Consider for a Moment

Claus Smith

The ocean surrounds Martha’s Vineyard, 

The dunes protect it from the harsh conditions,

The beach grass sways in the breeze —

Like wind chimes in our ears.

The mist from the waves lights up in the sunshine, creating a wall of rainbows:

This is what makes Martha’s Vineyard special.

The warm golden beaches are not sandy anymore,

Covered with dead fish and plastic bottles.

The dunes are no longer,

The beach grass shriveled and gray.

Instead of a wall of rainbows, it’s a wall of trash.

What happens if we destroy our ecosystem?

Our beaches

Our oceans

The fish and the sharks

The segals and osprey

What is Martha’s Vineyard worth if whatever surrounds it is defunct?

The island community and I rely on the ocean because of what it offers:

Picking wampum

Making rock sculptures

Playing in the waves

Seaweed murals

What is it worth to lose all that?

Lady of the Leaves 

Ayla Strom

Her hands reach out, 

touch the ground.

the dry, cracked plastic strewn around.

the plastic fades,

through the cracks water spreads

in the newly fertile soil

glimmering seedlings sprout

they reach for the sun,

leaves outstretched like the palms

of a human hand.

She smiles

Her smile radiates against the earth like the

sun on a warm June day.

The leaves on her face.

Scales like a dragon.

Shimmer in the newfound light

She is the lady of the leaves

I am the lady of the leaves. 

We Define Hope Differently

Adriana Young

I see that bird carcass on the shore,

Esophagus filled to the brim with plastic.

I see the fish eyes rolled and scaled bellies up,

With black death enveloping their depths.

You speak to me of hope and all I see is their lifeless eyes.

Forever staring up into an atmosphere polluted with your carelessness,

As if to say, you’ve got blood on your hands, just as much as the rest of em’.

You speak to me like you’ve forgotten that fact,

Tossing around words as if your actions and the actions of millions have not condemned lives.

You speak to me like you have forgotten the why to the action,

And why do you do it? What do you see? What compels you so?

I see all those dead because our kind was thoughtless in deeming them less,

And even more thoughtless in how our choices enveloped them.

Where you see hope, I see a debt owed,

A life sentence burned into every generation’s burdened soul,

If hope is the thing to move you to action I challenge you:

Dig your claws into it like the wild things we’ve killed —

It’s always been a skinny malnourished thing,

And you’ve always underestimated the negligible.

With scars along its back,

And hands so bloodied,

You wouldn’t be able to make out its fingers,

But it stands, gripping your soul ‘till

They leave you just as steady as the breaths they take —

And you stand because they won’t let your bones quiver,

Or your head fall,

Even if they have to hold back your scalp in a red-drenched fist,

I believe you’ve forgotten how it is to hope,

Your definition is my evidence.

It is not needed for its soft demeanor,

But for its resistance to all that brushes against it,

And in its grip you will not fall,

Even as we cling to each other,

Tripping in our effort,

For we are not a species that achieves alone.

Polar Bears

Grace Cotton

Polar bears are struggling

To live

On rapidly melting ice

In the rapidly warming arctic.

Polar bears are struggling

To find food

To find shelter

To protect their babies.

Polar bears can’t find

What they need

To succeed

In simply living.

But what if we all started to

Recycle?

Save energy and

Even adopt a polar bear,

So they can have a greater chance

at living?

The Forbidden Coat  

Nick Merriam      

Cedar lives on a small Island off the coast of Maine. He grew up sailing and lobster fishing with his father. He looked forward every summer to sailing down to the Cape, or one day pulling up the cage to see that blue lobster his father always told him about. This was all he knew, and this was all he needed to know as he loved doing it.

Later Cedar grew up and followed his father as a lobster fisherman. He was still searching for that blue lobster he had yet to see. He heard about a large oil deposit that had been found near the Island. He ruled against the construction of an oil rig off the coast. “It will only harm the wildlife,” he said.

Although many on the island stood by him, his words were meaningless to the big company owners. The rig was built, and Cedar grew older. He has now gone many years with the noise of the rig and the giant oil ships that pass by. Although his hatred for the rig has never faded, he has grown accustomed to it, he has to.

The rig aged, and its neglect was becoming more and more apparent. Cedar had a son of his own now, and he was teaching him how to sail and fish as his father did to him. Soon the rig’s wear had taken its shape, and it burst open.

The ocean turned a dark brown, as thousands of gallons of oil spilled into the once vibrant ocean that surrounded the island. Cedar could only watch as what he has been doing for his entire life faded away. He walked the beaches only to see pools of oil filled with dead animals. Birds, fish, and what he lived off of, lobsters were all being washed up on the shore. He walked for hours, thinking of what was, this is all his son would know, the ocean coated with black death that killed all that touched it. Cedar noticed something that stood out in the pools of oil. He got closer, noticing the shiny glint it gave off. He picked up none other than the blue lobster he had been searching for all those years, but it was dead and decaying, along with everything else on the beach.

He came back home to find his son writing, a letter it seemed. He got closer to read what the scribbled writing said.

Dear oil people, why did you do this? I want to swim but I cannot swim, I want to fish but I cannot fish. Why did you ruin our lives for money? Help us fix this.

The Field

Karla Robadel

The little girl prances

along the wide open field

hidden behind old homes and beloved neighborhoods.

She is filled with wonder, dreams and adventures,

She escapes from a reality.

Late afternoon

The field awakens.

The little girl places,

Her feet on gold.

The field is a home,

an addition to the neighborhood,

a place that feels like a big hug,

soothes the soul,

relieves the mind,

allows the sadness to fade,

heals the body and clears the mind,

A home.

The little girl, am I

The little girl, we all are.

The field.

A playground that sparkles.

Shines bright.

A treasure that holds a deep deep meaning,

The field.

The little girl wishes to not let go,

Longing for her treasure,

Her happiness,

To stay forever.

Her home.

Her gold.

Her dream land.

The field.

Our Home

Matilda Backus-Clement

Hope runs quickly

from those who don’t see

Their eyes glued

With oil

Their vision blurred

With smog

Hope flies freely

In the minds of those who dance

On the visions of springtime

On the memories of home

Hope is running quickly

Down the tears of those

who crack

Under the pressure

of the fallen

Under the weights of who’s to come

Hope is flying silent in the summer winds

That pull us

Far from the screen doors of reality

From the cage of fleeting time

But Time will fleet,

Doors will close, 

The eyes glued with oil

don’t deny

They don’t bargain

For one last scrap of snow

For one last patch of grass

So they can fly

With feathers drenched in tar

They know they will fall

As the weights of reality remain,

Pulling our memories far beyond screen doors

Beckoning us into flames

Stealing from our children

Blinding them at birth

To the place we used to call

Our Home

Penny Haddad

‘Neath the Pines

lie bunches of needles,

air filled with sweet grass,

and girl’s laughter is

carried on the lake breeze.

A pristine forest

littered with cozy cabins

nestled between towering pines,

overlooking sky-high mountains

that stand stagnant

above the cerulean oasis-

This is the Lake.

Hope.

Algae blooms cover the rich color

of the water below,

wrappers litter the

sweet green grass,

ominous clouds envelop the

clear horizon.

Less.

“Climate Change,” “Global Warming,” “Global Weirding”

Emissions blanketing our reality.

Twisting our picturesque biosphere,

into a shell of its former self.

Hope

Less.

Ronan Kelly

(untitled essay)

As I look back on the early 21st century, it’s difficult to imagine how people could have been so blind to climate change dangers. The evidence was there all along – rising sea levels, more frequent and intense natural disasters, melting glaciers, and Arctic sea ice – yet people seemed more concerned with their own short-term gains than our planet’s long-term health.

But now, as a member of a future generation, I live with the consequences of that shortsightedness. Our world is much different than it was a few decades ago. Weather is unpredictable and extreme, with droughts, floods, and heat waves becoming the new norm. Entire ecosystems have been destroyed, leading to the extinction of countless plant and animal species. And the ocean, which once teemed with life, is now a graveyard of bleached coral reefs and plastic waste.

As a result of these changes, we have had to adapt in ways that previous generations could not have imagined. In some parts of the world, people have had to abandon their homes as rising sea levels and more powerful storms have made it impossible to live there. Other areas struggle to access clean water due to droughts and desertification. And as temperatures rise, the threat of famine and disease will become ever greater.

But perhaps the most devastating aspect of climate change is its impact on social and economic inequality. The poorest and most vulnerable people in our society are the ones most affected by climate change. However, they have the least resources to deal with it. Developing nations suffer as wealthy nations burn fossil fuels and pollute the atmosphere.

It’s easy to look back and judge past people for their lack of action. But as we confront the challenges of our own time, we must remember that we are also part of a larger system that perpetuates inequality and injustice. We must work together to create a more sustainable and safer world for all people and living beings.

The good news is that it’s not too late. We still have a chance to make a difference. We have time to slow down climate change’s worst effects and create a more just and sustainable world. A massive collective effort will need to go beyond individual action to enact a systemic change. We need to shift our focus away from short-term profits and toward long-term sustainability. We need to invest in renewable energy and clean technology. We ought to hold corporations and governments accountable for their role in creating and continuing the crisis.

As a member of a future generation, I hope we can look back on this moment in history as a turning point. A moment where we came together as a global community to confront the greatest challenge of our time. We created a brighter, more sustainable future for all. The time to act is now before it’s too late.

The Face of Our Island

Nola Savard

Our oceans

Wild and wavy

Crash against ancient red cliffs

Washing the history of our island away

The antiquity of our home

Rapidly fleeting

Swiftly depleting

Wind and rain whipping

Battering bright earth

Red argil dripping

Like blood from a nose

We must plant new roots

In our island home

To preserve the life that resides

Behind

 The face of our island

Coconuts

Taz Strom

Waves rise and fall upon

soft shores of broken rock:

coconuts strewn upon the

carpet of stone as if thrown with abandon,

a feeling of unkempt unrest upon our shore in the ombra of the moon.

A breeze blows with abandon by a force shrouded from the naked eye,

as the black sky opens its eyes staring down upon our pitiful planet with blankets of tears.

Then as if sent from the heavens,

the tempest of night descends.

A strong gale toppling waves as fast as it can forms,

stripping the bleak littoral of litter and leaving

a fresh coating of flotsam and jetsam.

Seaweed and sea life long deceased decorate the freshly

polished coastline,

dotted with newly felled coconuts

strewn upon the rocks,

as if thrown with abandon.

Garden girl: The home I long for  

Kamar Dehaney

I am a small part of it

And it’s a big part of me.

All I’ve ever known.

As my feet are firmly planted

on the ground I hear it breathe

In and out so softly

like it’s asleep.

In the day, when there is no wind 

The dahlias, holly bushes and lavender 

In my garden slowly rustle and sway

As the earth engages in peaceful slumber. 

My mother used to say the earth

has a bride so we must protect it.

When I was but a babe I

Would lay awake at night thinking 

of that story and I made a vow

 To Have a special relationship with 

What I hold so close to my heart

As if I were its bride.   

I depend on the earth for it 

Presents to me a beautiful sunrise.

The pink and deep orange of a morning sky

Never seen before and never to be 

Seen again. 

In the twilight realm of night

Where her majesty the moon shines

Her brightest, her light dancing

In the Ink black pond of the forest,

At the break of day

when the birds are flying through

The trees serenading each other,

The sun’s gift spill through the

leaves like honey, awakening me

With its magnificence.  

I could never bring myself to hurt 

This earth, my home.

Help Us Be Heard

Hannah McCormick

Leaves start to wither on the ground,

We don’t know how much we’ve lost,

Or how much we’ve found.

This cloud of pollution that passes by,

Let’s think of a solution before we create a lie.

Little do we know how much this affects us,

Little do we know how much this could break us.

Our only hope is to share the word,

So everyone can listen and we can be heard. 

This climate crisis needs to stop now,

But I don’t know where, or when, or how.

You need to help me fix this mess,

Before our planet calls out in distress.