‘The Desert’ and Other Poetry by Tod Benjamin The Society January 7, 2017 Poetry, The Environment 4 Comments 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. Related Post ‘Sing Me Not’ by Oliver Mort Goddess, sing me not, that barbaric yawp of man’s puny sorrows. He wants to swap his countless ills, not go down to Hades. The dogs and vultures wa... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 4 Responses 绿山从 From Green Mountain (Cong Lu Shan) January 8, 2017 Sublime! Oh if only each day could begin with such verse. Reply Tod Benjamin January 15, 2017 Thank you for the kind words, and please accept my apologies for not acknowledging them sooner. Reply Yolanda January 9, 2017 I enjoyed the touches and tribute to nature, what can be lost, what remains, and what is worth keeping Reply Tod Benjamin January 15, 2017 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. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.