THE GUN & THE PEN by Stan Aneto

THE GUN & THE PEN – Stan Aneto 2013

My gun's got loaded 

my pen on the white paper of tears

should I be more concerned 

about animals and plants 

than humanity on a final push of extinction...?

They call me the earthman

Coined from an untamed affair with nature

an unscripted romance ordained by divinity

Long before my placenta was trimmed

it is a sacred calling to curate and caress

but should I be more concerned

about plants and animals

than humanity on a final push of extinction...?

The mind of poetry is insatiable

Bottomless like the pit of hell

Cos the issues on my table are endless

I am much worried about the shedding of blood

As I am worried about frequent flood

I am much worried about genocide

As I am worried about ecocide

I am much worried about nuclear warning

As I am worried about global warming

I am as much worried about mindless shelling

As I am worried about senseless tree felling

I am much worried about human rights

As I am worried about animal rights 

I am much worried about corruption

As I am worried about pollution

For I see the inordinate pursuit of riches

Increasing the scale of endangered species

The mind of poetry is insatiable

Bottomless like the pit of hell

So I bless my pen and paper

When Great Trees Fall, by Maya Angelou

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

― Maya Angelou