i. frontline.

those colossal sea walls, once thought impenetrable

toes buried in grains of sand on a dwindling beach,

she wonders what it feels like, plunging into the depths

Atlantis sank for its hubris; her home will sink despite its virtue.

acrid taste of that burnt, splendous Californian sunset 

settles on her tongue 

fluttering ash, a maddening dash 

all is cinder in a smoldering forge.

brittle, withered, shriveled

wizened face creased, lines baked into his sun-loved face

wonders why rain, long gone friend, had forsaken him

leaving only cracks in the earth behind. 

white fur plastered against a husk

cowering on a lonely piece of ice

fallen from its former majesty 

a king of beasts with no kingdom.

languid steps through the water on the street

she may as well be a raft drifting alone - 

a little hand clutches tightly around her neck, 

face slicked with water or tears, the difference is unclear. 

ii. witness.  

channel five at 7AM every morning, stories in a box

click

greenland’s glaciers could lose more ice-

click

on this episode of keeping up with…

the alarm sounds, dully registering in the back of his head 

case in hand, step after step, out the door

pitter patter of old soles on a concrete path.

same newspaper on the dingy, rusty rack 

faint buzzwords as he scans the headlines

“climate change… united nations...”

scratch

delicate gray lines on a fresh crossword 

reels the stuffy words out.

smiles stretched across delicate, gleaming teeth of his coworkers

hushed tones murmuring about the morning article about this “global warming” 

a solemn affair indeed; not fit for conversation over a company meal

 the blaring alarm is discarded in favor of 

dismal banter and petty gossip.

channel five at 7PM every night, stories in a box

flickering light from distant pixels 

shots of despairing faces, whispers of waters rising 

he wears a face of polite disinterest 

“what a tragedy”

empty phrases litter the ground.

for what is it to him? 

long as his pockets are lined

and Fortune plenty, 

it is another man’s problem. 

after all, how can you fear what you cannot conceive? 

iii. warrior.

the knights of arthur once sat at a round table

best among men, equal among brothers 

around this new table of “distinguished fellows” and “honorable leaders”

squabbling amongst one another at an

 “esteemed conference regarding the critical issue of climate change”

scribbled notes tucked in the folder next to her,

 a lifetime dedicated to searching for solutions

yet they refuse to meet her gaze: a scientist is nothing to a politician. 

not our responsibility-   unreasonable!!

       of course we should do something…

the world has gone mad indeed!

sea foam smothers their eyes and their ears 

she may as well be gurgling, babbling, speaking gibberish

when she pleads with facts, with figures, with science

to do something, to do anything

but the economy-    we will lobby!  sir, with all due respect…

     the oil companies-      how do you know it is real? 

a bitter sigh, her eyes meet the hands of the clock,

steady in its onset, resolute in its pursuit

the summit will be over soon - platitudes will be given

a fancy piece of paper adorned with countless signatures of men who will go home

as a federation of elected idlers - 

old dogs do not learn new tricks. 

iv.  future.

your ancestors fiddled as Rome burned

as the silken oil slunk into the waters

as the rip-roaring waves collided with the shoreline

as the song of the birds wavered on its grand final note,

snuffed out by the benzene or by that damn chloride

when the frenzy of strings and notes came to an end,

mother earth had already became barren, neglected by her children

bitter as the lead that seeped through her skin.

jammed within the withered, gaunt skeleton

of a city that once met the sky

your heart is filled with doubt,

incredulous at the scenes in the stories in a box:

of colors so brilliant, ones that could only be found 

in a gently babbling creek 

ringed by sycamores or willows or maples

or a gleaming sky so bright 

your finger could trace the tales in the stars.

the sky tells no such stories anymore. 

v. you

i’ve heard that a story is never complete 

without different perspectives

that one narrator is hardly sufficient 

and that knowledge is a much greater burden than ignorance.

now that you know 

what will you do?