Dr. Seuss wrote of a strong Lorax
Who tried to save Earth’s Truffula Trees
From a foolish “Onceler’s” hacking ax
The Lorax warnings disregarded
Onceler used up the trees’ resources
Now penniless and broken hearted
Onceler made quite a tearful, sad plea
Lorax took pity, bestowed a seed
One final hope for Truffula Trees
Just like the Onceler, I now look back
At mall strips on former forestland
Spying something behind a big Mac
‘Tis the stump of a Truffula Tree
No, they never did make a comeback
Love for this stump, a sad amputee
Filled my heart, I wrapped arms around it
Wishing I could travel back in time
And reverse the Onceler’s work permit
Only when species become extinct
Do we fully appreciate their worth
Save them now; they hover on the brink
Written for Matt Calliri's Tree Stump Contest
Little crickets are in the fields
Hidden under the bushes.
How beautifully they sing
Without appearing.
They tell stories unceasingly,
Singing until out of breath.
They talk about green grass,
Birds and trees,
Mention the rising sun, moonlight,
The sweet breeze.
In the tender quietness of the night,
Many stories they tell.
Nobody listens to their stories,
Nobody understands.
They scream blue-murder,
Nobody hears.
Little crickets,
Don't get tired.
There must be some people
Listening to your stories,
Assimilating them with pleasure,
Longing for the new ones,
Passing by your private houses.
But it is not enough for you,
Talking about birds and trees,
Mentioning the rising sun, moonlight.
Madly you exhaust your little bodies
And scrape your sad story
Tightly into nature.
The sad story is much bigger
Than the crickets, so little.
There'll come a day
When you'll stay in the past
With your stories from nature's book.
Then nobody will know,
And nobody will hear a bit
Of your stories so sweet
Fide ERKEN
Cicadas are a pretty bug
They live under the ground
Every seventeen years they come
Up from where they are found
They go up in the trees to mate
They make a funny sound
God made the Cicadas too
Thats nature balanced and bound
They land upon my shoulder
I take them by their wings
I talk to them and say hello
It's like they really know
What I am saying is so true
I feel so bad and it's so sad
To see what Cicadas do
After they mate they die
Yes that is so sad
But their babys go under ground
Untill another seventeen years
Then the cycle goes around
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