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Poem

My great-grandfather was a farmer,
He yielded crops by the harvest moon
When spring came to bloom 
He had a son, 
My grandfather was a military-man
He disappeared into the earth as a Green Beret
When the next Autumn came 

He no longer yielded crops by the harvest moon
No longer tolled the soft fertile ground
But rather,
Found himself,
camouflage in corpses 
—Cold to the touch 
Lifeless

And I often ask myself what my grandchildren will become?

No more nature to nurture
No more songs to be sung,
Along harmonious tunes

Tell the children to come back in
Because there is a darkness coming soon

Shining it’s ultraviolet light
And the sea levels too 
rise like skyscrapers

Or scarcity 

When all the tree are gone
And the air is hard to breathe

What happens?

When there is a malformity
Or a mutation in a gene

What happens?

When the field dries up and there is no more
crops to yield?

The dirt turned to dust 
Against the heel of battle boots

Ready for war

The sprouts withered in poison 
From the powdered gunsmoke

soft , gentle, life, 

The sound of metal drilling the earth 
When there is nothing left to find 

Of generations past
For tomorrow will never know

What it meant to live
In a world meant to grow.

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