Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
tawandamulaluPoems
When I return      I touch the soil     I used to think so much of the sky     the soil in my hands how much thirst is there     I could clutch it and save us all                      the rain might spill out of my grandmother's mouth     if she strains her wheat-dry hands long enough of all the liquid     blessings of the church she crossed      again and again     and the holiness would clear my grandfather's                    eyes and                    the rain would spill out. I travel much through skies thinking of the soil the soil looks like earth clay mud red rock heart brown stone cool coal mould dark black hiding cavity gold water sold concrete brick houses                                                 acacia trees the soil it looks like          me and the things that made me: I cannot take you seriously america what are your bullets supposed to do to me? And europe? Your columns? They lean!       much unlike my grandfather's back. Have you see the man handle a *****      The shovelling he could do? The cows and goats he can end? The snakes       that fear him? These are my hands. Imagine the thought that this soil is not enough.       Look at my hands. Look.                                     What do you perceive? I see everything. All at once and never.      And still it is yet                 to rain.
0
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
Poem (miss me what that ******** you included)
When I return      I touch the soil     I used to think so much of the sky     the soil in my hands how much thirst is there     I could clutch it and save us all                      the rain might spill out of my grandmother's mouth     if she strains her wheat-dry hands long enough of all the liquid     blessings of the church she crossed      again and again     and the holiness would clear my grandfather's                    eyes and                    the rain would spill out. I travel much through skies thinking of the soil the soil looks like earth clay mud red rock heart brown stone cool coal mould dark black hiding cavity gold water sold concrete brick houses                                                 acacia trees the soil it looks like          me and the things that made me: I cannot take you seriously america what are your bullets supposed to do to me? And europe? Your columns? They lean!       much unlike my grandfather's back. Have you see the man handle a *****      The shovelling he could do? The cows and goats he can end? The snakes       that fear him? These are my hands. Imagine the thought that this soil is not enough.       Look at my hands. Look.                                     What do you perceive? I see everything. All at once and never.      And still it is yet                 to rain.
tawandamulalu
Written by
tawandamulalu
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem