A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell
Too damaged at birth to survive alone,
too innocent to euthanize anonymously;
assuming her mismanaged maternity,
the mother maintains belief in miracles.
Striking a stoical stance, the father
hopes it’s not his fault and knows
he can abandon the thing to others
to feed, bathe, change in perpetuity.
The unborn was helpless anyway,
struggling with death at a fatal
birth, will labor long towards an
end, folded in its mangled limbs.
What’s it like to know a child will
never face life’s charms and chance,
what’s it like to face a life without
parents, meaning, or possibilities?
So many orphaned disabilities
that can only writhe beneath the
monumental shame, Monsanto,
and so many left molding behind.
A Poem by M. Lapin
–for the Vietnamese people and the American Viet Nam Veterans
When I gather my strength and walk down a row
into my field where nothing can grow
(except concrete and gravel and a few hardy weeds),
I bend in surprise to find a half dozen seeds.
I pick them up gently and find them each a pot,
nurture them carefully hoping to fill the empty spots,
but my field has too many due to chemical scorch
and my field has too many because of war’s torch.
Earth tries to heal, but it cannot succeed,
the topsoil it makes is topsoil that bleeds,
and dead space creates dead space, everything dust,
my field, my people, dying slowly, land into rust.
— Published in The Camel’s Saloon, BrickRhetoric, The Muses’ Gallery
A Fragment of a Poem by M. Lapin
Every child who died before birth from Agent Orange poisoning
entered the night sky a new star—
every child who died before the age of ten from Agent Orange poisoning
entered the day sky dust particles and acid.
A Poem by Anon ymous
Love is a great punishment for desire. (Anne Enright)
Agent Orange kills everything beautiful, even love. (Unknown)
We were sinless and uninterrupted [me, high hat handed; feathered
and full], [you, shiny; looking all dynamite wrapped in a summer
coat in the middle of February] you kissed me kissed me but never
said goodbye. I sit; testified and hungry, watch every [one] thing
fall: the wasted and the wan, the soundless and thin, the deserved
and the unearthed; the fortunate, unready and unfiltered: ashes,
ashes [we’re all messed up]. The sky is ordinary; we are untogether
and wanting. Your window faces east, I remember paper butterflies
[blue, green, red] on a string; mine is blank and frosted; directionless.
The butterflies dead. The bees dead. Monsanto kills everything.
A Poem by Shari Clark
I ask you, stockholders,
investors, money makers,
money movers, Monsanto
terrorists, Dow Chemical
criminals, I ask you:
is it right to place the cost of poison ahead of the cost of people?
Is it right to injure the newborn with chemical and herbicide,
with lie and sin,
because profit in wealth is greater than the profit in the betterment of humanity?
Is it right to cause birth defects in the innocent so you can have more, more profits, more wealth?
I ask you, do you attend my church?
Do you know my God?
I ask you, when will you learn
money is for the good of mankind,
not the good of one man.
When did man become God?
When did Monsanto become God?
When did Dow Chemical become God?
When did the Church of God
become the Church of Profit,
Lies and Sin, Chemicals and Herbicides?