Nicole Farmer
Nicole Farmer is a writer, teacher, and theatre director living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been published in The Sheepshead Review, The Bangalore Review, The Roadrunner Review, Wild Roof Journal, Bacopa Literary Review, The Great Smokies Review, and others. Her play 50 JOBS was produced in Los Angeles. Nicole has been awarded the First Prize in Prose Poetry from the Bacopa Literary Review, which will appear in Sept. 2021.
Summer Vacation 2021
Part I.
You are Embarrassed by Your Fellow Americans When…
You are Embarrassed by Your Fellow Americans When…they refuse to wear their face masks on the plane.
your row-mates are watching Donald Trump Jr.'s speech alternating with porn queen videos.
a mindless couple laughs at the perfect English being spoken by the flight attendant.
lobster shade drunken tattooed pool-floaters order brown people around with no thanks.
hanging gut over-eaters from the North still swagger like aging Romeos.
gross amounts of food are consumed and wasted like our planet is ever resplendent.
only bottled water is available, and you see the plastic carted away in enormous bags.
day after day your countrymen soil their potential by never tipping or even being aware.
they travel all the way to Mexico and tell you of their day trip to Walmart.
they persist in speaking English
…as if it were the only language.Part II.Global Warming Evidence In Mexico
Global Warming Evidence In MexicoMounds of dead seaweed piled five feet high
make it impossible to swim or even stroll along the Atlantic coastIn Cancun this summer. My sadness trickles
down from my eyes to my nose, filling with the rotting stench of man.My heart is filled with longing, a memory
from my youth of the ocean's roar, foam crashing on the shore.Way before the pandemic we began the steady
destruction of our mother Earth, vanishing footsteps in the sand.I witness the death through freakish
cries for help with each wave bring piles and piles of putrid bile.As the ocean boils with rising heat
pesticides and fertilizers are spun into brownish sea-hair.Laughing tourists who caress their phones
instead of each other, lie poolside oblivious to the absence of beach.
We are like an unnatural Lord asking for straw
to be spun into to gold, but where is Rumpelstiltskin?
What have we done?
What have we done?
©2021 West Trade Review
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