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Nature does not need instructions as to how or why recycling is beneficial to earth. It’s man with his uncertain wisdom, who needs to be made aware. Fire and Ice High above the frozen earth Their journey hence began. Tiny droplets of moisture; Tumble toward a darkened land. A chill overcomes them, Changing rain to crystal ice. Winds carry them higher Once, two times, even thrice. As crystals they gather, New shapes begin to form. With stems, branches and fronds Frosty white is now the norm. Flakes of varied shapes Cover earth with a blanket soft. Except in one location... Heat greets them from aloft. Christmas carolers by a campfire, Sing songs of praise on high. Voices reach to the heavens, Through fragments from the sky. Heat from flames arising… Meld with winter’s cold, Catches tiny bits and pieces… Not wanting to release its hold. Fire and ice do not mix; An exchange goes unopposed. Flame-alters frozen cells, Now as steam, they arose. Earth’s environment is efficient, With elements at beck and call. Using its marvel of recycling; A lesson to be learned by all. These precious wisps return, To heights where they began. Gathering once more as tear drops, To be released again and again. Yarnspinner copyright 2015

Many readers will consider this writer a Prophet of Doom; a Humorless Cynic, or Pessimist. They could be right, but it should be noted however, alarmists have been warning the World of misuse of our natural resources. We are headed into an abyss, from which we could never recover. Not Recyclable, No deposit, No return From outer space, came one and all, To study a planet near a sun named Sol. To learn of mishap and despair, How a planet died, from lack of care. Its atmosphere is dismal and black; Nothing now could change it back. Thousand of years still drifting down, Pollution settles to lifeless ground. Within the tainted soil below, Water lays silent, no place to go. Useless filters, multitudes were cursed, Slowly, they perished from thirst, It must have been a dreadful fear Though forewarned, they seemed not to hear. Many things they could have done, Yet chose instead, to do little or none Earth was once a beautiful place, Populated by the Human Race They ravaged it; gave nothing in return, Their planet changed, scorched, then burned Visitors grieve this place called Earth. It lacks essence of happiness or mirth. Forever, it will remain for all to see, Waste and greed had a harsh penalty. Yarnspinner Copyright 2013

Synergy The power of the western wind bends the phlegmatic pines, is this a contrived collaboration? Not flames on a lake but a common duet, a process of nature, remedy for stillness. --------- --Judi Van Gorder

Explore the Craft of Writing Poetry Indian Verse Regional Forms Tripadi in the Bengali Region, now known as Bangladesh, is considered one line in three parts even though it is almost always written in three lines. So I guess you might say, each tercet is simply a full sentence in 26 or 20 syllables broken into lines. The elements of the Tripadi are: stanzaic, almost always in tercets. A poem can have any number of tercets. syllabic, 8-8-10 syllables per line and sometimes 6-6-8 syllables per line. rhymed, aax bbx Surprise White flakes drift onto spring blossoms, disrupts play of frisky possums, soft surprise snow supplies a new delight. ~~Judi Van Gorder Chittagong Where giant ships journey to die hidden away from prying eyes to be chipped bit by bit, recycled boats. The third world demolition sight, environmental waste ignored blight, Bangladesh laborers tend to their chore. ~~Judi Van Gorder Regional Verse Forms