"fruitfulness" poems
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
The key to finishing is beginning.
The key to victory is uniquely found on the battle field forged through a warriors' cry of triumph.
The key to any type of revelation; is activation.
The key to liberty is wrought with the hammer of responsibility.
The key to paradise is hidden; it can take a lifetime of searching and/or a single simple decision.
The key to understanding; is found in the application of knowledge through wisdom.
The key to any type of belief is often based on the intangible; a step of faith.
The key to fruitfulness is in planting good seed.
The key to overcoming; is found in the hands of the heart injected with the fuel of persistence.
The key to life; is recognizing the breath of the living.
The key to love; is G-d.
The key to any beginning is only made visible at the ending.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
Marriage is an incomprehensible mystery,
a hidden truth kept secret from the foundation of the world.
It cannot be discovered by intelligence or insight,
but made explainatory by revelation.
Revelation reveals the mystery of marriage,
it explains the mutual relationship in marriage.
It shows the rhema,
light and
love in marriage.
The mystery of marriage is accessed through the throne of grace.
Wisdom, knowledge and understandingof marriage is made known by revelation.
The ability to see beyond the seen,
in oder to see many unseen realities of life.
Revelation unveils the principles of building a blissful marriage.
Marriage is honourable in all,
above all in a bed undefiled.
It's hidden truth is unveiled by revelation from divinity.
It constitutes a platfrom for fruitfulness in life and ministry.
It spreads the continuity of human generation.
Marriage as a divine institution,
solves the problem of aloneness.
It empowers man with resources to fulfil destiny on earth.
It is a hidden treasure not discovered without revelation.
Let revelation inspire the discovery of marriage treasures.
Marriage not only give pleasures,
but
help partners fulfil destinies.
Understanding kills separation and builds togetherness.
It develops unity and oneness among couples.
Understanding curbs separation in marriage,
and
solves marriage mystery.
The manifestation in marriage cannot be explained,
except
by revelation.
Marriage is a mantle not a struggle.
The man must provide for his wife,
the woman must submit to her husband.
Seek love not lust before marriage,
let character and charisma build marriage,
let love and care establish marriage.
Marriage remains a mystery till death.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.
I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.
After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."
Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.
After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.
The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.9k
I am Her.
The embodiment of royalty
A physical manifestation of Her soul
A spiritual movement to Her drum.
I am the Epitome of Zion.
My golden Hide draped in Her pride
I am a Metaphysical Force
Changing form everyday
Becoming Her rivers
And Her Valleys alike.
I speak in Her infinite Tongue of Love
With Her voice
And Her spirit
We are forever.
The Land of the First Trumpet
Where the first Heartbeat was heard
Where the first Sun rose and birthed the first horizon
My Place.
Where the first Moon wedded the Starry African Night Sky.
Where the first mountains praised Her
Where the first Warrior fought
And conquered the darkness.
Infinitely.
Her life was breathed into me and so I am abundant.
Every part of me was chosen for greatness.
Delicately, I was created
With perfection
And finesse.
My mind borne of consciousness
Blessed with her essence.
Given Her sight
Given Her touch
Given Her strength
Given Her.
She is the home of plenty
The plethora of Her soulful Aura
Fruitfulness
Natural wealth
Utopia
Euphoria
Africa.
She is what it means to be Human.
Her soul, Her roots, Her vessels, Her.
Africa is what it means to be Alive.
You are Me
And I am Her
We are African.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
You've ripped open the lid of protection
You've torn down the walls of self-preservation
I'm stripped bare before You - no covering of self remains
Just when I though I had my kingdom secure
Just when I though I had perfected the act of surety
I have girded myself upon pillars of another man's vision
I lay in the vineyards of an angry man's dreams
My vineyard I have forsaken behind walls of disillusionment
Being yoked up with a man's burdens of works
I look at the walls surrounding my hopes
Vines of youth now overgrown and wild; forsaken and empty
You came with Your sickle and cut into branches of coldness and fear
You tear apart the thicket of my soul to find hope of fruitfulness
You break down the walls of separation and call me out
"Come here! Come here! Breathe again the long lost breaths of refreshing!"
How do I depart from the expectations of those I am yoked to?
How do I escape the despising of those who have created my place in this world?
How do I go? Where is the trail of those who have walked this way before?
I see You through tears of fear and shame
I see You through tears of desire and desperation
Your eyes pierce through the deception I found comfort in
Your arms reach past this world I found security in
Your voice strikes into the center of a child's heart long gone in a world I don't belong
I want only You! I need only You!
I'm ready to rebuild the old places
I'm ready for the pain of purging
Come, Lord Jesus! Come!
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
The shortest distance
between pain and peace,
*[between what is
&
the fruitfulness of the morrow]*
is a rugged shortcut;
an unattractive narrow path
gated small,
signposted;
travail & obedience.
A steep elevation,
hewn of solid rock;
an ancient Roman road,
weathered,
yet
** traveled few.**
Pay mind to where you tread.
Be walked conditioned fit.
&
Foremost,
relinquish all your baggage.
© Qwey.ku
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
It's the Spring.
Earth has conceived, and her *****
Teeming with summer, is glad.
Vistas of change and adventure,
Thro' the green land
The grey roads go beckoning and winding,
Peopled with wains, and melodious
With harness-bells jangling:
Jangling and twangling rough rhythms
To the slow march of the stately, great horses
Whistled and shouted along.
White fleets of cloud,
Argosies heavy with fruitfulness,
Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows.
Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds
Sway the tall poplars.
Pageants of colour and fragrance,
Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless
Walks the mild spirit of May,
Visibly blessing the world.
O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards!
O, the savour and thrill of the woods,
When their leafage is stirred
By the flight of the Angel of Rain!
Loud lows the steer; in the fallows
Rooks are alert; and the brooks
Gurgle and ****** and trill. Thro' the gloamings,
Under the rare, shy stars,
Boy and girl wander,
Dreaming in darkness and dew.
It's the Spring.
A sprightliness feeble and squalid
Wakes in the ward, and I sicken,
Impotent, winter at heart.
1.4k
I am clinging tight on this superficial feeling.
I caught a butterfly and I am keeping it for safekeeping.
It doesn't guarantee an eternal life,
of bliss,
of fruitfulness.
It doesn't even guarantee a year of existence.
But it gives me hope,
of joy, to welcome the day,
It gave me a reason for today.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
Dreams of enchantment swirls in my head! Majestically fluttering at all points of my mortal being. Images so serene I daze in amazement. Power frozen iceberg cold, weak with no movement. I'm being pulled in.
Yet no physical motion, how could this be? Eyes locked to yours paralyzed in ecstasy. Thoughts of intimacy fill me! Your my jungle juice, sunshine in the rain. Bestow a multicolor silk laced bow. Metal to a magnet, I'm charged with passion. Scenes at work with the aroma of your fruitfulness. The aromatic taste of cinnamon apple, cherry red!
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 2:40 PM UTC
And the sun glints through the plum trees.
My heart is pierced
in a moment of anticipation
and silence.
A sudden reflection of beauty, longing, and pain blurred my eyes.
A quick revisit
to an old memory of paradise.
Where I’ve been an enduring captive of a sorrowful rewind.
But I remained a seeker.
A seeker of the promises
of perseverance.
While I adore winter
as I see snow trinkets around.
I love and cherish
the herald of spring.
And as the pale pink plum blossoms bravely bloom
amidst the winter chill,
I will continue to seek
for fruitfulness.
Though I’m still a slave
of bitterness and grief,
I will try to celebrate my strength.
With plum blossoms as a reminder of a not-so-distant spring.
A time for hope, a moment of joy,
and a season of new beginning.
Blooming beautifully after overcoming difficulties.
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 12:14 AM UTC
He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
*Another dawn begins,
Golden fingers of sun seem like
Scribbling the lost map of
El Dorado on your unconscious cheek.
Oh how I like to watch
Every little movement of dream
Behind the sleepiness of your eyelids,
Fading away bit by bit.
Then a deep breath,
Adorable fluttering of eyelashes
Reveals your awakened irises.
And I feel being welcomed again
Inside that sacred cave,
Where I found the desired key
Of fruitfulness last night.*
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
In sleep I dream, illusions of being awake
From the first moment to the last, of their plot.
Of it being perfect to it becoming perfection;
Eden in its own serenity- chaos,
Eden in its own confusion- bliss.
Anger clouded by love,
Passion pervaded with bitterness;
The fruitfulness of creation, their desire to destroy.
Pandemonium throughout millenniums,
The reckoning of reason throughout the centuries.
Sifting through thoughts, riding the zephyr of forgotten memories.
The taste of oceanic air, induces thee
The scent of roses upon thy skin reduces me!
The autylosis of flesh in the wilderness,
An arbituar, a crematorium- my garden.
Eden all decaying; seen, smelt and felt
Yet I still recall
Remembering fields of Asphodels
And a dream of a flower that too long ago was our ancient emblem,
Somewhere inside I am touched by this flower
And my relentless dream to feel again, what was
Before the death of Heaven.
Heaven before the conflagration; Heaven before the stench,
A Heaven of basking in fields.
Yet I am null and void of what is,
Null and void of emotion and what was
As that Heaven still subsides in me.
Elysium, the beautiful abode of the after world
Elysium with fields of sepulchre,
A Heaven of sceptre carrying angels
A recollection of a deadly nightmare
A recollection of a Heaven with Asphodel's;
The Heaven that once existed
A Heaven of which I do dream;
The Heaven of which I originally inhabited,
The Elysium in which Heaven and Hell co-existed
Harmoniously.
Eleete J Muir 1998
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
I have settled and grown up
Here as a child where the
Garden is full of flowers and fruit
And the river is a rainbow.
The smell of peat fires in the morning
And warm crusted bread wafts
Slowly down the lane.
Wooden crates full to the top
With apples, pears
And strawberries
Are left outside the front porch
Ready to be brought
Into the cottage
Where the juices fall
Into an outstanding
Fruitfulness.
Roses hang still over the river and blossom
Into wine
Where also in the garden of light
Bullfinches, sparrows,
Chaffinches sing
And daisies and buttercups lie
In a sweltering sun
Of perfumed heat.
Over and over the green hills
I look down into the deep valleys
Where lakes are flavoured with
Pineapples and waterfalls
With damsons.
The garden of apricot jams, willows
And lily ponds open and spread
Their tasteful colour in an
Orchard of beaming texture and an
Opening of real wonder.
In our thatched white cottage
Smoked hams saturated in salt and fat
Sit above the crackling log fire
And the rooms are filled with gloominess.
A particular charm drifts through
The place from the
Warm glowing fire.
- Oh how the light passes through the
Whole house and how each window
Is a copy of glittering diamonds
That spreads
Across the musical garden of bells
And down onto the cobbled path
Where the geese
Flap their feathered gowns and fly off
Into the blue mountains
Where their
Feathers fall into the sun.
Cider is drunk by the gallon
From cider presses
And the fragrant
Ingredients are a special delight
Not to mention what it does
To the mind afterwards
As we drown happily
Upon the grass
Reading poetry
Or kissing our lovers soft lips
Under the shade of the trees
There the dove calls from the tree tops
Where our earthly hearts are scattered
And nearby a rose closely shimmers
In an azured wood.
©Jack Aylward
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Spring is beautiful.
Full hills,
green.
Round;
soft as breast.
And then,
the leaves,
breakout on the trees.
The petals drop,
carpet the Earth,
pink and white.
Behind the fruitfulness,
are men,
who experiment with seeds.
Men of chemistry,
men of disease.
Men at the borders,
men who quarantine.
These are "great men".
Driving the Earth to produce!
My God!
There is a crime here,
there is a sorrow here,
that weeping cannot symbolize!
There is a failure here,
that topples our success!
The fertile Earth,
dying.
In the eyes of the people,
failure.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
Royalty and
princely.
Rivalry and love.
Humility and
humbleness.
Fruitfulness and
productivity.
Beautiful beginnings
and achievements.
Countless glory,
rise and fall.
Fear and
bravery.
Apprehension
and failure.
That's the story
of my greatness.
All manifest itself
in my life.
Today i stand
in that place
where yesterday
when i contemplate
the dark periods,
my eyes could
scarcely see.
Humbled by
long suffering,
with my back bent.
I summoned
the inner strength
to conquer the
insurmountable
harrowing and
painful experiences
which my mouth
could never express,
or even explain,
that infested my life.
It was not
all that rosy.
But today,
I'm still here,
I'm still right
here standing.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
My life's presupposition is volatile meaning. Unfathomable disposition dispersed amongst the heavens. Until one blightful day, I become; the bounds of my existence tethered to soil and flesh, understanding nothing but suffering. Blood and bones interwoven into another unfathomable hypothesis; potentiality and its unknown repercussions. Adhering only to the reality of mortality and the confines to which that is inherent. Its like dropping an anchor in the ocean of being, with the assumption that every ripple made will contribute to the tide, with or without the ability to float. But I sink either way, for that is our duty. To move under the bounds of gravity and the tides of reality until we reach the bottom of our fruitfulness. And then we return to the volatile meaning from which we came, that ripples outward as our contribution to the future.
Jan 23, 2023
Jan 23, 2023 at 3:47 PM UTC
Knowledge is now very simple
Single word questions
And answers in a breath.
Knowledge is now aplenty
Evenly cut pieces of bread
Within easy reach of the laziest
Then why do you
Lift your eyebrows
When forty line answers are spit out
For question that won’t hold in four lines.
The Thaj Mahal is not a wonder, its snobbery
The vain argument goes on.
From the other lone
This lone doesn’t look greener
but only a funeral patch
You are argue with yourself
And throwing a set of fruitfulness question:
Why the evening’s rosiness nestles in the snake bird’s eyes?
Where does the garden lizard leave its memory for a while?
When did the owl start cleaning the day’s dirt to end the night?
Who feeds the pair of rabbits on the moon without fail?
In what soft tones does the ant whisper secrets to its mate?
In which impoverished month did the white ants burp and wipe their lips
Who wrenched the cricket’s courage that they make such noise?
Why can’t the **** wake up the neighborhood without loosing its sleep?
Why can’ t the peacock break its contract with the rain clouds?
From where did the fox gain its cunning?
Which river entered the forest, fighting the sea?
Why war, floods, poverty, quakes?
In word : God’s fury.
Look how simple knowledge is,
Beautiful in its commonness.
Still you argue
You swear
What met isn’t knowledge
Nor the way to knowledge
Then of what
Does it symbolise?
Tell me in a word.
======
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
People say …. beauty will always find its way
like a plant …. cracking out of concrete land
As if concrete with all its shades of black
is nothing but ugliness holding beauty back.
**Well **** you all!!**
Do you know how dark sun’s core is?
Dense, and burning, hell on fire.
This is not poetry, these are facts..
The ultimate beauty symbol, the moon, is nothing but rocks and dirt.
The only organic way to nurture an infertile land into fruitfulness is through ****
So next time you are blessed enough to be in a dim hollow place
Remember the astronauts that died for a chance to explore outer space
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
*Into the whispering dreams
Of your faithful eyes
I walked for days of mist
Looking for the hope
That speaks to eternal images.
Sweet smell ran neck to neck
Inside the starry depth
Of your overwhelming mouth
And I bathed with your light
Kissing our smiles over darkness.
There I am a hidden path
Under quiet wind
Awaiting for snowflakes
Which drop from the wooden basket
Of your bicycle-myth.
Little by little
Paint me green with
Those frosty memories of incarnation,
To mould me in a tree
That only gives birth to
The sweet fruitfulness of us.*
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
*exiled here, in this emptying parcel
of Lot's, son of incestuous famine
your delight in God, your king,
fades away in the lifting dust;
leaving you with sick longing
for the fruitfulness of home--
the house of bread in Whom is praised:
may your kin kindly redeem your blood*
●○
°
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC