Protons & Poetry
Poets Against Indian Point

Don Quixote and the Nuclear Power Plant ~ WAYNE WILDCAT




yes i'm sitting up now
reading about fukushima
watching the world split
like an atom and then
the inevitably collapse
in an afterthought
of what went wrong

plate tektonics
continental shelves
pressurized drilling
beautiful new weapons
into the ionsphere
like blown plutonium
into lung tissue

i need to ask because
i have an imagination:
do they really think
they can get away with it
this silent but deadly
manipulation of
universal chaos?

© Laura Tattoo 


900,000 terabecquerels

900,000 terabecquerels
9 X 107 bq/g
I cannot grasp it
I'm sitting in an Oregon dawn
my head in a cloudburst

Every time the wind blows
I think of Fukushima
An arctic spring chill
is brushing my skin
and I'm breathing it in

Turning off the monitor now
Background's a little high
but not like eastern Honshu
Looking out from the coastline
I could be your little sister

We are all in a jam now
all sitting under a massive bomb
because we were not vigilant enough
to stop presidents and profiteers
who need nuclear enrichment

My sister, my brother in Japan
There was a deafening silence
and now there are numbers
too big and too intangible to grasp
yet terrible in their aftermath

900,000 terabecquerels
is 4,023 Hiroshimas
running amok over our children
Is there anyone left who
wants nuclear energy?

© Laura Tattoo 


Fukushima You, You Bastard

Fukushima Dai-ichi
You didn't
die easy
And neither
will your victims

Fukushima, you're a bastard
You have no lineage
You were thrust down the throats
 of the people
 Who had no idea
 What you were capable of

 Fukushima: You
 Melt away
 For years at a time
 Giving the whole nuclear industry
 the bad name
 It deserves

 Fukushima You
 Causing Genetic Mutations

 Big words for damage done
 With a fraction of an atom
 Once thought
 Would that it were so

 Fukushima You
 Won't go away
 For a thousand thousand years
 and by the
n It will happen again.

And again.

June 4, 2011 © Ace Hoffman 


A Bar On Mars*

Attention everyone!
Old and young,
Listen how a Hasnamuss,
Turned our Blue Home into a pile of dung:

It began long ago,
Before we came to Mars,
A Hasnamuss piped up saying,
"I want the power of the Sun!"
And convinced others his way was right
So sleepers impressed by the Hasnamuss' might,
Loaned their sci-oh knowledge for Hasnamussian gain,
While selling their brothers and sisters down the drain,

Then the money came rolling in,
To a Hasnamuss this was no sin,
Until somebody spoke up,
"Mr. Hasnamuss, what have you done?
We have all the power we need direct from the Sun."
The Hasnamuss peered down at the little voice,
'Twas a child but wise nonethetheless,
"Close you mind, your mouth and your ears,"
Said the Hasnamuss, "Don't attend to your fears!"

So fearing not they built and built until the poison ran,
No turning back-Oh no!-the pepper was far too hot,
They fiddled and built more and more 'til it was too late,
To shut the nuclear door,
Then the day came when they all looked around,
And couldn't find one bit of uncontaminated ground,
Horrors! Horrors! Horrors!
The Decision was made to clear that place,
And they fled to Mars, yes, far into space,

So here we sit me and you,
Looking back at our ancestral home,
In a bar on Mars drinking ourselves blind,
Because nobody would stop a Hasnamuss' climb,
To power through greed,
And even evil deeds like war,
Until our Blue Home was no more.

The moral of this story,
Not yet true,
Is that you, dear children of Earth,
Have something to do,
Cogitate, contemplate, then make up your minds,
To kick out the Hasnamuss that tries to convince...

Yes, even you...

That a little bit of nuke is really not Poo!

* Must be read aloud using "three breaths."

by Katrineholm Review


When The Ice Has Melted

When the ice has turned
To water
And the polar bear has gone,
Will we be forced
To barter
Or will we still be strong,
In all the stupid things we do
Perhaps the most severe,
Creating nine thousand tons
Of high level nuclear waste
Each year.
When the ice has all but
And the penguin is no more,
Will we be rendered
Or as stupid as before,
With a life span of nine
Billion years
We still don’t close the door,
To showcase our intelligence
We recycle some of it in war!

September 5, 2007 © Stephen Nesbitt 


Green World

One day God created the earth.
He made the skies blue and put his tears in the raindrops,
and the earth of pure soil that green grass grows.

The scent when it rained made us realize we are alive.
He gave us flowers and trees, water and streams.
Oceans to divide us and unite us.

For we all live on common ground, sacred ground, blessed ground.

As now most of us live on concrete.
forgetting what lies beneath... the soul, the earth, the womb of our life.

We see the sky under clouds of global warming.
chaos, infraction of our earth...
but still we walk on concrete, most with sunglasses on, of one sort or another.

We wear perfume that copies the flowers and sprays to keep us in place.
We forget the sunshine, the flowers, the water, the streams, we are taken in by a window.

Not a window where it can stop the cold forces of nature, or let the sunshine in...
the window of technology... a machine to connect us where we were once divided and united by the oceans.

As our humanity is frail, as we are all one living on the Earth as children
we become enemies in color, in breed, in religion... all in the name of God.
we think, we devise ways to stop our enemies
to strengthen our selves, or so we think.
man against man
machine against machine
land against land.

We use our genius in certain ways but forget all should be for the good of mankind.
our genius discovers the atomic bomb...
atoms connected to atoms that can end our earth, our world, our future.
Nuclear plants producing toxic poison, to protect us and keep us united as we are lead to believe.

If a nuclear bomb goes off...
we will become unprotected
there will be no blue skies and God's tears in the form of raindrops.
No sunny days
No rainy days to complain about.
No earth to run with bare feet carefree and happy.
No ocean to smile at.
No kites running free in the winds.

Nothing... nothing... just dark bleak chaos
emptiness, destruction, pain, tears, agony.
no tomorrow, no new children born,
no reasons to dream and live.

Just silence, 2,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms of uranium split
enough heat to burn our precious sun, an explosion......then silence of nothing.
our existence becomes nil.
empty remnants of all that ever was on this earth.

Please all of us living on this earth each day alive and with hope for a new tomorrow
remember our earth, remember the sacred and the blessed.

Live Green. Stop Indian Point.

Isobella Boucher
Astoria, NY 11103


Halluci-Notion #125: Nuclear Wash

Last night I dreamed
I was doing my laundry
In a leaky nuclear reactor,
Using new, improved
Stain-zapping isotopes
That had been sitting
In the supermarket
On the detergent shelf
For most of their half-life,
Packaged with an offer
For a free SUDS missile.
I had enough box tops
And it seemed like a good idea
At the time.

When I awoke.
I looked in my hamper
(My lead-lined hamper).
My whites were whiter;
My colors brighter.
(I was going to say “colorer,”
But that sounds too much
Like “cholera,”)
And that jammed zipper
On my most expensive pair
Or Calvin Clod jeans
Was finally melted unstuck.
And I congratulated myself,
Looking at those whiter whites
And brighter colors,
That I don’t use
A phosphate-laden detergent

Robert Dunn
75-05 210th Street #6N
Bayside NY 11364

Anything For Warmth

The oil and coal from earth now gone
They sat beneath a dying sun
The earth once rich with flowers and trees
Was filled with waste and frozen seas
To stay the cold each one in turn
Gave up their bodies to be burned

Copyright ©2007 Cecil (CJ) Krieger

C. J. Krieger is author of the following books:
Pinacolada Child - There's Always August - Absorbed By The Sun

Cecil Krieger
PO Box 294
45 Elks Park Road
West Hurley, NY 12491


Honey Moon At Indian Point

How romantic, the reanimation of body parts and
Breeze filtering through like the trees have indigestion
Causing the lake below to form that cozy green/yellow
Glow, because you’re a reactor, not from love
Or too many blushing kisses. Our faces are warm
And peeling from a nuclear energy forcing its
Hands to search the DNA of our hair, lips, eyelashes
And all of the parts we find most inviting
We’re melting into each other with each atomic embrace

Or maybe we’re pregnant
with the possibility of an industry
Nature can never take stock in.
The trees don’t know about our business meetings,
But they mop up our coffee spills and carry
Our waste, our ideas, our increasingly wasteful ideas.

Our hands can carry so much, like this land,
I thought as I rose from the squat position,
Avoiding contact with the ground
Afraid of touching the grass, the roots
The core of when I came.

Amy Ouzoonian



For years, it has threatened.
We, being many, can't escape if
Indian Point suddenly belches death.

Towers! squat elsewhere---
along 90 miles of straightaway where
a single cottonwood skips
across the arrowed road
many times before we pass.

Radio-active isotopes! Head westerly
as hot roads shimmer
with heat-rising shine. Go,
you tanks, you vats of radiation
into a far away sea

never identified, forever unknown.

Let God forget and crumble,
let angels fall and
Goddess herself surrender.

Let Indian Point go!
Let it be never, let it be empty---

strike your tents !

Refuse to become
collateral damage.when

Shirley Powell
229 Main Street
Kingston, NY 1240



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