With all the talk about nuclear power saving us from global warming, the following poem came to me:

Nuclear Power and Nuclear Waste

Nuclear power and nuclear waste

A pair inseparable, joined in  haste,

An unpalatable poison, bitter to taste,

Weapons grade plutonium in a suitcase

Puts a lie to safety in any case,

Arms the radicals and the generals,

Their convergence in the worst case,

A mushroom cloud to the sky,

The inevitable outcome post-haste.

 

With all that has happened this month, about ten days ago this strange poem came to me on waking, a kind of cryptic prophecy, so I share it with you now:

Buried beneath mountains rising to the clouds,

Deep within the bosom Earth, lies a voiceless crowd.

Rumbles come from this group of friends,

Bestilled to a whisper.

“Tarry not, the lava’s hot, it’s a time to remember.

The passion’s hot, the caldron’s lit, now comes a mean September”

This cryptic phrase was all they uttered, silenced as they were.

What revelation they ascried was otherwise obscured

By the miles of rock piled above them, heavy to be sure.

To this should add the weighty meaning of their words.

In time all will be revealed, manifestation clear.

This nearly unspoken prophecy will ring a thousand years.