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Maaga kong nilisan
ang lupang sakahan
Tinahak ang lugar
na maingay at magara,
ito pala ang Maynila.

‘di napigilan ng tirik na araw
ang aming pagkukumpulan.

kaming magkakabrad,
Simula na ng himagsikan.

Sariwa pa sa alala
kung pa’no
kami inagrabyado.
Ginamitan ng dahas.

Sa plano ng gobyerno
kami pa rin pala ang talo.

Paano pa kami mabubuhay
kung wala ng lupang mapagtatamnan?

Akala ko sa bundok
o gubat lang may ahas
-yun ay sa akala ko lang pala.

Sa’ming magsasaka’y
Kumukulapot ang putik
sa inyong mga nakabarong,
walang duming nakabahid.

Sa inakala kong
tubig lang ang maaaring
pala nami’y pwede ring
Tila ba ang gobyerno’y namamanhid.

Nasaan na
ang pinangako nyong
libreng abono?

Ginawa nyo na bang pataba
sa mga bulsa nyo!?

Sa pagpunta
ng mga imperyalistang bansa,
pa ba kaming mga dukha?
Makatatayo ako
sa aking pagkakadapa
ang bayan
kong nakalugmok ,
makakaahon pa kaya?
I wrote this four years ago for the Filipino farmers
Pagmasdan mo ako.

Damhin mo ang magaspang kong palad na bagamat ay nangulubot ay syang humahalik sa putikang sakahang pinaghihirapan.

Titigan mo ang mga mata kong hapung-hapo sa pagtanggap sa bagsak-presyong palay na katumbas ng presyo ng isang tsitsirya.

Ngunit, pakikinggan mo ba sila sa sasabihin nilang wag kaming papamarisan?

Sa bawat hakbang ko papalayo sa lupang sakahan

ay sya namang hakbang ko papalapit sa mataas na antas ng pakikibaka.

Kakalabanin ang pasistang gobyernong pilit yumuyurak sa katulad naming mga dukha.

Isa ako sa may pinakamaliliit na tinig sa lipunan.

Isa ako sa hindi maintindihan ng nakararami na isa sa mga nagtatanim ngunit ngayon ay walang makain.

Patawarin mo ako sa paglisan ko’t pagsama sa mga pagpupulong at sa pakikidigma para sa natatanging kilusan.

Dahil ako ang bumabagtas sa estrangherong lugar na kung tawagin ay Maynila.

Ako ngayon ang mukha ng mga magbubukid, ng mga inapi at ng mga pinagkaitan ng karapatan sa ilalim ng berdugong administrasyon ng bayan kong hindi na nakalaya.

Ako ang estrangherong kumilala sa bawat sulok at lagusan ng Mendiola na piping-saksi sa mga panaghoy naming kailanma’y hindi pakikinggan ng nakatataas.

Ako at ng aking mga kasama, ang bagong dugong isasalin sa sistemang ninanais naming patakbuhin.

Patawarin mo ako sa pagpili kong matangay sa agos ng mabilisang kamatayan tungo sa pulang kulay ng rebolusyon.

Ngunit, kailanman ay hindi nyo maiintindihan,

na hindi naging mali na ipaglaban ko ang aking bayan.
for the Filipino farmers
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Harvest is over,
Crops are in, and
Falls's first killing frost
Stirs feelings of melancholy
Sustained by winter's cold,
With its bare trees,
Migration, hibernation,
Wisdom of fallow fields and
Mice attempting entry
During long, cold nights.
Yet farmers are never idle,
Caring for their animals,
Cleaning and fixing equipment,
Checking their fences,
Cleaning fields and
Clearing tree lines.
11/20/2019 - Poetry form: Idyll - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Keerthi Sep 2019
Cropped lands replaced with concrete slabs
stomping on the chance of life,
cries over the dried sky and cracked earth
died in the drone of city life,
Red dust clung to his dhoti
migrating with him to the lush city
only to be swept away to the curb,
his feet traced the streets
soles and soul with holes
inflicted with pain,
anger filled the hungry stomach
only to burn some more.
The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.
This is a poem dedicated to the hard working smallholder coffee farmers around the world. This poem is intended to speak to their struggle, the inequalities of coffee value/supply chains the world over, and the unfortunate reality that these farmers face. This poem can certainly apply to many smallholder farmers and other labourers (landless or not) who suffer similar fates. Note that coffee in some circles is referred to as brown gold because of its economic value.
Rachel Eileen Jul 2019
Faded brick streets,
Iron-colored pathway
Leading us downtown
Lilac shirt,
**** black raspberries,
Bursts of sweet, floral blueberries on my tongue
Old ladies in long dresses
with baskets full of vegetables
Saturday morning
Honey in espresso
Bluegrass in the blue grass
16, 17, 18 windows
Waving at little ones
while fathers' backs are turned
Sweet little braids and pink bows
Brown, but golden in the sun
Busy streets on market mornings
Moss-covered picnic tables
Giggling under shaded hide-aways
Breathe in the present
Sunshine shimmering through Maple trees
Beads of sweat;
rolling down water bottles and my forehead
Glass, pottery, and macrame
Herbs, microgreenery, and fruit
My mouth waters
with thoughts of sautees and soups
Robins chirp over the bustling morning crowd
The scent of fresh baked sourdough
carried by the breeze
Young, hip parents intermingling with kind, old farmers
All of us captivated with the now
sitting in a park across from saturday morning farmers market <3
cluster **** ;,)
Elizabeth May 2019
As I walked along the sidewalk I could smell the lingering flowers and summer floating toward me. The spring was coming to an end for summer was slowly approaching smelling of sunflowers and farmers markets.
Good morning everyone!
Sujata Kanojia Dec 2018
With axe and sickle in his hand
He serves the best way he can
Heavily burdened with debts
Hardly anything to look forward
Out of hunger he himself growl
Still never fails to fill our food bowl
Mourn continues, No solution in sight
Until another one commits suicide

Sitting in comforts, not realising even once
Why can't we, be a help even an ounce?
We are fortunate enough to add them a mirth
A morsel with gratitude will be of worth
Seema Jul 2018
Scales on bodies
Of that of farmers
Sun bares no harm,
On swinging charmers
A drop of a bit
Gives no smiles
To the hand that feeds
That walk for many miles
Cracks flap, mudcakes
Steaming heat rise won't stop
Children doing rain dance
While egg fries on roof top
Clear sky, bathes no cloud
Just stroke of heavy rays
Heatwaves tants the skin
Bad are these days...

"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.”*

Sack of rice is empty
Stomach rumbling mercilessly
Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically
Cold porridge is a feast.

“Go home!” says Mama sternly
Frantic, frightened, panicky
Rocks hurled, bullets fly
Blood splatters; running aimlessly

We dodge our way to safety
Cold porridge is a feast.

“I will not,” I say adamantly
She looks at the sack mournfully
Empty. Devoid of sanity.
Cold porridge is a feast.

“We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I feel weak, I am crabby
I’m staying despite this misery
Cold porridge is a feast.

Childlike will, piety of soul
Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole

Cold porridge is a feast.
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