Poem 4/12/11


Waste


Nothing ever goes to waste, they say,
that ubiquitous "they" that defies citation.
But what does it mean, nothing goes to waste?
To use up the detritus of our lives?

I'm seeing so much waste, all over.
Lives which are uncounted, plastic
throw-away-debris everywhere.
Water hoarded so no one else can drink.
Our thirst for waste un-satiated.

When will we wake up and listen?
When will we stop wasting our lives?
When will we stop wasting our planet?

I have no answers, only endless questions.
I long for a world of our unmaking,
wild and free, where waste really isn't reality,
where plastic stays unmade, oil
untapped, trees uncut.

I would settle for less waste, more reuse.
More going without. More making do.

I would settle for a world aware that garbage
that sits in landfills will stay that way,
un-compostable. For less disposability
we'd get more usefulness. More beauty.

I would live in a world with more beauty.
Where we ask ourselves what beautifies
before any other consideration.

I would live in a world like this one,
only better loved. And I would love it.
Wouldn't you?