The edge of the cancer
Swells against the hill-we feel
a foul breeze-And it sinks back down.
The deer winter here
A chainsaw growls in the gorge.
Ten wet days and the log trucks stop,
The trees breathe.
Sunday the 4-wheel jeep of the
Realty Company brings in
Landseekers, lookers, they say
To the land,
Spread your legs.
The jets crack sound overhead, it's OK
Every pulse of the rot at the heart
In the sick fat veins of Amerika
Pushes the edge up closer--
A bulldozer grinding and slobbering
Sideslipping and belching on top of
The skinned-up bodies of still-live bushes
In the pay of a man
Behind is a forest that goes to the Arctic
And a desert that still belongs to the
And here we must draw
From 'Turtle Island' published in 1974 by Gary Snyder... A poet from the beat generation hanging out with the likes of Jack Kerouac.
Today an advocate for the land.
This poem speaks to how I feel about the misuse of land and the ever expanding sub-division...
places along our national parks and forests being invaded and degraded to the detriment of ever more wildlife.
GARDEN BLOGGERS' MUSE DA Y
Sweet Home Chicago Garden