Hour Thirteen Strange New World

13 2017 Strange New World

Strange New World
by Paul Robert Sanford

In the world of tomorrow
the oceans became warmer by two degrees Celsius.
Glaciers melted, and rivers of water ran into the sea.
The seas rose several inches,
just enough to cover some island nations
and flood the lowlands all over the world.

But that wasn’t the most dramatic problem.
The warmer oceans gave off more water vapor
into the air, where it traveled over the land and cooled,
pouring down onto specific locations with unprecedented levels.
One in a thousand year rainstorms began to flood new
areas that had never flooded before.
After the heavy rains, the air was depleted and there were droughts.

Tropical storms became more powerful
because of the higher temperatures and the additional moisture,
and reached hurricane intensity more often,
washing great waves over coastal cities,
changing the coastline by washing soil and sand out to sea.

Whole populations moved, but had nowhere to go.
The amount of available fertile land shrank.
Famine killed millions, and disease that followed millions more.

Governments changed.
Too frightened to face the reality of what was happening,
people voted for whomever would give them some kind of false hope.
Soon a powerful minority banded together to demand proof-
proof the seas were rising, proof the temperature was rising,
but more important, proof that something could be done about it.

After all, they argued, the Creator God still held the earth in His hand,
and his unknown will controlled our destinies.
Nothing mere humans could do would change the world one way or another,
because the promise was given with the rainbow that God would not again
destroy the world by flood.

And so, humanity, not God, wreaked a final judgment on themselves.

Exercising Duplicity

impossible speed challenge

for fingers more meant

to brutalise than nurture,

punch not quench

 

nothing delicate

has come from this,

it’s shaken not stirred,

a snapper of wrists

 

dogma of prowling,

hate & steal,

leading with the forehead,

keeping things real.

 

Liberated from actions

reasoning’s fine,

but why, tell me why

has it started to rhyme?

 

who set the default

to way back when?

pushed nursery remit

to the front again?

 

what if there’s no action

to make this stop?

Just beat it to death –

and bury the box.

# 12 – Over 90 under 100 – repeats count as 1

Tiny, sickly litter runt.

Brown, black, white.

Beagle.

Puppy in a kitten collar.

Tail, lacking control, motions aimlessly.

Loved back to health by her people.

Tree climber, couch companion, bed mate.

Camilla Barker Howls or Millie,

little sister of Lily.

An adored princess.

Petite, silky, energetic, silly.

Wood pile prancer, squirrel chaser, yard surveyor.

Sunny spot napper.

Clean up committee.

Escape artist.

Complicated life with self imposed rules.

Under foot, on lap, head out window ear blowing antics.

Empty Nester solace.

Twelve years old.

I want more chapters in this dog story.

 

Poem 2

Rough drafts are not as flimsy when your body is stuck to the board

The cork of a marathon training plan

I brought it here

Oh I could just leave it

Rough drafts are not as easy to edit when your body is full of the words

Frustration during a marathon training plan

It brought me here

Oh I could just leave it

Rough drafts are not as easy to recognize when your body’s changing the verbs

Frustration becomes enjoyment somewhere in the training plan

Brought for here

Oh I could never just leave it

Hour 13: Changing Places

My poem this hour hasn't really got beyond the rough sketching of ideas. I want to feature a world in which ghosts and humans swap places, with very few of the former ghosts believing in the human ghosts, except for one or two who cannot convince the other former ghosts that there are human-ghosts. I like the idea of this twist, but it will need quite a bit of work after the marathon to make it stand up. The TV program mentioned, Corrie, is Coronation Street, set in the UK city of Manchester, home of the soccer teams. It's been a weekly show on British TV for years and years.

Changing Places

I walked through the door
more accurately floated
like a bad odor

I recognise the lady sitting in the reclining chair,
from photos in the purple album,

kept in the cupboard under the stairs.

it's Aunt Agatha,
great great great aunt Agatha,
feet up in front of Corrie

Drifting in through the fireplace
Alex spies Agatha,
“Hey dad, is this cool or what! Who on earth's that?”

“have you put the water
on for my bath, Maud dearest?
“I can't find a tin bath.”