Wednesday, 22 of November of 2017

Tag » Waste

Paul Watson – Shark Angels

There is a continuum in the Ocean,
856106_10151451447648259_1128818205_oEnergy in continuous motion,
There is a consistency in the sea,
Holding in trust the sacred key.

Older than mountains are the sharks
Upon this planet they have left their marks,
Patiently they have shaped evolution,
Surviving every mutated revolution.

We fear what we do not understand,
Especially those that dwell not on land,
Mysterious creature with a crushing jaw,
That makes us tremble in fear and awe.

Five hundred species of wondrous diversity
Surviving in conditions of great adversity,
So many niches they have filled,
Yet so many of them has mankind killed.

What we fear we kill in ignorance,
Justifying it with profound arrogance,
We know so little of the briny deep,
Yet from the depths we savagely reap.
Swimming with hammerheads is sublime,
With them our movements could certainly rhyme,
Swimming with tigers over warm Bahamian sand,
Takes us to paradise and away from land.

Face your fears with desire,
Danger is the soul’s sweet searing fire,
Discover that your fears mean little,
For nature decides the answer to your deepest riddle.

Courage is its own reward
Nothing to fear from tooth or sword,
Recognizing that in the sea the shark is a lord,
Who we approach with respect, we must afford.

Humbling ourselves to look into their eyes,
We, who dwell between sea and skies.
Yao Ming shark aid campaignThe azure blue of the white shark’s gaze,
Sends trembles that stir our nerves to craze.

Oh sweet fear bring us knowledge,
Comprehension not found in college,
Opening up wisdom’s great alluring gate.
Showing the way to a fuller more enticing fate.

Sharks of Bronze, Grey, White, and Blue,
Some are many, others few,
Nurses and Needles, Basking with flair,
Some are nervous, others haven’t a care.

Makos and Threshers menace the fishes,
Megamouths and Whale sharks have tinier wishes
Files and Lanterns and so many more,
Sharks from the surface to the ocean floor.
Continually moving except for the sleepers,
Caretakers and pelagic reapers,
A myriad of shapes, in colour and size
If you wish to survive then you must be sharkwise

Swimming like poetry in the Gulfstream,
Three women glide by, like in a dream,
Angels from the land seeking to understand,
Defending the sharks, taking a stand.

Bowls of fins reeking with death and decay,
Symbols of wealth some would say,
Others know that such vanities portend doom,
When our greed empties the ocean’s womb.

Seventy million sharks die for our foul greed,
Stealing from the seas the golden seed,
What we do to them we do to all,
Removing the sharks will cause us to fall.

Three angels sing their song of praise,
Portraying the sharks in ways to amaze,
In serving the sharks they benefit us all,
If only enough can hear their wise call.

Shepherds and shark savers cutting the lines,
Stopping the poachers, looking for signs,
Education, legislation, media tactics and passion,
Working to put the sharks into favourable fashion.

From Jaws to Sharkwater, attitudes change,
It is the dominant paradigm that we must rearrange,
The Angels swim to create a new myth and tale,
Building concern for the shark, like there is for the whale.

For in the Ocean there is a sacred mysterious motion,
That evokes a complexity of human emotion,
The Angels seek to construct a new scheme,
To realize for shark and humans a more positive dream.

Can it be done? No one can say,
But it must be done by the end of the day.
For if not there is no future for the shark or man,
They will disappear on the sea and we on land.

Paul Watson

Philip Wright – High Plains

This is the land of the Indian Paintbrush,
a place with more centuries than the days
of Man.
At sunset there falls onto this land
a wonderful desolation.
Slanting sunlight turns arroyos to black
currents in a sea of tall, yellow grass,
and gold dust swirls on silver winds
to weave the strands of night.
It is a glimpse of eternity:
a coveted moment of awareness between
the Within and unconfined Beyond.
I sit high upon an outcrop pondering
a death worth mentioning.

Not long ago across this vast plain hunted men
touched by the pathos of their quarry.
With ritual and travail they purified themselves
in preparation of the chase.
For in the dark reality of life eating life
the blood of sustenance must be cleansed
in reverence.
They hunted in awe.
They killed with remorse.
And they celebrated success with thanksgiving,
not to God,
but to the animals they killed.

Then came a migration of humanity
disconnected from earth,
singing the metaphor of Genesis,
and taking what cannot be owned.
These also hunted.
But there was no reverence in the eyes peering
over the white man’s rifles.

The migration continues with an army
of hunters.
They shoot from trucks into herds
of confused antelope.
At night they lift a beer and toast the hunt.
But no one speaks of the young doe
gut-shot and running until tripping
in her own entrails.
Lying now in the dust.
Gone with the sun.

Philip Wright

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