Arte Soy

My soul longs for old earth
no roads
machines
senseless noise

Just the wings of birds cutting through the air
The sound of sunlight as it rains through the leaves

The heartbeat of the planet as it throbs and moves and becomes

all

Rain falling and pooling and running down the rocks and washes, dancing on the leaves,
soaking ever so gently into the soil

That we silly humans, so bent on destruction

could

Turn our hands to healing
touching
loving our earth

(Sara Melnicoff contributed this.)

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Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
I often see their tracks upon the crushed white flowers of spring’s sweet promise.
The fertile earth compacted into ruts and grooves – nothing can grow there.

Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
I see them speeding down the road, hell bent.
Neither seeing, nor smelling the paradise surrounding them.

Who are they, these men?
They hurry to find a thrill for their souls, thinking it’s at the end of a speedometer,
Never knowing it exists already, contained within their beating hearts.

Who are they, these men who murder flowers?
And when can we enjoy the protection they can give us?
It’s the big disconnect that sends them rushing and crushing.
Perhaps we need to send out a search and rescue for their souls.

(Sara Melnicoff contributed this poem.)

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