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LRF May 21
This thing takes hold
a secret down deep.

It pushes up through
layers of rock,
sand, clay,
turning the earth
when it bursts
through its surface -
not the gasping
sudden push
of a sprinter,
but an over-days
quiet and unassuming -
surveying the world
before it unfurls
and shoots,
basking in the sun.
May 2020
noren tirtho May 16
It survives.
Hanging on to that
wee bit of sunlight,
and grounded in that modicum of soil
which has just about enough moisture
to let it exist.

Its leaves don't flutter much;
Nothing blooms;
the twigs don't sway;
those tentacles can't spread out.

It lives, though it may not be as lively as others.
It stands, though it may not be too firmly rooted.
It survives, though it barely has a reason not to die.
LC Apr 17
the tree grew in rocky soil -
now its fruit is decaying.
its seeds fell into
the same rocky soil,
sprouting into trees
with the same decaying fruit.

these trees feel the decay.
they know to spread their seeds
where the soil is fertile.
and the resulting trees
will bear ripe fruits
for future generations.
#escapril day 16!
queenofwands Apr 12
if we were a garden
i'd be a flower
you'd be a sprout
both beautiful, alive, delicious
we grow apart
we appear to be separate
distance between us
standing on our own
tall & proud
underneath the soil,
our roots are tangled together
holding hands
quietly nourishing each other
to grow strong & healthy on our own
even in separation, we are connected.
to give the one you love space is a magical gift
holding you has always felt so right.
just give me time.
Hold me in your arms
     Til my broken pieces
             Merge into something
Worth your love
Since God made us in His image
   you were made in divine soil
While I was formed in clay
           And you can mold me
To the best man
                 You wanted me to be
When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

Is your nose sluggish,
or has it been days since
you’ve cried and you
smell the petrichor?

Do you listen to the priest
offering prayers? Or do you
turn hollow and hear only
your heartbeat?

Do you mutter a message,
grant your final send-off?
When you let go, do you
unfurl your hand and let it
drop like a heavy weight
leaving your open palm?
Does it seep between your
fingers and out of your hand?

Or are you swift, silent, eager
to advance the procession?
Do you toss it, as if sending
a ship off to sea?

Do you believe the carcass
beneath that pine lid cherishes
your gesture? Or do you do this
for yourself, for solidarity with
those with you? Do you think
there’s a difference?

When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
Enough for Me
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Enough for me to lie in the earth,
to be buried in her,
to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ...
only to spring forth like a flower
brightening the play of my countrymen's children.

Enough for me to remain
in my native soil's embrace,
to be as close as a handful of dirt,
a sprig of grass,
a wildflower.

Fadwa Tuqan (1917-2003), the Grande Dame of Palestinian letters, is also known as "The Poet of Palestine." She is generally considered to be one of the very best contemporary Arab poets. Keywords/Tags: Fadwa Tuqan, Palestine, Palestinian, Arabic, translation, earth, native, soil, dirt, grass, flower, wildflower, blossom, blossoming, children, play, bury, buried, grave
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