"fertilising" poems
A dazzling sough,
The wind blows through, across the stunning white clouds, to Earth,
A dearness of the whistling, carrying a, warm breeze makes it worth
Worth but to say nothing less than; praise the new coming day!
Rustling the leafs, shaking them, letting them dance, then sway,
The wind is a transient traveler, rushing through this worldly life,
Gathering clouds together, a delicate drizzle is what they strive for,
Distorting, carrying, leading them towards the ground, wettening them in a scenery of a wonderous sight, fertilising the soil more,
Howling in a showering yet intimitating sense of the changing scene,
Blowing over each drop of pure water on the green coloured grass,
Spring is truly a season where dreams can sore,
It gives us the idea of something greater, something more,
Coming with ups, then downs, it gets carried away by the wind,
Until finally, the sunny days of summer are to come,
Sit down with me, listen to the sighing of the wind, don't be lonesome
By the sound it makes, the gentle song which blows through our ears
Can you hear it whispering ?
~ Umi
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
Iron which has been exposed to the rain, is likely to become rusty.
Weakening, brcoming fragile along the way, changing colours.
Because it couldn't resist the cruel, cold, pungent, sharp rain,
which has been brought by onimous, dark, clouds.
Those have come to claim the heavens, in malice, for themselves as they spread their offspring, letting it fall to the earth, fertilising it.
Once standing proud, the iron faced the weather carelessly, brave,
in such sense that it might have looked intimidating, impressive and
of course noble to some degree.
But for now it has aged, has become frail, feeble and slender.
Distorting its structure until suddenly it is not capable of holding
itself together, falling back down to the earth from which it came.
With enough care and treatment, such a fate would be avoidable,
But it is overlooked, chosen to be replaced instead of getting enough attention and so the metal decays in its oxidation, through time.
Until all of it has become a soft, crumbling powder.
Ruined by the simple raindrops, coming from a stormy day.
~ Umi
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
One day, my darling,
One day we will be the King and Queen
of the universe.
We will show them mercy
and be kind to those who forsook us.
One day, my darling,
One day, money will cease
to control us.
We will indulge, splurge and spoil
the labours of our love.
One day, my darling,
One day, the rats will run
ahead of us.
We will sit, and wonder
about how we ever kept up.
One day, my darling,
One day, the world will keep spinning
without us.
We will greet our next adventure
hands held, hearts locked.
One day, my darling.
One day, our bones will be the dust
fertilising the future.
We will be as forgotten
as the druids and the bards.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
In many short years
we’ll know we were sweet and naive.
We’ll think about the things we thought,
our understated predictions
our dinner table conversations.
There were floaters
in our oracle’s eyes.
It will not be the now
that we know.
As what happens to us
disappears
like the sound of an engine
in the fog,
moving away.
In many short years
Auschwitz has a café.
After the tour
all the waitresses
come from the kitchen
uniformed
to sing to you
on your birthday.
In many short years
they’ll build on Chernobyl
and Fukushima will be an oasis.
There’ll be fields of bodies
fertilising strawberries
for other countries.
-
We’ve got no memory.
Horrors aren’t like happiness
they lose their impact
with every sharing
and every listen.
Will you be there?
In the next big thing.
Think of that.
How much faster everything’s destroyed
than it’s made.
Think of what work your life took
Wrong gods appear again.
As always a side will be picked for you.
As always the goals are your own.
And the answers are more questions,
homophones,
the same lessons
and still they’ll bomb playgrounds
built on bomb sites.
-
Then the next big thing.
Your entropy,
that starts and ends in fire.
The wolf
from another wood and paper town.
The flames on your monuments
and shopfronts
caught on divine wind
and a scent for sin.
Most now know
they’ve never been scared before.
Things you never thought could alight
prove you wrong.
The air stings and follows
and the clouds finally become too much for the sun.
Your heartbeat’s afterlife
is someone else’s tutting.
Unread letters,
guitars and bars with history,
family traditions
and the weight of her hand,
thumb hooked to the belt loop
of your jeans
are now one weather formation.
And under all
is flat and yellow
like an African morning.
Is it angels or great bats
which have given you
your turn?
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Majestically under the ominous, dark clouds,
The rain pours over the Earth, moistening it in a hard, then gentle way as each drop, each body of water sinks into the bottom, vanishes,
With a rythm, each follow a purpose, a goal they want to reach.
Fertilising the earth after a drought, letting life grow out of light after those dark clouds make room for the golden light of the rising sun.
Let them be distorted, these drops of cheer, sadness, happy thoughts and agony, carried by the rough storms of an autumn afternoon.
Hitting the window, they display their tune with their delicate figure,
In harmony with the wistling wind and the growling of the sinister thunder the orchestra of nature reaches it's peak in this sensation.
The sky is pitchblack, yet crossed by lightnings every now and then,
Providing a lightshow, which might be a bit too dangerous to be around, for the music of nature, dancing, swaying across the clouds,
What is it that makes this silly storm catch my attention so much ?
Perhaps, the song of the lonesome rain when everyone escapes in order to not get soaked, is what truly touches my heart.
Because there is no one outside to listen to it.
~ Umi
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
The tree reached up to the sky, desolate and derelict
It's moribund image that of a skeletal hand thrusting from the grave, awash with
new found life.
It seemed almost painted on to the gloomy backdrop of grey clouds
inky darkness smeared across the horizon.
I watched, saying nothing. The sight had jarred into my senses, like a replay of magpies stuttering
across my path earlier that day, spreading out from the treetops.
And still, I watched. Not the tree itself, we had passed it as soon as
found it, the bus knows no scenic route procrastination. But in my mind,
I saw it. There is light now.
After the clouds, there is rain, and after the rain there is life, nourishing
and fertilising, after the bleakness of winter, we see life anew.
There is light now, growing stronger. Faint, but gathering momentum. Those that
listen can hear. Those that feel can see, those that live can breathe, those that
love, can know. For the brief harmony of Nirvana, the union and entwining
of the self and the divine, a lifetime's work can be realised. Still, light and
warmth. More noticable, ever expanding. I breathe the same air as those
around me. We drink the same water. We eat from the same ground. Yet
a million different thoughts separate a million of us. A million different visions
born of the same source. And then I remember. It's all just a trip. Safe
journey. Enjoy the ride.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
Sometimes in summer
when roots find no water
leaves wither, fade, and fall,
but with the rain
new buds, new leaves appear.
Sometimes after a forest fire
fresh green will push out of charred wood,
the ash of the old leaves
fertilising the new.
Sometimes in the thick of winter,
sudden mildness may stir the sap.
Precocious leaves may not resist frost's return,
but another spring will come.
Sometimes there is no hope
until spring comes.
Sometimes there is hope
despite everything.
Sometimes spring comes
more than once.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
We think we are standing upon solid ground,
But like the waves of the oceans,
It moves beneath
Slowly so slowly do we even know
That we are traveling
Even though we stand still.
The layers move,
Life is a wave that moves under the ground,
Motion in the motionless,
They swim underneath what isn't seen
Fertilising the ground.
We think that which is solid
But it is never solid,
Always moving below the ground,
We live on a place that never rests.
Ever changing
That which can be as liquid as water,
But then be as solid as steel.
An ever changing place we walk on,
A place that moves even though,
We think it is solid ground.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Releasing The Seed Savage
Rooted and built up in the receives-refiner,
Being comfortable among the treasures of abounding
grace after the fullness wherein that see the glorifying signals.
Circumcising the mysteries in the ark within the praise,
putting the impact of desperation in the charity which is the
bond of perfectness.
Chiefly sanctifying the gasecious enablement within the
spirit jubilee through the investment of biblical images…
flying greatness in the ordination, gathering up ***** by
the encounter of joy unstoppable.
Testing the test of time within the voracious vibration,
Spouses the humbleness in the gifts reassurance synergy.
Sworing the signals among the baptizing destinies with full
Back-up, in much potency entering the higher of profession.
Penetrating the hope firm living through the genetic-exhortation.
Bearing onto complete witnesses in the crow nest multitudes.
Fertilising the ministration within the marvel of spiritual allocations,
In the banquet therapy where of spread the echoes the virtue at upper room.
Revolutionalising the secret provision to 1000 Times More into
the “Just-Tidy” faculty.
Furthering the enterprise within the infalliable proof.
Your Sensitivity-in-the Voluminous,
SURETICE TONGUE
Email: [email protected]
RHEMA PIPELINE.Releasing The Seed Sava
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:43 AM UTC