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What horrors will our off-spring see

in the miasma of futurity?

Their prospects go from bad to worse

as degradation runs its course.

When hope looks like self deception

and positives like mad delusion,

how to stem the lemming crush,

resist the tides of mass confusion?

What chances do our children have

to right the wrongs of history,

to find an unobstructed path

from the charnel house of destiny?

What wonders of the great wide world

will be denied our progeny,

the English Elm, the western Pine,

the elephant, the honey bee?

What poisoned remnants will remain,

what maladjusted misery?

What might they blame for what they see,

where lies responsibility?

We’re un-accepting of the truth

of how it starts with you and me.

How else might we stagger on

in the stench of such perversity?

We’re satisfied with leaders who

confess they don’t know what to do,

that wouldn’t dock our bank accounts

of un-acceptable amounts.

And thus tomorrows loom ahead

with promise overwhelmed by dread;

with life and beauty sacrificed,

our children’s futures overpriced.


Poem by Michael G. Hawkes

English elm

honey bee


western pine



This is but a murmur

A voice drowning in a cacophony of shrieks

Amid species bent on self-destruction

Imploding with hatred

This is pathology

Not politics

There is no cure

The virus is spreading

The lie

Like a house of cards

Beyond proportions

Who will say they’re sorry?

Hope is but a word

In this world infected

With death

No antidote

And no time to find one

Divinity debunked

While extolled

That’s for the entranced.

For the awake

And the curious

There is no salvation.

‘Should I stay or should I go?’



Art: Francisco Goya



The man had been sitting alone in his room for a long time. It could have been days. He lost track, frozen to the spot by a horrifying vision. It came to him one morning, piercing his mind like a hot needle, and he could not move ever since. It had been forming for some time, a macabre puzzle made of fragments of nightmares, and now with the final piece in place, it paralyzed him. It left no hope, no possibility of a different outcome, all the options were out. For a brief moment he wondered if anyone else has been struck with this terrible thought, if panicked messages were flickering across the globe. But he knew he didn’t care, it did not matter. It was done. He turned to the window and waited.

They found him a few days later. Sitting in his chair, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Outside the window the last sunset spilled crimson shadows.


Art: Hieronymus Bosch