Monday, 21 of August of 2017

Tag » cattle industry

Roman Sanchez – Buffalo Poem

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Buffalo-Field-Campaign-Yellowstone-Buffalo
 
I have stood with the buffalo.
I have felt their spirit
Move through me like the wind.
Their presence I can feel
In the contours of these mountains,
In every tree,
In every bush,
In every willow,
Every track,
In my soul.
I have looked deep into their eyes
And felt their power
Run through me like
The river from which banks they have fed off,
And I too have been nurtured.
And in my hand, I have held their hair
Plucked from the side of a tree.
bfcAnd I can see that it is no different from mine,
And I know that we are brothers.

I have seen the meaning of non-violent resistance,
In the face of hatred and ignorance,
In the face of oppression
I have been moved to tears
By the beauty of their gentle nature,
Their resilience–their determination.
And I am learning from them the meaning of patience,
Of love and of living the way they know is rightfully theirs,
Even if it means Death–
And I know I am only beginning to understand.

Roman Sanchez
Buffalo Field Campaign Volunteer
November-December 2004 Earth First!
 
 


Stephen Wing – Paper Flowers On The Tomb Of Spring

Of course you cut the tree limb back
to make way for the telephone wire.
Of course you top and trim
the wild branches from the boy to make a soldier.
Of course you fly miles
per second through the upper atmosphere to close a deal
that will cut short the century-long
breaths of the jungle, another million acres gone
to make paper and grow beef.
What kind of war is this
against the flowers of the valley of the Amazon,
against the tribes this wilderness
has civilized, against the songbirds who fly south
from your sealed window to winter here,
against the children who love the smell
of your cigarette, but need
the exhalations of these green cities to live
when you are gone?

~

Of course it wasn’t you who planted reasons,
in the tiny brain of the bulldozer,
who whispered the one word
through its fuel line that could make it charge amok,
churning delicate foliage under tanktracks,
chewing down the towers of this ancient
capital of the trees.

The clues are everywhere.
Who ate the hamburger
out of that paper sack and left it there,
a greasy blossom of the parking lot?
Who crumpled that mediocre draft of a poem
only moments ago, tossed it like
a paper flower on the tomb of spring
and split open a fresh ream?

Stephen Wing
November 1 1989 Earth First!


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