He stands by a window wishing the world well.
This wounded world, a wrecked water world
warmed by a wild star, whirls in its orbit
through dark frigid space, bearing
the seed of a violent race.
Beyond the window, the forests, streams, lawns,
cities, oceans, and meadows all wear a fine coat
of man-made incendiary dust, the grim testimony
of an insanity created to off-set another insanity —
the voracious rape of a fast-withering world.
Outside his window, the skies are streaked
with criss-crossing aerosol trails spewed out
by hapless pilots who themselves fly on cruel lies
fed to them by psychopaths in crisp uniforms
and suits, poisoning their own children.
From the window, he watches the weary world
as it blazes and burns, multiple conflagrations
consuming the dry tinder box man has made
of the land in his greed and ignorance —
all for a few digital dollars more.
How many bother to pause and survey their world?
Mesmerized by their electronic windows brimming
with fantasy allurements, entertaining distractions,
and instantly forgettable chit chat, how many
still take the time to look up at the skies?
Those who dare to speak out are still labeled
as loons, who wants to hear any further bad news?
He stands at his window, his tears have dried up,
the world will still turn, with man or without —
the choice is still ours, or perhaps it is not.
Writing On Water 