-
- Out here, there is no time 'cept morning, afternoon and night time.
- When darkness falls, I crawl away, light a candle and
stay awake till I can take no more of moths in
suicidal routines
- playing dare with the flame, reeling sickeningly off into the dark,
- their wings like shooting stars aglow like embers; in
fact are embers.
- This late night bizarre ballet takes its toll,
whenwith a puff,
- the day is done and to slumber I try to drift.
- The Bush, wilderness, is where I am, a greenie camp, a hidden
- tarp. When day breaks as it surely must, my body develops the
- wanderlust. Waiting in the September morn for the heat to come
- along with dawn is like being a passenger in New York waiting for
- the Titanic. So with body still cold, bones creaking and feeling
- oh, so old, from my cocoon of blankets sleeping bag and mat, I
- emerge, for I am a tree support person.
- I feed trees, well not exactly trees, rather people high above me
- chirping like little birds upon their wooden perches. I must
- make food, get them water for they are the front line to prevent
- the slaughter the Wog Way Road we aim to stop. Our heroes
- above shout, 'Stop the Chop", so as they aren't allowed to move.
- It's up to me to give them food. All through the day, it's hide
- and seek as cops come looking for the mothers on the ground. I
- hide behind trees and snatch a peek and when they leave (if I'm,
- not one of the few they take along), then back to my babes up in
- the trees, to their umbilical cords the lines they throw down to
- me, attach today's food, tonight's dinner.
- Morning is gone: afternoon comes along. This I know for the sun
- starts to sink low and I've cooked tea, thermos full, me down
- below. I shout to the trees from my hidey hole in the bush,
- "dinner's ready, throw down your cord" Quickly I dart to
the trees,
- in with the flask then away again, whoosh.
- I retreat once more to my tarp in the bush, to start the night's sad
cabaret,
- but most nights, so damn wacked I fall asleep as soon as I hit the
sack,
-
- BRUCE
-
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-
- Poetry and
rainbow scarves
- aren't gonna save the trees
- I'm gonna buy a chainsaw
- and chop off loggers' knees
- I'11 take a snig truck up their
driveways
- and debark their mortgaged
houses
- but leave a room for habitat
- for their children and their
spouses
- No, poetry and rainbow scarves
- aren't gonna save the bush
- and neither will a festival
- with a thousand person WHOOSH!
- 'coz while we stand there
singing
- " save the forests,
please"
- off goes another shipload
- to the wily Japanese
- But there is One place that we
can save
- if we are strong. and true
- we can keep the greedy bastards
- out of Coupe seven-o-two
- It may not be much to look at
- but it's here we'll make a stand
- in 702, the greenies will
- be taking back the land
- So let them bring their dozers
- and their chainsaws if they dare
- but they'll find a band of fine young
elves
- a-waiting for them there
-
- BOBUCK
- August, 1989
-
FOREST RESCUE CAMP
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