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AS ONE We Walk This Earth Together by Alan Smith

AS ONE we lead our lives together,
AS ONE our lives create such waste,
AS ONE we disregard, mistreat this planet,
AS ONE our shortfalls must now be faced.

Mother Earth, survivor, all enduring,
But pollution nears her to the brink.
For her, for us, for coming generations
AS ONE we must step back and think.

AS ONE we need to be responsive,
AS ONE, each accountable for this goal,
AS ONE, clean up our act together, else
AS ONE we’ll finally loose control.

For all the flora and the fauna,
For all the animals that share this place,
We must, AS ONE, now grasp the nettle,
Change this destruction, save our human race.

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Smooth, transparent – thrown onto the soil.
Smooth, transparent – carried on the waves.
Smooth, transparent – sitting on the verge.
Smooth, transparent – plastic bottle scourge.

Smooth, transparent – glistens in the sun.
Smooth, transparent – lies upon the ground.
Smooth, transparent – rolls along the sand.
Smooth, transparent – throttles our green land.

Smooth, transparent – refuses to decay.
Smooth, transparent – a killer on the loose.
Smooth, transparent – damages our health.
Smooth, transparent – drowning us by stealth.

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If nuclear power’s the star of the hour
Where do we dump the waste?
Near some big city, or village so pretty?
Don’t make this decision in haste.
Leaving it here for offspring to fear
Is nothing short of a crime.
What will they do if a terrorist crew
Attacks it in their lifetime?


Tall white turbines soar above
While folk beneath are forced to cower.
Across our land this dreary band
Gives constant drone but not much power.
Fanning blades, long shadows cast.
They blight our fresh green countryside.
Mighty towers that dwarf sunflowers
May soon be seen from each roadside.
Once our fields are used, abused,
When every metre bears a steeple,
We’ll have to go far, far away
And find a place with room for people.

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The Centre by Ruth Osman

Here we stand,
palm to palm,
a spider’s web
spanning oceans,
our threads anchored
to brutal histories, buoyed
by renegade winds.

Along the arc
of our intentions,
fugitive futures bloom,
tight buds tethered
to loam, nurtured
by hands grown craggy
with toil, grimed
with the soil
of our aspirations.

is the centre —
in the fellowship
of trees, dancing
to the wind’s lavway.

is the centre —
where feet drum earth
and rum flows
for the gods of marronage.

is the centre —
where old stories gather flesh
and come alive as we blow
on their bones.

is the centre —
the black hole that pulls
us in and through
to new horizons,
blue with promise.

Here is the centre.
Here is the centre.
Here is the centre.

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Waste by Wendy Haslam

The sourness of the dustcart as I pass,
invades my throat,
offends my sense of good.

I turn away from heavy-gloved and booted men
rhythmically picking up and emptying,
picking up and emptying,
that very stuff I cannot bear
to have in close proximity

and nuisance things that fill my space,
my head: all dusty, musty, rotten, torn,
all damp and bruised things of no worth,
human debris, dead cells, dried blood,
all thrown into one trucked lump.

And as the men move on
to other bin-lined streets
that guilty weight of self-made waste
is gone.