LOST AND FOUND

I recently uncovered a stash of old poems written around 2008/2009 then buried in a drawer. 
The reason they had been buried became obvious when I began to read through them but, happily, there were one or two worthy of resurrection.  
TV Blues is one of them. 

TV BLUES

Ice mountains split apart and weep
while deserts stifle fertile hopes.
We know: we watch it on the Box
along with genocide and soaps,
and all the while the chiming clocks
fail to awake us from our sleep

and as we slumber, all around
the stench of death, the buzz of flies,
competes with chainsaw snarl, with bombs,
to fill our children’s ears with lies,
while the cold silence of the tombs
has an accusatory sound.

The faithful tide, the moon, sunrise,
our steady passage round the sun,
are touchstones for our fragile hearts
as we, our fearful journey, run
between the cradle and the cart
that wheels us to our last surprise.

But switching channels does not save
a single life, one damaged soul.
Each screen reflects our image, clear:
that hungry mouth, as cameras roll,
devouring what we should hold dear
while stumbling, brutish, to the grave.

What fools we were, so deaf, so blind,
to think that things would never end:
that grapes would cluster on the vine,
that broken things would always mend,
that we would never cross the line,
that Nature cares for humankind.

Ice mountains split apart and weep
while deserts stifle fertile hopes.
We watch it nightly on the Box
along with genocide and soaps
but now our ship is on the rocks:
the sea is black and very deep.