Mother

We never know the worth of water till the well is dry. ~Thomas Fuller, Gnomologia, 1732

Can you not hear her crying?

Our beloved Mother is dying,

She's sputtering, she's choking.

The smoker keeps on smoking,

Brackish blood fills her veins,

But Mother never complains.

Despite what scientists detect,

Her children show no respect.

 

As Mother keeps turning 'round,

More is taken from her ground,

For Father has not been just.

Mother is covered in his dust,

Subservient to the shifting sands,

The circle of life, in their hands,

Keeps her children warm and fed,

Sleeping snugly in Mother's bed.

 

They can still hear the screams,

Echoing throughout their dreams,

Of a hundred million vibrant trees,

Brought down with undue ease,

Sliced up into a millions pieces.

It is by that of an eminent thesis,

That we seek room for mankind,

It's not what Mother had in mind.

 

 

Beneath her beautiful azure skies,

Another of Mother's children dies,

Killed in yet another senseless war,

What are her children fighting for?

Why must they continue to bleed?

Mother gives them all they need,

So what is the ultimate point here?

Is it for Mother's safety they fear?

 

Answering to the man with the most,

Chained tight to the whipping post,

For high crimes against his country,

For wanting his people to live free,

He bleeds to death on the dusty earth.

Life is precious, but what's it's worth?

What Mother gives, she takes away,

For us all, it fades to black one day.

 

Perhaps we should take better care,

If not, Mother won't always be there,

To nurture us when bend and break,

To clean up even our worst mistake.

Mother is crying out for help now,

We have got to help her somehow,

Unless we change the state of things,

Only She knows what her fury brings.

Author's Note

A human being is part of the whole, called by us "Universe," a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest - a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole [of] nature in its beauty. ~Albert Einstein, 1950

Version 2: Changed around a few lines, hopefully it reads a little better now.

Reviews

[Erica Nottestad]

This is crazy good. I scrolled from top to bottom first and was like, "ugh, a long poem," but as I started reading, I noticed that it flew by without me noticing. A couple of the stanzas, the "Chained to the whipping post" one and the "In the deepest, darkest dreams" feel a little clumsy, but other than those minor hiccups, I really, really enjoyed this poem. Thank you for sharing it with us :)