The Desert
We were flying in a desert,
an oasis to drink dry.
We gorged ourselves on date palms
and spat in nature’s eye.
We’ve been lying in a desert
where the wine of life’s run dry,
for the plane’s no more returning,
all the fuel’s been blown sky-high.
Now we’re crying in a desert,
only echoes hear our pain,
throw it back against our faces,
scorch our souls with their disdain.
Yes, we’re crying in a desert,
where the hot wind dries our tears,
leaving salt on gold-grained sand hills,
desolation in our ears.
We are dying in this desert,
arid waste consuming weed.
Who recalls the fertile pasture
that died to feed our greed?
Some Day
An Environmental Sonnet
‘They know not what they do!’ We’ve heard the cry,
but comes it from ignorance or wisdom?
Where quiet hedgerows once cloistered country homes,
lies blister’d our landscape, with signs on high
marking motorways from Elgin to Rye.
Blossoming new towns spread industry’s hum,
and urban regeneration has come,
bringing space to stroll about, drive, and fly.
But know they what they do? Let us keep tabs….
Does progress mean destroy our treasur’d land?
Grow G.M. crops and drench in killer spray?
Does better life mean sprawling concrete scabs?
and stinking oil polluting golden strand?
Know what they do? I fear they may, some day.
Haiku for All Seasons
Overnight green leaves shoot
Blossoms banish winter snow
Man plucks new young buds.
…
Long, balmy June days
Cricket whites on green pitches
All scores are settled.
…
Leaves glide slowly down
Green now becomes autumn gold
Hard earned tan blisters
Tod Benjamin lives in Bournemouth, England, and is a retired businessman who, after years of globetrotting in the chemical business, wintered in Florida as a retiree golfer until forced to give up golf. He has written, for his own pleasure over many years, short stories, essays, novels, and, whenever he has to express a cry from his heart, poetry.
Sublime!
Oh if only each day could begin with such verse.
Thank you for the kind words, and please accept my apologies for not acknowledging them sooner.
I enjoyed the touches and tribute to nature, what can be lost, what remains, and what is worth keeping
Yes, indeed. What remains troubles me greatly, for surely what remains is a constantly diminishing quantity – and quality? Sadly, I am sometimes glad to be old.