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Vexren4000 Jul 2018
A garden planted at the height of spring,
Growing aching for sunlight,
The sun blesses the crops,
The farmer harvests,
The world goes round,
And society sits,
Forgetting the arts that fed them so well,
Now being reduced to babes being bottle fed.

©BAS
in track
of attire
that my
grudge require
a witch
so blue
with idol
now witch
with hers
will entitle
our country
was permanent
waves in
Hatboro that
I'll always
gander with
a yarl
a song of america
Lora Lee Apr 2017
if ever there were
gods or goddesses of desert
of the drylands
of parched earth some call home
they would be surprised to learn
                     of the miracle of
                           this Spring deluge
                                unfurling forth                
                            from deep within  
                        the crusty dermis
          of this sublunar territory:
          hydrangea and ***** apple flower,
          intermingling their hues
          of mauve and lilacs,
                              as well as the color of sky
                               blooms of the succulents
                    popping open
                    in celebratory dance
                                   in wild fuschia
                                sunray butter:
a dazzling botanic trance
          hollyhocks of magenta,
           veils of bougainvellia, too
                    sweetpea clusters
             curling in the trellis
weaving heavy-scented magic
through and through
a private orchard of lemon tree, and apple
olive and pistachio grove
One would not guess
the endless giving
of this desert treasure trove

And I feel like a goddess
              of mythology softly spun
like Demeter, or Ceres
ancient Egyptian Renenutet
my hands spread out
in the licks of gentle sun
for as spring pours forth its honey
all through this barren land
I , too reawake
and flush out all the infected,
dust-scratched sand
I welcome in
the waters of abundance,
of love, of light under stars
let new energy wash out
old poisons
my radiance spilling far
Reaching out unto the Universe,
cradling this heart
         I cup the buds of blooms,
                                      of nectar
to inseminate my dark
       allowing me
to release the past
and seed within me, lit
         the atoms
of  new
               start
unfolding bit
by tender
bit
Published in the online literary magazine The Blue Nib www.thebluenib.com

This was inspired by the NaPoWriMo 2017 prompt for Day 22 (today) , which was to write a Georgic poem, or a poem having to do with agriculture. I had never seen one and so checked the source: Virgil's Georgics. Quite fascinating, but here is my version! :)

I suppose this could also be a celebration of the Earth and its beauty! #npmearthday

And of course, musical accompaniment that helped me along:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_FIwLoIHBY
Vachaspathi Jan 2017
The crops went dry as there was no rain
A year of hard work went in vain
Tears started to flow in his heart from which he couldn't refrain
But the phoenix in him rose from this pain
With a hundred elephants strength he lunged on the field to sow another grain
Äŧül Sep 2016
When you help your buddy get married to his girlfriend,
Against the wishes of both their families and world,
You are observing the actual spirit of Bakrid,
No kidding here - I am so serious!!

You are helping his career in life of AGREECULTURE,
Because marriages are agreements that you sign without reading,
And of course you are sacrificing your friendship,
Just like the underlying principle of Bakrid.
A poem for comic relief.

My HP Poem #1134
©Atul Kaushal
Akemi Mar 2016
We dug up the soil today
Thousands of insects rushed out
Centipedes, beetles, spiders
A crumpled grub writhed in the sun
Too weak to do much else
I’ve always hated agriculture
Fingers tearing plant roots
Sap soaking flesh
A neighbour walked past and said ‘looking good’
And it was the saddest thing I’ve heard all year
2:59pm, March 29th 2016

a mouth
fill it with dirt
fill it fill it fill it
don't let it breathe
by god don't let it breathe
it'll swallow the world
it'll swallow us all
Autumn Briarhart Mar 2016
Cursed by technology
Born to be a prodigy
Roamed the earth to become well versed in ecology.
Broke the dirt with the farm hand’s anthology

Made a stony hearth from the girth of this broken land’s economy.
Pitched my yurt where the man can’t bother me.

On top of luscious greens,
In the field of dreams,
No more do I pull the weeds of society.

All my proceeds grow seeds
I don’t need deeds just look at these feats
Grab an ear of corn if you haven’t heard of me.

Burn what you don’t need,
An idea of greed, the illusion of necessity.

Brought to you by bold thieves
Who trade lives but don’t sleep
Hold banquets but don’t eat
Grow food but don’t feed.

Ripped from your roots.

Dropped on the streets
in the sweltering heat.
Drying like souls of the ******,
every last one of us lost lambs.

What they want for me, it’s not a part of me

I won’t take place in the injustice that’s been bought for me.
But what I brought for me is a hypothesis,
Tranquility so deep a Buddhist monk couldn’t offer me
More than what my coffers could proffer me.

I’m not crazy but I have started the uncoupling

That’s got me to this mental brink,
Out of this poisonous sink,
No longer do I drink- from this sea of doubt
Where the irradiated mind has its teeth pulled out.

I put my knowledge of “earthology” into this horse and plow
I raise sow in the north for truffles of course
Sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce to chefs in New York

I make herbal oils richer than kings from thorny things and rosy beings
Contemplating the meaning of life while looking at my fig-leaves

And I will pick the fruit and share it with you
Confuse me not with a more treacherous youth
Whom only seeks to toxify you with some new indoctrinated truth
Give you some of their lead paint proof, glyphosate too.

Their cell phone hooks filling your time with
Facebook looks,
And a MySpace laze
With honeycomb glaze
There in your man-made maze
Where you don’t speak for days.

I have seen the ways good people choose bad things to happen due the deceit
Of the industry they’re tapping’
Where is the Chaplain?
He’s got this book , and his grubby hands are in the pocket of the fat man
Who takes the holy waters and turns them to black sand.

Tossing grains in the air it’s unclear “whether” we can breathe it in
With no name and no face one rigged rat race,

We look for those Rebels M.I.A.
This was a stream of consciousness that I wrote on the way to a farming apprenticeship.
Akemi Jan 2015
We march
Withering white
All seas to dust

The ground caves in
The earth grows hollow

Ribs through the skin
Teeth through the lips
Breath catching black

We march
In a ceaseless beat
To the rhythm of dead machines
Over cracked roads
And empty homes
12:44am, January 21st 2015
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