"arable" poems
KENYA
K….Kenya my beautiful country
E ….earn honors and respect
N …none is like you my country
Y …you shine brighter compared to any other
A …across the world, you light brighter that the sun
The beauty sceneries of the green vegetation
The dark color of the people of Kenya
The arable land in Kenya
The mines
The animals and tourist centers in Kenya
The presidency
The politics
The hot springs
The digitality in Kenya
The economic growth in Kenya
The agricultural sector,
The flag of Kenya
The education sector in Kenya
All make me feel proud of Kenya….
And I feel so good to be Kenyan.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
The young seeds unsown
buried beneath
long forgotten granite reasons
a waste of stone
and otherwise arable soil
which now lies fallow and barren
like the ancient womb
from which they were given way
unsafely into the world
of parks and laughter
of tears and monumental alibis
for another's selfish desire
to raise a flag upon a distant hill
and bury beneath it
like supporting struts
the very bones of our future.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
oh right...
back in h'america it's called
patriotism -
but 'ere, over, Here -
it's called nationalism...
back on the old continent
where and when all politics
is far-right mantra
and then you have
your Victoria and Abdul -
love the curry...
but like the **** said...
i'd prefer the aura and sauna
of the...
don't get me wrong:
i love the food...
but watching the Indian caste
system?
of Indians employing slaves
to build their upper-middle-class homes?
more tanned?
oh, you mean the Sri Lankan
or the Bangladeshi poor ********
sorry... i thought all slave
owners were white...
no?
oh...
alright...
**** you then!
because?
next time you ask...
i'll do what the Nazis did to the ********
i'll twist the star of David sideways...
exposing the prayer mat
and an opened book...
and, as far as i am concerned,
Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague...
now...
compare the geographic literature
and spot the quarantine areas on a map
that constitutes Europe.
i'd rather die...
than fiddle with a phallus for
a taste of the Arabian quasi
harem orchestra of... absolute...
********
Arabian women?
fat hands...
their hands are too fat...
they have to inter-breed to
get rid of their
farmers' market of
fudge fingers and knuckles...
Arabian women expose
what is the most **** aspect
of a woman's body...
their hands...
Arab women have pork chops
for fingers...
and i'm not even sorry
making this observation...
fatty extensions
that you wish could at least
succumb to the esteem
of a pork head terrine.
Arab women can wear their niqab,
or whatever the hell they wear...
one problem...
FAT..... HANDS...
FAT.... FINGERS...
hell, hide them...
these women are worth half the erection's
worth in the *********** market of
feminine hands...
Arab women are no possessed with
geisha hands... porcelain architecture...
they're not tender... slight, polite...
the hands of Arab women are
the hands of European women...
who have a legitimate sway on arable
land, that is fertile with either
potatoes or cabbage;
well...
fat fingers eager to harvest ginger
(roots) -
what can i say...
no matter the diamond,
or the European *****
the hand is still looking
readily available to milk a ******* camel.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
KENYA
K….Kenya my beautiful country
E ….earn honors and respect
N …none is like you my country
Y …you shine brighter compared to any other
A …across the world, you light brighter that the sun
The beauty sceneries of the green vegetation
The dark color of the people of Kenya
The arable land in Kenya
The mines
The animals and tourist centers in Kenya
The presidency
The politics
The hot springs
The digitality in Kenya
The economic growth in Kenya
The agricultural sector,
The flag of Kenya
The education sector in Kenya
All make me feel proud of Kenya….
And I feel so good to be Kenyan.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
A prophet once proffered a parable,
A wheatable teaching and tarable,
Concerning the needs
Of a sowers sown seeds
That require a soil that's arable.
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 2:23 PM UTC
I love the smell of gasoline
Blue flowers, and green neon lettering
Embarrassing-honest people
The words nocturnal, cavalier, and arable
Reading, reading is my second-best to humans,
Greek mythology, all mythology
Solving math equations, being surprised
The soft waves of my mother’s hair
All kinds of clouds and rain
Smooth fabrics, sharpened-pointy pencil-tips
Gravelly voices
and exploring
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
I look at you, and I know what my future looks like
Your smile makes me want to make this a better world
A world with a future
A future with trees
A future with the Missippi River
A future with whales
A future with clean air
A future with arable land
A future with a future
I look at you, and I know what my future looks like
Your tears make me want to fight for your generation
A generation with equality
A generation with educated girls
A generation with women's rights
A generation with safety
A generation without ****
A generation without sexism
A generation with a voice
You have become my source of faith
You have become my driven force to succeed
You have become my inspiration
I love you
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
When the sun slid down behind the buildings of Camden Town and the evening came to light
when the beggars of Mornington Crescent came out into the night to fire the West End and the good people took fright,
I was down in Goodge Street spilling the beans in the American church,perched on a pew,as you do,talking to a vicar,the slickest padre I ever did meet,
he talked to me in parables as if I was the arable land he sought,but Jesus and I had a deal,so I thought,
he went his way,I went mine until the divine light of reckoning came beckoning me,and I didn't think that this was the time.
But we all make mistakes and the winner takes all,I pondered on this as I walked through the hall of the ancients.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 10:58 PM UTC
In the gardens of a Gethsemane
under the branches of a
sick sycamore tree
slept the man they called
a prodigy.
A few of the many who followed him
knocked at the outskirts of freedom
to enter in.
The morning woke crossly for everyone
and the prodigal son was
on his way home with parables to plant
in the arable land which grow better than
Talents they tell me
in the garden of my own Gethsemane
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
we don't live in times
likened to a nearby 1cm off
renaissance painters
with patrons as noble as the popes,
we live in times where
free art flows, free art as free
among starving people,
as free as sea water, as free
as candlesticks among electric
shrapnel sparks, in a time
when no bothersome brine
of full-time takes the telescope
to see more stars that are plentiful
already to eden's sacrifice of nakedness
(sign-of-the-cross missing crucifix blaspheme
all authority);
we live in times where no complete
artist exists, instead artists with
full-time jobs tying them down
to originally stated profession for a
date (lawyer, surgeon, chemist, etc.)
& **** art has become 2nd grade karaoke
if no worse hara-kiri would-be sway of
a forgotten decapitation - of a disembowel'ed satyr
when a martyr would do a due icon for the
urban and shrinking wheat field arable populace
kneeling;
in st. petersburg i was told to stand up
when listening to a choir,
once in catholic school i yawned during our father
and was held in detention for an hour,
then paddy came along and said: martin luther -
so i said sweden in suede and it became the origin
of quebec: came the rain of applause.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
*Who made the hawk so sad
in winter sky , etching it's loneliness
to my wandering eye ,
Noble upon the tallest elm
Steeped in curiosity , crying tales
of Cherokee , of Muscogee , of hunter
and warring party*
*What hand did color the Georgia dusk ,
with lavender blue oils and orange sunshine
traipsing centurion forest
With waterbirds following the lantern of
God home , through arable pastures , o'er granite domes*
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
the Übermensch anomaly was short-lived
in Europe, it was never going to be an
idea with a survival instinct for longevity
in Europe, just like Copernicus became
defamed by Galileo...
the Übermensch idea was prescribed to America,
what with their Superman and Batman,
and Spiderman... Nietzsche didn't
include America for a reason, you could
speak of Emerson as the zenith of American
intellectual output as the reason,
but that's hardly a reason...
tourists to the Caribbean will know,
Americans think they're super-human...
i hate the American accent, it's like a mosquito
buzzing in my ear, i just call them
the spaghetti swindlers of tongue, gluttonous
harp players... and because Nietzsche didn't
mention America, America is his most fertile
and therefore most arable landmass...
i mean... Nietzsche reached pop culture status,
just because he didn't mention American culture
in his writing... and that's how the Americans
see themselves, the righteous inheritors of
the post-Nazi mindset... Übermensch Staaten Amerika...
hence the reason they're on the gold medal leader boards
at the Olympics... i.e. if those ******* aren't doped
then i'm doped...
not doping athletes makes chemists redundant,
dope the whole lot of them, let's make it fair.
yes, i know it should have been written as staaten,
but i like my diacritical arithmetic, and given the
umlaut, i count that as a hidden extra a... so from
staaten into stäten;
oh yeah... and **** your "perfect" teeth;
or the Penguin cover for Philip K. Dick's
man in the high castle, the red & white stripes
with 50 swastikas.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
Life is not
A battle field
That witnesses the bloodshed
But
An arable land
That is cultivated forever
The emotions, the bliss
And the agony
From the birth to death
It responds
At every wound
That is made by
A relationship
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:53 PM UTC
Our lives crumble and fail,
East or west more losses, we avail.
Our foods turned life-sucking cocktail,
You got our revenues and livelihood to curtail.
We, the creators of the foodbanks,
Our lives now turned, mere votebanks,
You destroyed all our riverbanks,
Brought our lives to end with your loan banks.
Lived and cultivated happily, with self-reliance,
Demolished our self-reliance, with your idiotic brilliance,
Deliberately stole our self-reliant roots,
Through your money-minded ****** selfish loots.
Toiled ourselves to turn lands arable, through generations,
Your land acquisitions, put us under dictator oppressions,
Blood-sucking ********** gave us all fright & plight.
It’s time we rise and say Our Land is our right.
Deceived us with your developmental illusions,
Pushed us towards suicide, under incurable obsessions,
You commented our farming, old and backward.
Taught us land-killing cultivation, very awkward,
In the form of food, we harvest poisons,
With our life costing mistakes, learnt worthy lessons.
We don’t get our deserving price,
Unheard and Weakened is our voice,
To the rulers, we are just a useless choice,
For them, our deadly weeps are just a noise.
We sold our crops to middlemen,
Rulers sold our seeds to corporates,
We sold our lives, for a permanent solution.
For media, we are just a hype.
To the nature’s wrath, our crops became unripe.
For livelihood, we are compelled to get loans,
To repay you, push us to reloans,
Lose our lives, helpless and incapable to pay our loans,
Leaving our families helplessly to moan and groan.
It’s time we raise a warning.
To you we won’t keep serving,
You will realize our value,
To the corporates, when you lose your revenue.
It’s an alarm, it’s an alarm,
To the businessmen we lose our farm,
To the corporates our ownership is vested,
From owners we have turned rented.
Your life would be on danger,
Then corporates would play with your hunger,
You can’t even own a burger,
To them your lives too would turn meager.
Let’s rise and fight,
Exclaim our land is our identity and right,
Let’s correct, where we lack,
To the natural farming, let’s get back.
Let us raise,
Let us determine our price,
If we become selfish and vice,
You will lose all your slice and rice.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
Fast
too long in aspic,
antipathy for wind-chill
kills the arable concern..
Have
Listened to
the shipping-forecast-
victuals of an Island-race-
recur their little mysteries
from keeping.
Been
pacing off
the Malin Head in
fossil-fueled embarrassment,
deciphering a sense of self
and deepening.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
The only road left is
A lonely rogue leftist
Still cast as the shadow,
The villain,
The foil
The salt in the wound
Seeping into
The soil
To render the once arable
An unbearable
Barren wasteland
Sleight of hand-
Written parable
Barely still stand
For a national anthem
Would rather invade
All your mansions
And ransom
The sycophants’
Cancerous
Cancel campaign
Can’t explain
The disdain
For disparity’s reign
And still stained
In its tainted
And vitiated
Lizard brain
Becomes colder
And more calculated
A numbers game
All I will pay to play
These days
The rest is just
Lack of success
Instant replays
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 12:56 AM UTC
Dahlia toned Angels minister
unto the passing hours
Inquisitive whitetails work the
canebreak , crossing Bear Creek into arable
pastures
A Banty rooster silhouette calls the
close of day
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
i love how the reaping of modern reward
leaves octavius in peace from
the hysterics of historians, known as augustus,
apathetic, because the scold of such
breadcrumbs know as rewards, are just that,
breadcrumbs, foodstuff additives for rats
that were ignoble enough to jump the ship,
they were, ignoble to guise themselves
in thinking the usage of language
was idiotic enough for them to use it
when using it sparingly, on a spare as ol' cockney
had it. i watched ******* so many ways of speaking
in order that all ways of speaking were sung,
to sing is to have respect for all measures of the tongue,
it does not mean to favour one, it means to accept all,
it does mean intention to state a status quo
but mean a status qua: it does not intend
the state of things going to the same posit of where they
are, but arable i statement asking for the state as being
worth keeping.
why then imagine so much but speak so little?
why then speak so much but imagine so little?
politics vice versus got in the way?
shadowy patron of despotism swerved a legion
of demonic shadows to sway you?
was it a carcass that decided to rekindle life
with puppets for a dynamism of the silken
trade with stringed threads that swayed you
to be kept noble of memory with the next kinship
as entitled prior to me, prior to father,
prior to my father's father?
held sway it did with the nightmare relating,
but you didn't: a nought's worth of a sarcasm
in the night made more uncles for satiation
of hybrids of insemination than it did
relating cousin's mother (1) with cousin's
father (2) to conclude the family tree reserved
an inheritance of king solomon's mines for someone.
then i hid my eyes into lazed lids of blink missing,
and that was that... horror was more welcome
than comedy with all genre choices freely apparent.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
In the turning I would spin
about
begin the magic
roundabout
twist the ropes and
in the twisting
I could cope
untangled I become the greater mess
hopelessness
like
homelessness
knows many houses
and
in those houses though there mansions be
I am adrift
admitting finally
which explains it totally?
It's as if I never understood what works of art that good men are
and by men I mean mankind which includes the female of the species
are we still **** Erectus?
do you not detect the irony?
derelicts and broken men lay anywhere
I see them everywhere
colluding with protruding avaricious eyes
I am wise to those ways.
and so like Whittington I turn,
returning to the origins
Darwin grins and says,
I told you so
I know
but because I doubted much like Thomas did
I saw it for myself and
felt the blood rush to my cheeks
He who seeks needs better sight than I and I have
blurry vision
except in 20/20 dreams.
as they say
It's all tickety boo until you
understand the reasons why
and I never knew.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
and of how many howling a times
have i watched the closed lid
patches of bonsai tiger tattoo
in stitches and in wrinkles
the rekindled routes of rivers
and veins... that might take to
the route of heart and molten iron
as sourced...
thus my fright,
that aged begotten by only pride,
and cat in pillow safeguarded
by the stuffing of lullabied sheep
of forked duck feathers
into a volume of bypassed flight,
that huffed and puffed a wheezing of sleep,
sepia too arable, kept the pedigree
of unexplored surrender kept for some concern
for signature; and thereby i too served the tongue,
as a plated palette of forehead
that once scorned acne worthy of constellation
but later make stars an inconvenience
should obstructions be limbed and active
to raise hand and simply orientate with a wave:
so to the incomprehensibility of what defined
poetics rather than simply selling a car,
of what defined poetry and came to be merchant's assertion:
the economy of language never provided its beauty:
and the second economy never lifted a stone
to say it was mountaineering for a zenith of the ever resting
as challenged to be above: for each child nonetheless
in rubric a confirmed multiplier
but hardly a welcome addition that posthumous fame desires.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
in the early morn of day comes a piercing shaft of light
upon the platform placed, prepared for settling
(and for planting)
it takes a while for things to reach a fine state of maturity
yet things reach state of bliss when arable thoughts become real
and the day shines bright on the one who comes
to pick the rose
which grows slow and steady
awaiting the fleeting brush of fingertips to graze
this
quivering
soul
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC