The Illogicensia

There was such hope for us,
Such aspirations,
Such ideas of potential,
A plan and design from our Mother,
To be caretakers and stewards,
Philosophers and artists,

But some unknown corruption has set in,
We’ve slowly become this,
The Illogicensia,
Devoid of forethought,
Apes bashing rocks together for peanuts,
Bacterium playing at godhood,

There is no logic here,
Only the most mad of mind,
Agents of chaos,
Choking the world like an abused pup,
Best laid plans indeed died at first contact,
Logical planning can’t account for illogical action.

The Pessimistic Youth

The planet suffers,
Cracking under human pressure,
Choking on human fumes,
Past generations inflicting coal bruises,
And ozone cigarette burns,
Unnaturally accelerating the stopwatch,

But the ones to suffer the repercussions,
In the decades to come,
The pessimistic youth,
Are the only ones to comprehend it,
Seeing the world without ruby goggles,
Knowing they are the ones to burn,

The elders are in denial I fear,
Or simply uncaring of what won’t harm them,
Children born now are not blessed,
But cruelly sentenced,
To being part of the pessimistic youth,
As the planet boils.

Energy Crisis

Humanity is electric,
Volts piloting fleshy mannequins,
And we’re all having an energy crisis,
We lack the energy for change,
A scarce stockpile of self-betterment,
Effort dimming along with our bedside lamps,

It seems our supplies are depleted,
Interest and vigour evaporated in our tanks,
No drive to fix our problems,
Our societal defects,
No natural gas to pump our breast,
Nor to warm our hearts,

Tragedy after tragedy,
And plight after plight,
Policies for change are avoided,
But these shortages can’t be ignored forever,
There is an energy crisis abound,
And the future shall pay the inflated price.

Dryad

In the heart of sylphic woods,
In glades no man has ventured,
Does a lady of the green reside,
Behind an oaken mask she hides,
Confining an ethereal and virgin face,
Her hair is a canopy all its own,
Viridian and amber and verdant,
Cloaked in the very same foliage she loves,
A moss ball gown,
And this forest is her masked gala,
Here she speaks to deer and tree both,
Listening to their aches and pains,
And tending to their woodland souls,

She’s a warden in this jade locale,
A motherly figure,
And one this natural world adores in return.

She-Elf

I once met a being of glamour,
Fresh from the shores of Arcadia,
A sylvan lady,
Slender and refined in stature,
Cloaked in every form of botany,
Beautiful yet somewhat off,
Verging upon androgyny,

Her hair was overgrown ivy,
And her eyes were frosted alabaster,
Her gaze felt ever like barely stifled fury,
A mother bears spirit married to the fae,
Natures proud hostility held fast in her voice,
The elements danced like sprites upon her silver tongue,
And from that tongue came a harsh attitude,

To her kind,
The human world was profane,
An aberration,
We are pollution given a body,
The antithesis of her creed,
It was difficult to argue,
So I gave myself to the green.

Thunder Play

A thunderstorm is a play,
Did you know that?
Those bolts of plasma that soar earthbound,
They’re actors to be perceived,
This storms dramatis personae,

The lights in the sky,
And encroaching rumbles,
They signal the curtains resonant opening,
To an applause from the very clouds,
A million little diamonds rushing down,

The bolts immediately commence their dance,
Spiralling and arcing and coalescing downwards,
Lighting up even the darkest night,
Mother Nature sends these dramas to us,
As equal parts frolic and show of force.

Rebirth Of Ash

I remember seeing that wasteland,
A desert spied through weary eyes,
A corpse of an environment,
Rotten and cracked,
Populated by the spectre of an ecosystem,
A dead land,
Auburn and drab in its last throes,
And it brought a tear to my eye,

Then that ash sapling grew,
And as this green warden germinated,
It was like time had been reversed,
The land came alive once more,
Greenery and vines returned to the loam,
Viridian spread through the veins of the dirt,
This magic came about from a single ash,
And it brought a tear to my eye.

Fist Of Man

There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,

The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,

The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.

Woodland Duke

I waltzed upon a woodland path,
To release some serotonin,
To be one with the natural backdrop,
Between the crowds of bark giants,
I chanced upon a wonderful sight,

I had been granted an audience,
A once in a lifetime opportunity,
To meet the duke of this wood,
A regal beast of wild aristocracy,
A titanic stag of primeval physique,

Towering over even the treetops,
His antlers scratched sermons into the clouds,
Treatises on woodland matters,
He stood upon ivory legs commanding respect,
Purely demanding reverence from all,

He stared into my urban soul,
As if in pity,
I could only bow,
A newfound awe crosses my mind,
A lord of nature has blessed me,

With a new heart of dew,
Pulsing with vitality.

Salted Earth

As fools we spite the land,
Cutting into her flesh with drill and scalpel,
Rubbing salt in the wounds,
A different kind of salted earth,
Her very flesh stolen as ore,
Her own blood wielded as torture,
A stinging iron maiden,
We rub it in,

Taking gifts with clawed hands,
Plundering and pillaging,
Diamonds and salt and gold,
We laugh all the way to the bank,
But we’ll be the fools,
Our own doomsayers,
As salted earth,
Becomes scorched earth.