climate crisis poetry – Writers Resist

Changing Names

Mendocino, California

By Frederick Livingston

after how many years
does “drought” erode
into expected weather?

and then what name
when the rains do come
startling the hard earth
the exhausted aquifers?

we’ll sing to the deep wells
the quieted fire and clean sky
“winter” brittle in our mouths

holding vigil for rivers elders
insects lovers lost forever
when did grieving season begin?
what one word could walk

between delight of sun
hungry skin and unease
in receiving unseasonable gifts?

what of the breath we held
together as cold certainty melts
wondering who burns this turn?
when the broken record

record breaking
dips into new pallets
for our purple summers

the wheel becomes
rows of teeth clenched
against steady instability
in which season do we open

our jaws lungs ears hearts
speak our fears
how it feels to be alive

on Earth still
blooming and unraveling
naming petals
as the wind claims them

Frederick Livingston plants seeds. Grounded in experiential education and sustainable agriculture, he hopes to grow understanding, peace, mangos and avocados. His upcoming poetry collection, The Moon and Other Fruits, is expected in early 2023 from Legacy Book Press.

Photo credit: “Drought,” by Wayne S. Grazio via a Creative Commons license

Photographer’s note: A honeybee, desperate and disoriented, seeks moisture and pollen from dried up sage blossoms. Another sign of climate change.

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Subliminal and Unanimous Dreams of the Future

By Kimberly Kaufman

In the shadowy, damp cities of our eon
no Martian parent will guilt their children
into eating their slimy green protein crumbles
with stories of the starving Children of Earth

As the dust storms rage above no Martian
child will flick internal game consoles, the
giant screens their only chance to marvel at
the blue, cool expanse of the Pacific ocean

No Martian will stagger through the thick,
viscous gravity, envying Earth refugees
who had a chance to spin and fall in warm air
without seventy pounds of protective plastic shell

As Martian children grow to moody, tense teens
they will never dream of an ozone layer keeping
them safe from this hostile universe that waits for
the first opportunity to twist their skulls inside out

We will not look out the window
to a night filled with two shrunken,
misshapen moons,
whispering,
the Earth
she was irreplaceable,
but we lost her

I have previously published speculative fiction in various literary magazines, including Metaphorosis, The Future Fire, and Jersey Devil Press. A brief list of things I’ve been, am, or will be: a student of Spanish literature, a lawyer, a punk bass guitarist, a traveler, a quiet child, and a mountain climber.

Photo credit: Mars dust storm, NASA.