Category: Modern poetry is anarchism

Parents left alone eat leaves

peel their dreams

so big the sun

in their throat

there is still a struggle

a count

a weapon

a garland

let`s go

I will tell what I see

*

we open our doors

the tornado is a locomotive

with debris

we want to help children

from the sky

*

it was incredible

in the basement, we could hear the wind

when we got back up

we were outside

*

all the steam

of life

when it disassembles

is fear

facing the deadline

*

can I sit here

on this gnarled trunk

do you have everything you need

you touched my heart

*

the child draws a sentence from the bowl

it is written:

*

“You have to understand humans,

bury them outside under the magnifying glass of the elders

who doze under the tree and push away our bodies

which get whiter and whiter“

did you desire for this?
that your life
should end like this
in the glory of despair?
did you know that as you soared into the air
that this was your last flight,
your eagle-like wings would weigh
you down?

*
I expect it crossed your hopeless mind
that you as bird
rates less than zero
on the scale of global concern

*
that the pilot
trained in the beauty of death
rates a more grand funeral
than yours
heavy with oil
sinking
in a dark black sea.

Written by Sarah Morris

Author`s note:

I was living in Chester in the early 90’s — the energy of the dance scene coming into its own — when  on the television (with only four channels) came the news item about the Panama Oil Slick. The image is still with me today of the Pelican covered in oil, helpless and on their last flight. It struck me that nobody cared for them, but pilots who also fly, are honoured when they die.