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Seeds could not prosper without the love of your fingers


what I know of soil and seeds,
is less than nothing, the dirt neath
my fingernails is only evidence of a
presence on this Earth, but no rapport
with the cold, damp earthy plains of  
what feeds, colors and gives forth
fruit

and yet,
you send this concretized city fella,
pictures of the seeds on your agenda,
the chosen ones that will in time, birth
healing to the world in natural mystical
ways, for what I see, what  I know is this:  

soil and rain, by themselves can bring forth
both hardy and hardluck weeds that eke out a
living home in a quarter inch of dirt in the
in~between of sidewalk cracks, trod upon,
but yet!
survivors to the
worst kind of human indifference


but when you plant, you fingers enwrap,
send coded message hid in the essential
oils of human love, for that is what only
certain hands can do…


Your hands much practiced in this messaging,
and peculiar kind of kind massaging
for I have seen your gardens, moreover I-know,
that hands such as yours overflow with both  
the take and give, inherent in only certain
specific humans, at a cellular level
not in my
possess


it takes a different kind of life experience, that
marries different kinds of cloth into a single weave,
that stores what is in your fingertips, nutrients of
your life, singular, homemade, that make
your botanicals
fully blossom




Jun 1 2024
12:50pm
in the sunroom
The humans didn't stop there
though the words did
circa 2520 AD.

They harmonized love
into a seamless pattern
of expressions.

Once they realised
words were only confining them
they wove patterns of smile
and wove them into faces
(lips were almost discarded)
sewing as many expressions
of joy, sorrow, happiness
and not the least
despair and disappointment
patterns for which were hard to make
as men had all along learned to hide
the brokenness of unattainment.

Freedom from the shackles of words
became the most manifest expression
on their faces.

One pattern was never woven.

Men had since made redundant
the emotion of hatred.
Lawrence Hall HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                      Someday I Hope to Meet a Mango Tree

                             For Pradip Chattopadhyay

Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
And sit at its feet to learn wisdom from Buddha
And if Buddha is not there, then I’ll learn from him
That the absence of teaching is a teaching itself

Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Where lovers stroll beneath its gentle shade
And if lovers are not there, then I’ll learn from them
That the absence of love presupposes love

Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Maybe in Veluvana in holy India
But if I never make that pilgrimage I’ll learn
That the magic of the mango is real

Someday I hope to meet a mango tree
Where surely I will find both teaching and love


Pradip Chattopadhyay - Hello Poetry

Symbolism of Mango Grove at Veluvana in Buddhism - Silent Balance

Mangoes: The True Caribbean Currency (caribjournal.com)
(a tribute to young courage;
observations of a father)

~

cutting sharply through the water,
her bow approaches the surf;
the zone where ocean's bottom,
rises quickly from the depths;
where pounding waves,
meet churning sands,
blending pebbles, shells, and
grass into a darkened mud.

standing, squatting, silent,
behind her heavy wings of steel;
young boys, not yet men,
await a sign, whether
from heaven or command;
their lips muttering to no one
but the howling wind.

a brisk sea breeze whisks,
away the cigarette smoke,
that rises from their huddled
masses, scatt'ring heavenward,
with their whispered prayers,
for courage, safety, strength.

then the momentary lull,
all of heaven holds their breath
like a bird she slows,
still rocking in the surf,
a hundred feet from shore,
like a calm before the storm,
as her wings that held them tight
now lower to form the bridge
that to the fiery fury now awaits...
and then,

the surf is filled with boys,
alighting from her wings of safety,
those not ground to blood and bone
by knives of steel that ply the air
and waves, aging, with each
passing second of survival,
by the time their soles find sand,
becoming, at the shoreline men;
leaving behind, their mates-
in-arms, who aged far too young.
from boys to watery grave.

now young men, running,
searching on an open shore
seeking shelter, any means of cover
fron the steel that falls like rain
'neath hidden nests, birds of prey
as far below his courage grows
with every dancing inland step
this rite of passage that
no one's son should
ever need to walk, again.
~

post script.

Yesterday marked its 80th anniversary. On June 6, 1944, Allied casualties were documented for at least 10,000, with 4,414 confirmed dead, yet the Allies' forces failed to achieve a single one of their planned objectives on the first day. And still liberation had begun, as their foothold began to break an evil stronghold

https://www.liherald.com/wantagh/stories/boys-became-men-in-crucible-of-world-war-ii,55692?#:~:text=The%20single%2C%20most%20powerful%20realization,an%20average%20age%20of%2024.
"The single, most powerful realization for me is that the soldiers who fought and died at Normandy were an average age of 24. Of the 160,000 who came onshore, many were just 17 and 18 years old." 

Resder's Comment.   "My mom was a young French girl living a few miles inland from Normandy Beach during D-Day.  She said she felt and heard D-Day before she saw it.  A few days later American and Canadian liberated her and her family. Freedom from evil was restored.

That was the beginning of Huguette Chritien's dream of becoming an American.  Her dream was realized.  She passed away in '83 and was laid to rest on June 6 of that year.

Because of the sacrifices made by so many men on D-Day she lived a brilliant life.  I give thanks to God that such men lived."
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