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Picture This

In an American primitive painting:
she fetches a pail from a well,
the bucket on her hip is full of
broken eagles,
wind turbines churn in the distance.

Corn fields are bundled together.
Drones hum like doves in the evening.
The art of moon-spinning
is practiced on front porches.
People make do with
transitory Amazon wants.

Most get caught by the faceless winds,
those rattling sighs that spread
the dry seeds
of dying crops.

Categories: turbines, poetry,
Form: Free verse

MORNING has BROKEN

colour
       shimmers
impressions melt
turbines&apartments
                           awake

all of a 
          tremble
the veiled
         movement
              of leaves
whispering
     in the breeze
where
roads are alive
           with commuter cars

abstract
       illusions   
flourish
with
 silhouettes &
                blurred
bridges teeming
           with pedestrians

disintegrating
into
out
of
focus
        shapes
where
corn flakes crackle
toast browns
                            eggs hard-boil

sunrise
prepares  
a
fusions of reflections
with
pylons pulsating
                 their powers
in      
obsessions
    &detail
  of  a   mundane day
                      full of toil

Categories: turbines, day, work,
Form: Verse

Sea Glass

with bitter winds of sand and spray
and flecks of rain against my face
how different this land looks today
a drenched, vast, unforgiving place.

as turbines veiled in mist offshore
first fade then vanish out at sea
the sun, it seems, shines here no more
with frosted air surrounding me.

yet how could light forever shine
upon a beach, its sea and crowds
when storms have always over time
obscured the sun behind the clouds?

such weathered moments on the land
can help cast magic with cold seas
 - one day this broken glass and sand
may form warm, precious memories.

Categories: turbines, beach, rain, sun, time,
Form: Rhyme

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry

Silent Forests - Whispering Shores

Once, forests whispered tales untold,
A symphony of life, green and bold.
But silence reigns where giants stood,
Charred scars remain, misunderstood.

Oceans choked, a plastic shroud,
Where vibrant reefs once danced out loud.
No sparkling scales, no coral hues,
Only remnants of what we lose.

The air we breathe, a poisoned sigh,
A canvas choked by a smoky sky.
The Earth weeps, a fevered plea,
A future lost, for all to see.

But listen close, a flicker yet,
A seed of hope, we won't forget.
From the barren ground, a sapling strives,
A human hand, where nature thrives.

Solar whispers, painting light,
Wind turbines dance, embracing flight.
Ocean gardens, woven with care,
Restoring life, a future to share.

The fight remains, on every hand,
To heal the wounds, across the land.
For future generations' sake,
Let's mend the world, for goodness' sake.

Let actions speak, let voices rise,
For Earth's last stand, beneath the skies.
For every breath, for every seed,
We plant the hope, of a world in need.

Categories: turbines, earth, environment, ocean,
Form: Narrative

Electricity

Dear Electricity.
Could you please allow me to call you Electra?
I feel it gives you more respect with a little extra.

Electra, you have been most needful and useful in my life,
but honestly, you have always been a mystery to me. 
I have never wanted to live a single day without you.
Although you are never to be heard, tasted, smelt, or seen,
I sense you by way of feeling if, God forbid, I touch you.

Electra, your electrifying powers turn turbines by the millions.
Your awesome energy lights up the world of billions of mortals.
Your character is amazingly warming, but never very touching;
Because your massive and energetic powers are inherently shocking.

Electra, you can be healing, but you also facilitate dates with death.
That is why when we were just kids, we learned to never touch you.
I have learned to commune with you without one voluntary touch.

Most sincerely,
Baruch

Categories: turbines, power,
Form: Personification

Via Con Dios

Clinging to the angry gnashing teeth of gods,
Cursing the thousand misfortunes there endured
Yet in mortal terror of letting go,
We suffer.

A dying multitude,
We listen to drizzling turbines
Muttering darkly in the earth,
Turning the seasons in mindless procession.
We listen for the word of affirmation,
Declaration of purpose.
The muttering continues.

Born to pain,
Raised on affliction,
Aged in despair,
We go...
Screaming kicking clawing
We make our way to the grave...
Afraid of the Reaper,
We deathgrip our agony,
Clutch it to our hearts
And pray
For one more day.

Forswearing mortality,
Some are driven to the sanctuary of a creator
While others vomit up bad poetry.

Categories: turbines, fate, lost, pain,
Form: Free verse

American Primative

Inside an archaic framework
she fetches a pail from the fields,
the bucket on her hip is full of
broken eagles.
Wind turbines churn in the distance.

He takes the mangled birds
plucks them,
puts their heads on poles
loads them onto a flatbed.

His dour darling fixes fixings
with a rusting air-fryer;
plaits her hair with chicken wire.

Drones mourn like doves in the evening.
Rattling pods spread
their dry seeds over abandoned crops.
Bald feathers flap on
a black-booted scarecrow.

A morbid factotum arrives
deposits clods of earth
from out the back of
of a fly-specked hearse.
Horse heads turn
on a squeaking wind vane.

Inside a slow burning barn
Unstrung fiddles lay at rest
in their open coffins.

Categories: turbines, poetry,
Form: Free verse

By Throckrington Moor

Thirteen ladies dancing
By Throckrington Moor’
Each movement stately
Each movement sure.
Stark against the sky
Each single  girl,
Feet firmly planted,
Arms all a whirl,
Moves to the wind
In a slow  rhythmic way,
Dancing consistently
Whether night or day.
Really only dancing ladies
In my minds inner eye,
Really just  wind turbines
Outlined against the sky.
Spare and sparse in their design
To me things of simple beauty
Unceasingly performing
Their appointed duty.
Just by Throckrington Moor
Each one proves it’s worth
Providing clean power to
Help save our wounded Earth.
Each time I pass that moor
Those girls are standing there 
Stark in their beauty
In that clear moors air

Categories: turbines, beauty, earth, environment,
Form: Rhyme