
bring a tear to my eye

The Ghosts of New Orleans

"Ma and Pa lived here, and theirs before them,
They tried their hardest to make it a home;
Seems so long now since they passed over,
Hope my children try to make it their own."

C. All poems by Ed Kostro, 2007.


top of page