"farming" poems
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
132k
“Being a farmer is like being a priest;
you take a vow of poverty
and make a pact with the Lord
that no typhoon will come
and destroy your crops.”
In the rise of sedentary human civilization,
The nation’s agriculture
Became the key expansion.
Its history dates back thousands of years,
With its development,
Has been driven and defined –
By different climates, cultures, and technologies.
The Filipino farmers:
Are they now a dying breed?
Numbers of small farms has dwindled,
With workers opting for city life.
But this trend could exacerbate food insecurity!
Yes, in an import-dependent country –
Already struggling to meet current food demand.
In the face of growing losses,
And from volatile weather,
To new-fangled farming tech,
Limited education makes them less receptive.
What took such toll on the agricultural sector?
Maybe the farmer themselves,
The investors, the buyers – maybe.
Now, it’s due to the government policies,
Our programs are good, yet so weak.
There’s excessive reliance on agricultural imports,
And corruption on the upper level.
Compounding the problem
Is a younger generation –
Largely, leaving rural areas nationwide,
And depleting the pool of potential agricultural workers.
They say it’s too late to do something;
But the mind-set of the younger generation
Still we can change
And make farming appealing once again.
(9/8/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
I remember the rains that day,
A shower of hate that won’t go away,
The day seven of the year ninety four,
When pain suddenly opened the door,
And nothing was ever going to be the same anymore,
With machetes and guns they marched,
Aiming for our limbs to detach,
Sworn they did that no INYENZI would escape their grasp,
They swore that all would experience their wrath,
Genocide it was called but the truth not told,
The rains struck hard smell of rotting flesh,
Cries from a distance heard but ignored,
No one would even dare talk or whisper,
**** the cockroaches was the message from the speaker,
It was the rainy season the beginning of a massacre,
Women and children are alienated from their land,
Refugees in camps away from their land,
The African holocaust had began in Rwanda,
It took a while for the world to ponder,
The ones who had the power to stop it kept quiet,
They gave neither reason nor excuse for their silence,
They waited until we all lost our patience,
It was the rains in Rwanda the day of mourning,
It was the season to prepare for farming,
But I can bet the world saw it coming,
But none gave a **** from the beginning,
And so began the killing,
Brothers and sisters turned enemy,
Neighbors turned into strangers,
**** ****** mutilation humiliation torture,
Tribal hatred fueled by the west,
When will Africa come to rest?
And understand that we are one race,
One love one place one earth,
Let’s have love and peace,
BY ISSAI
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
Mankind began as a troop animal.
Living amongst its own kind.
Stepping out of the trees onto the Savanna.
Mankind became a wander, small family bands bound by blood. Millenia past, mankind developed farming and the wanderer settled down. Small wandering groups became small farming villages. Small farming villages became larger farming villages, then small towns.
Small towns became larger towns inhabited by hundreds.
Larger towns grew to small cities inhabited by thousands. Agriculture and technology developed to sustain and enhance such growth. Cities evolved into city states, then becoming small countries inhabited by hundreds of thousands. Finally today we have countries inhabited by hundreds of millions.
All along this path battles and wars, killing millions along the way, till today we have weapons that can wipe out us all.
The salvation of mankind and the natural progression of things is global organization, global integration.
The globe is being wired with its own global neural net, a global brain if you will. One world controlling itself.
One world that will not nuke itself! The salvation of us all.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
My father,
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
There's an apocalypse coming
And we get to choose which kind
Just listen to the meanings and open your mind
One means revealing
One means demise
Are we gonna keep stealing
Or are we going to open our eyes
We're killing the earth inside and out
Instead of trusting our hearts, we are living in doubt
We can love each other and change the path of the planet
We need to grow our own food, raw and organic
We can't just manufacture everything, process, and can it
Stop the GMOs, pesticides, and factory farming
What it's doing to the planet is absolutely alarming
They create lakes of blood and an earth of toxins
If you read the clock then
You'll see that it's time to change, this isn't how it's supposed to be
We should be living together in a sustainable community
One that helps, nurtures, and loves
One that plants trees and gardens and shrubs
It's time to bring about our utopia of the future
We need to get rid of the lies, the hate, and the torture
Wars, jealousy, and competition have to end
It's time for us to forgive, it's time to transcend
To our new world, our kingdom of heaven
Just read your clock its 11:11
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
All Round River and waterfall
Land of the harvest,
This is our village
Betelnut and betel's garden.
Home home the granary
Haystack and cowshed,
This is our village
Magw Bwisagu cheerfully and welcome to.
Water from the well water to drag up
In the house bring on waist wrap,
This is our village
As is family.
Early morning wake up the chicken
Harvest in the land of to go,
This is our village
***** and solution of farming to do.
And so the garden vegetables everywhere
Lai, lapha, mula and etc.
This is our village
Vegetables are not lacking.
Temple, church and bathou festival
Holy, our place of worship
This is our village of bodos
Goibari taijowbari, kantalbari, and like the names.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
It started with a clever picking
Then the horn of cenarius sounding
Followed by an agile creep-blocking
The start of the beginning
Sk, Lina, Leoric lanes the bottom
A superior lane control no one could ever question
Burrow, Bolt, and array has been thrown
That poor enemy's troll got pawned
And now let's go into the middle lane
Whe're SF and Davion came
In this battle they would have to claim
The elusive exp and gold they can possible gain
The top lane's meepo was quite steady
For his enemies are getting heavy
Fissure and Nova are his enemy
The fearsome combo of deadly harmony
As the ferocious battle goes by
In ganks and clashes, skills fly
Some juke, some escape, and some die
The other team thrashtalks "nice try"
Oh dear meepo tries to solo Roshan
The other heroes try to ********
In the woods they find the one
That lone troll farming in wonderland
Sandking immediately winks
Followed by a nimble blink
Burrowstrike makes the troll sink
GG troll as many would think
The the team tries to push
TP-save the opponent used
But meepo breaks the unwanted truce
And tries to squeeze away the juice
They have to **** raigor
Who, in echo slam, has had a great score
But you seeit was only five versus four
Thus it leads the enemy in sore
Alas! the balance has been broken
It's a gg that's nearly spoken
The defenders has fallen
Rax, towers, and the tree are all broken
If only they've warded more
They would've prevented the gank on troll
The other team had a greater score
And they could have a chance to backdoor
Perhaps it was a close call
For a team you wouldn't easily small
Life indeed is like a ball
Just pawned because of the lone trol
Jan 29, 2010
Jan 29, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
It started with a clever picking
Then the horn of cenarius sounding
Followed by an agile creep-blocking
The start of the beginning
Sk, Lina, Leoric lanes the bottom
A superior lane control no one could ever question
Burrow, Bolt, and array has been thrown
That poor enemy's troll got pawned
And now let's go into the middle lane
Whe're SF and Davion came
In this battle they would have to claim
The elusive exp and gold they can possible gain
The top lane's meepo was quite steady
For his enemies are getting heavy
Fissure and Nova are his enemy
The fearsome combo of deadly harmony
As the ferocious battle goes by
In ganks and clashes, skills fly
Some juke, some escape, and some die
The other team thrashtalks "nice try"
Oh dear meepo tries to solo Roshan
The other heroes try to ********
In the woods they find the one
That lone troll farming in wonderland
Sandking immediately winks
Followed by a nimble blink
Burrowstrike makes the troll sink
GG troll as many would think
The the team tries to push
TP-save the opponent used
But meepo breaks the unwanted truce
And tries to squeeze away the juice
They have to **** raigor
Who, in echo slam, has had a great score
But you seeit was only five versus four
Thus it leads the enemy in sore
Alas! the balance has been broken
It's a gg that's nearly spoken
The defenders has fallen
Rax, towers, and the tree are all broken
If only they've warded more
They would've prevented the gank on troll
The other team had a greater score
And they could have a chance to backdoor
Perhaps it was a close call
For a team you wouldn't easily small
Life indeed is like a ball
Just pawned because of the lone troll
Don't worry DotA 2, I'll sacrifice my sleep for playing everyday!
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
A barraster at law no less
I wouldnt trust I must confess
Looking down your pointed nose
seductively holding pose
Your linkedIn profile
who could see
just how you get your
filthy fee
Perverted farming
Filthy creeps
In Hi ace vans
and blacked out jeeps
Gratefully they pay their fee
In return for an STD
Heres the justice overflow
For Nank and **** and ******
I'm returning him to you
When I scrape him from my shoe
For you my dear a final fact
His STD is still intact!
Enjoy!
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 3:43 AM UTC
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
This song it ain't bout country things
Like pickup trucks and cars
You'll never find me writing
About getting drunk in bars
There's no mention here of Taylor Swift
or The Charlie Daniels Band
I wouldn't write of how the banks
are taking our farmland
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff
like hunting dogs and guns
I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes
showing off some hot babes buns
I won't write 'bout the Opry
I don't know all that stuff
Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones
And Mr. Roy Acuff
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon
or of Racing through the fields
I don't know much about farming
or crop futures or of yields
I listen to The Rolling Stones
Trace Adkins I don't like
Lady A can go away
Kid Rock can ride his bike
You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band
or of food thats Chicken Fried
I might go to a hoedown
If I'd just up and died
My music, it fulfills me
It makes me who I am
But I'll stay away from country
songs, Cause I don't give a ****
No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here
Hank Williams I won't buy
I'll never buy a Dixie Beer
It's a drink I'll never try
I won't sing about Kentucky
or of a Texas Yellow Rose
you know this aint no country song
Good god I hope it shows
There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie
no fishin' in the dark
No Everything is Beautiful
No songs by Terry Clark
I'm really open minded
My friends they are the same
We won't buy country music
To us it's just so lame
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I won't mention stuff you'll find
in songs by Nashville bands
There's nothing here about
watching football in the stands
I'll never write a country song
Cause country just ain't fun
Oh crap I just read this thing
And I think I just wrote one
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
529
I’m sorry for the Dead—Today—
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences—
It’s time o’ year for Hay.
And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil—
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile—
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields—
The Busy Carts—the fragrant *****
The Mower’s Metre—Steals—
A Trouble lest they’re homesick—
Those Farmers—and their Wives—
Set separate from the Farming—
And all the Neighbors’ lives—
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don’t feel a lonesome way—
When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay”—
4.1k
grow a beard...
buy a jazz double-bass...
start stroking it...
attempt to look
pensive...
and then write some
Cockney
comedy... and?
**** Oxford.
**** 'em good;
can't be,
******* arsed...
where's a *******
jazz double bass
the kind i need to stand up
to play?!
where?!
gone, "nowhere"...
Achilles would sooner
find a tortoise,
you ******* half-whit
bull bullock base catcher...
yummy yummy...
no ******* double whammy
if there ain't
a greasy dough nnnnnnnn
in my mouth oozing a squid's
mating call...
from the Jules Verne estimate
of how...
big the ******* could become...
oh please...
**** is a conjunction
word...
akin to and...
spew effect,
regurgitation, founded upon...
so...
so... farting in a public place
is less offensive than
uttering a word of oath?!
**** me...
more ****
less ***** images...
i guess that's how you
habitually attack Christian
h'america...
**** **** **** and impose
a curb of a ***** show me the puppies
kitchen ***** Kentucky style
****
******* wankers...
dreaming up some ****
in long lost Cockney rhyming
slang for some:
willkommen zu verirrt amstetten...
....................
...................................
..............
................
SCHMILE...
boorish ******* gnomes dancing
the leprechaun gamblers' dance...
skivvy *************
sure...
censor the words...
but god forbid you censor
showing all the *******
because... if you do?
guess what...
i might forget my farming impulse...
of imagining a
a cleavage to also imply
a pork buttocks...
funny...
how a show of cleavage is synonymous
with a show of pork
buttocks...
and then i begin thinking of
milking...
which throws a ***** **** out
with the baby and the bathwater
and... i'm shinging...
what's that name of the place?!
New Orleans!
yeah...
like some minstrel in that
part of the world that
part of the world that's
a ********
what?!
you spew on me...
i spew on you...
we can at least exchange...
what we "love" about each other...
but i implore!
i implore!
visit Warsaw!
alone... no, not with other people...
ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e....
i'll be your companion,
when you peer at your shadow,
and attempt, to pretend,
to disappear.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
FROM MOZAMBIQUE TO SOUTH AFRICA AND THE STRUGGLE IN BETWEEN
from Mozambique to the belly of the queen mother Afrika,
we were born soldiers, strangled from the arms of our mothers,
strangers to our engraved fathers in their early graves,
starve and strive in the command of our commanders,climb
and fall hills of many mountains, with countless bodies i carried
in my arms, moved from one camp to another, with blood of my
comrades fled in the river, as crocodiles tumble and roles with
them, they scream and cried while we crossed the Crocodile River.
a refuge toe to giant Afrika our queen mother, this has become
our home too, regardless of the chaos we've rendered. i know no
memories but nightmare in the surface of Mozambique, they see the beauty of its minerals and crops, the tremendous sea and scattered
informal settlement for farming left by my people to south
Africa, but in true essence i see graves, grenades, and guns
buried in the bodies of my comrades from Mozambique to
south Africa and the struggle in between
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 6:09 PM UTC
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.
The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.
Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.
The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.
Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.
So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?
Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.
Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.
In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
“Two teaspoons of coffee, one teaspoon of sugar, and pour it right before it boils down”, my mother said smelling the coffee she is cooking to perfection. I stand there and wonder what scent Hamlet was smelling when he said “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark”, I’m guessing it’s the same scent colonizing this house. I look at the ***** ceiling and start sniffing the air. My mother looks at me and says “your nose is nearing the skyline, keep it where your feet are. Men don’t like prideful women”.
I looked around trying to see what smelled so repulsive. My grandmother lit incense, my sister baked a fresh orange cake for celebration, my other sister splashed a few drops of the musk that the Arab man gifted us all over the house, and father held a stack of 500 Riyal banknotes to his nose.
The rich Arab that knocked on our door last week asking if we have an extra womb for sale is visiting again today. My mother prepared a hot bath for me an hour ago; she said I have to smell like freshly uprooted Baladi roses, so I soaked in the bathtub trying to figure out what is this repulsive scent I am smelling.
Right after I finished my bath I told my mother “something stinks”. Her reply was dragging me to the kitchen where she teaches me how to make coffee. I say “mother, nobody drinks coffee here”, she says “You need to learn how to properly make coffee to serve our sheikh some tonight. Remember, eyes on the ground”. I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “Keep them where my feet are”.
I hear people in the city overlook what lies beneath their feet; a 16 year old city girl will never know what it means to have to walk 30 kilometers with a broken shoe in order to read one book. I guess farming taught me a thing or two about looking down. I remember reading before that African slaves were shipped to America to primarily work in farms, coffee and sugar farms to be exact. I realize now what this stink is. I look at my mother and tell her “I will not marry him. This ring reeks of slavery”. She looks at me in astonishment, and I reply reciting the lesson she just taught me “and pour it right before it boils down”.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
The year
1966.
Manson was on his spree
Hippies chilled the breeze.
Chicks dancing with rubies on hips.
Then came 1967
Hendrix wowed the crowd
Janis Joplins soul came out
Music splashed
Hallucinogenic heaven.
1968, patterns of clothing
Seemed to be from faraway.
It wasn't American to the main stream
Still wouldn't be today.
1969, Woodstock, the time
Of all togetherness, and weightless
Rockers heads filled with dust and buds.
Cities broke to riots
Gangbanging quiets over colors lust!
1970, met grandmammy
Touched the farmers scene.
Found the happy
In the sixties baby in me.
Today, now a mountain boy
On a machine that cuts down anything
In its way.
The farming hand
Making a living off of dirt and hay.
Spit and clay.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Even more beautiful than the bride
Today evening in my village
Cold and peaceful in the air flow
The scent of the land of farming
In the tree jackfruit and mango
The birds ate a lot fruits
And singing song on the tree branch
The blue sky is so holy and pure
Waterfall is flowing happily beside the village
Silence and sweet song like sing
At the meadow, the cows don't leave to eating grass
The girls eating mango's vegetables
And talking about the love
Now village road is like the design of dokhona
This is the way I walk again and again
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
Snow white said when i was young
My prince would come
So i wait
For that date
It still hasnt come
This isnt very fun
Hearts breaking
Everyone faking
Snow white lied
I've tried
But ive never found my prince charming
I guess his out farming
Somewhere all alone
Probably without a phone
Ill never get to meet you
And get my glass shoe
A slipper on my a heel
I guess ill never feel
Because you dont excist
Life couldnt be that bliss
I guess ill find someone that will do
But he will never be as good as you
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
We don't appreciate what we have
until we lose it
We don't see the glow on the skin
until we bruise it
We don't believe in miracles
until we need it
We don't appreciate farming
until there's famine
We don't appreciate water availability
until there's water scarcity
We don't appreciate wealth
until we see poverty
We don't appreciate good health
until we experience infirmity
We don't appreciate democracy
until we see tyranny
We don't appreciate loyalty
until we see jealousy
We don't appreciate liberty
until we see slavery!
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
Sometime today...
*I look up at the sky
It is cloudy and dark
Flickers of lightning
And growling of thunder
Threatening the day's work
With uninvited wet showers
Bad for business, these rains
Keeping our customers indoors
Filling our potholes to the brim
Drenching our zeal to work
I look, as the drops fall down
In their multitudes
Clattering against my window
Bearing down on my roof
Intent on washing away my hopes
I miss the sunshine and its rays
I miss the warmth of sunrise
I miss the comfort of sunset
And with all my heart
I loathe the rain
Yearning for the sun
Soon a remembrance is awaken.*
Somewhere in the past...
*I looked up at the sky
It was sunny and dry
Debris of dusty winds
And a hot tempered sun
Worsening the day's labor
With unfriendly heat waves
Bad for farming, this heat!
Keeping our seedlings underground
Drying our boreholes to the bottom
Smoking our will to work
I sweated, as the rays blazed
In their fury
Burning through my window
Melting down my roof
Determined to roast my vision
I missed the rain and its showers
I missed the chills of the storms
I missed the drizzles of dew
And with all my might
I despised the sun
Praying for the rains
As if that would quench my thirst!*
Yet I wish it away as soon as it comes...
© Raphael Uzor
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
It all spins
gravitational pull
and I-
astronaut distance
orbit it sadly.
My only regret-
out in the black nothing
is not feeling my back
against brick
one more time.
Push me against
the cold and cutting
and kiss me with your
hands by my head.
Ever so cleverly
holding the wall-
holding the world.
Holding out on me.
As I tumble,
astronaut girl
and look at the blue beneath my toes
my only regret is
not learning how fly that kite.
Learning how to ride currents
with colorful
useless
beautiful
toys.
So very stuck, was I,
on all of the moons
That I never took
to dragons with tails
or red and black scales
and days taken hostage
and grass that can lasso
and pull me in earthbound.
Now I am anchored to nothing and watch
as the blessed and foolish dance at weddings
and funerals
and I watch from above.
Astronaut, I am
my only regret is that
all of this time
I've spent farming the stars
I never did learn
to correctly love you.
Sahn 4.13.15
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC