Plastic Flowers On Our Graves

I can understand an epitaph
befitting of heroes and knaves,
but there is no respect in
plastic flowers on our graves.

“IHS,” “RIP,” those I understand,
but it would take an oracle
to comprehend, how faded plastic flowers
say something allegorical.

Perhaps a quiet moment would suffice,
memories of friends and family,
but what strange story does reside
within this plastic homily?

No headstones, please, 
to mark my transition.
No comments about heaven,
or death, or perdition.
No quiet glade, with bench,
and leafy green bowers,
but most of all do not give me
those curséd plastic flowers!

The Roaring In The Woods

There was a roaring in the woods today,
as a cranky nor’east gale
trimmed the scrub spruce,
and imparted secrets of renewal.

It wasn’t karmic vibration
that gave words to the wind’s lament;
rather a bittersweet keening
that mourned lost verdant youth.

Future deadfalls in the spruce creaked,
and planned their transition
to enriching a soil depleted
by human growth and greed.

We deny the change we have wrought:
we reject a logic that speaks of decimation.
We accept the global plundering
our masters call their right.

(refrain)
Resources are meant to be used,
and nature completely abused.
Corporate trickle-down helps us all,
and greater consumption is the call.
A little fracking here, more plastic there,
with more pollutants for our air.
No healthcare, no retirement plan,
there’s no free ride for the working man.
And when our world is bleak and sere,
there will be no record that we were here.
Our cosmic gravestone has been graven:
you can’t eat cash, nor breathe tax haven.