For Kim Slater,
For all the work you have done and will continue to do on behalf of Mother Earth.
If you could pick up all the pieces of plastic in the swirling monster the size of Texas, I know you would.
One by one.
With a fishing net.
In a little boat called the Captain Slater that Could.
You are about to become one of the best mother’s on this Planet.
Simply because you know Her so well.
Like the tick that tocks the Crocodile Clock in Peter Pan, there is no stopping you.
(Prose is so 2013. I’m obviously feeling poetic this evening, nothin’ like a healthy dose of dramatic pathos and speaking in code for ya).
She is your beloved
You march her front lines
Of wrathful seas, tangled roots and corridors wild
Her palms wide open, an arthritic tundra of cold arctic skin
She is your beloved
Of towering hallways and sloping shoulders
Her infinite ways of silence
Her rally cry as your only soundtrack: a sonic tumbling of flats and sharps
Of wolves and whales
Of all that roars and hisses
Of things that bite when you get too close
You march Her front lines
Sometimes falling to your belly
Empty then swollen with life
Her long bony fingers of stalagmites
long limbs twined and confused
Her craters and crevasses
Her bowels of salty urchins and porpoise
Her womb of jungles and mangroves, torn red roots
and mossy strands of hair
caught in Her hungover eyes
She is the Queen of Us
Being kicked out of Her own home
You march Her front lines while Zeus throws pitchforks over your shoulder
His furrowed brow, emptying his pockets of tantrum and heat
Seeing all that once was and is about to become
And the clouds sigh
And the rocks turn their backs
And even the eagles fall from their nests
You catch their wings
And carry their nests
And salve their broken hearts
You raise Her flag, of snapping thermal and thunder
Its crest of all colours, of the loved, lost and alive
Her lashes sealed shut
to all Sounds of Salvation
Irises blue and white
Her heels may be cut
But She is still walking
For your children’s children
And for the elders who smoke their pipes
And tell their stories behind the linger of purple haze
You raise Her flag, unaware of your own knees and elbows, aching and bruised
Not knowing how far you have run or how long you still have to go
Sometimes when no one is watching
And many aren’t listening
And really, that’s all that matters