A Plea for Our Lady Mother Earth
I wished you loved her, like you love him.
That her burning disturbed you,
As much as him carrying the cross.
I wish her being poisoned - sickened you,
As if it had been the lash on his back.
I wish her rape was as grievous,
As the nails they put in his hands.
I wish she was a woman, near- naked, suffering on the cross.
Bleeding.
Crying.
Wailing.
Dying.
She might indulge your primal drive to save the feminine.
I wish she was the daughter of God.
A messiah-ess.
That she promised to save your wooden, cynical, apathetic soul.
Then maybe you would love her.
Feel her heartbeat - like I do. In the forests, on river banks, in the mountains - a lone bird
on a single tree –
in Manhattan.
She is Everywhere.
Existence.
But for you.
I wish she was a church.
You could enter her.
Worship her with the same devotion of a
2000-year-old King.
I wish she was a
large breasted virgin-whore.
Arousing in you - The Passion.
To defend. To save her.
I wish you loved her. Her Life.
With the same vehemence
as you venerate his brutal, bloody
Crucifixion.
I don't blame you. Really.
She's just a woman.
Breathing her life into you.
Feeding you.
With the milk you poisoned and her GMO harvests.
That's her place.
To give Life.
But He - He is a man.
He's promised to forgive all of your sins.
No matter how large.
Like the rape and murder of My Mother. Earth.
And if you really honoured women, the feminine.
The way you say you do.
You would have loved her too.
Lorraine Driscoll
Lorraine Driscoll lives in Eastern Ontario with her husband and her 11-year-old daughter. She writes poetry, historical fiction and also maintains a website where she regularly writes about healing children's neurodevelopmental disorders through holistic approaches. Lorraine's articles have appeared in various columns and newspapers in Eastern Ontario. She is actively involved with environmental efforts to protect endangered species, prevent deforestation and reduce environmental toxicity.
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Poetry