Good Day, Werner, Herewith Your Account For Your Monthly Breathing

Poem By Werner Schmidt

PAY NOW flashes on my mobile screen.

Yes, friends, only a matter of time.
What else is left to be commoditised?

Rocks that roll and heavy metal, plus
liquid gold that explodes inside engines
have all but been sucked out of Mother's belly.
Markets and governments - partners -
are left only with trash and air, in a way.
Gold rush, diamond rush, oil rush.
Garbage rush, with no time to waste.

How many wild animals still run free, truly free?
Not 'free' inside a reserve with shocking sides
and ample infrastructure.
In other words, when
I see social media pictures
of kings scraping leftovers off a tarred platter
and a winged prince hovering above a roadkill road
- like beggars -
that's exactly what I am not talking about.

How many wild horses gallop around the globe?
Not those that respond to sugar cubes
jockey's whip or click-clicking.

How many wild spaces?
Where no human shoes, empty cans, shopping bags
or attempts at squaring the horizon
scar what was once pristine?

How many wild people?
Who still
search for the creative word written on the flip side
of their hearts.
Who still
feel little compulsion towards stuff.
Who still
allow Nature to do her thing, even inside suburbia.
Who still
look
up at cloud, blue, bird and branch
down at green, flower, weed and bark.
Who still
embrace
domesticated best friends:
wagtail wolves, little lions
and talking eagles with clipped wings
lazing around residences.
Wild people
whose skin engage the earth.
Breathing while drinking it all in.
Striving to exhale only what the trees might need.

Bringing their monthly account to barefoot zero.

Comments about Good Day, Werner, Herewith Your Account For Your Monthly Breathing

Fascinating symbiosis of human beings and nature and what wild remains while humans exhibit a certain restart based upon what trees need to breath.


Other poems of SCHMIDT

Sea Spot Run

You appear to be a cut and paste
concoction
of black mermaid's tail
with the chest and face

The End Of Days...

... should have been 70 AD/CE, remember?
Or no,150.
Or no, sorry, finger error, it was supposed to be 380.
Or no, no, no! It is going to be exactly 24 September 20XX, after

Stuck On You

Steam rises from my cupped hands.
Sickle Moon dances on my black rooibos tea.
Dirty, orange City Night Sky.
Trying not to blink. What am I looking at?

To All The Girls

He enters a black forest.
Perhaps because he tried to read Freud.
Narrow path. Some sort of enchantment.
Is he flying or falling?

A Red Heart Rises

over a suburban garden.

She lays a landscape A4 sheet in front of me.
For you, Daddy.

Treading On The Tail Of A Tiger

is a bit like tiptoeing
on the toes of a tyrannosaurus.

I wish I could choose