she comes to me, in moments desolate, the warmth of her balm a soothing pleasure under the swaying palm,
she comes to me in moments painful, her presence infusing my emptiness with sense,
she comes to me in minutes, hours, days,
and though she may be a million miles away,
it is her who quells my nights,
it is her who brings solace to my waking day.
for my dear cat who is no more …
when sad and weary,
our friends who are so hairy,
pick us up, lifting our spirits high,
wiping away tears,
as our dreams soar through the sky,
these are our friends,
more loyal than homo-sapiens for sure,
that’s why she is so special,
because when my furry friend feels I am under the weather,
she’s got the touch,
and she’s got the cure …
The Tears of Mother Earth …
Mother Earth weeps, her cries silenced, by the clinking of champagne flutes, as yet again, men myopic with greed carve out plans to plunder her more.
how much more shall you take, she moans, while men with noxious lust whoop with joy, their greed tainted with blinkers, knowingly stripping her further, in a blinded frenzy of self-serving savagery.
Mother Earth is ill, diseased by the ceaseless pillaging, by us, her children, siphoning more and more, till heaven knows when, she shall be hollow to the core.
are we so blinded, are we so callous, are we so lost in our glazed orgy, to hack away her dignity, her bounteous nurturing spirit, her selfless giving of herself, to let her children, us all, to eat, to be healthy, to live, to breathe in the freshest air and to bathe in the most pristine rivulets, flowing through her very veins and arteries, those very arteries and veins which we slice and dice each day.
our Mother calls to us, beseeching us, asking only how much more can she be expected to give, how much more are we going to take.
her wheezing spasms are felt by us all, her pleading for help resounds, as we chip away at her lungs, poison her waters, belch bile into her air, continually desecrating our shared commons.
our Mother is as mortal as you and i, for she too bleeds, for she too chokes, for she too lies weakened, ill after being brutalised by her very own.
as we avert our unseeing eyes, our deafened ears to her simple needs, we turn our backs to her, refusing to acknowledge her consistent gifts to us all, epoch upon epoch, millennia upon millennia.
as we avert our complicit gaze, we stand indicted, we stand forewarned, that her bounty is finite, for if we plunder evermore, she too shall be forced onto her knees, exhausted by her persistent and consistent motherliness, for she too can give only so much, for she too is aging and in need of tending, for she too is mortal.
and when that time comes, as it does to all that is mortal, that she fades and slips away, it shall be us, her very children, consciously and with savage intent, who rained down suffering on her, our Mother, till she said in a hushed whisper:
I am famished.
I have nothing left to give.
farewell, my children.
Scribbled Verse 
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