"hoeing" poems
I sometimes fear the younger generation will be deprived
of the pleasures of hoeing;
there is no knowing
how many souls have been formed by this simple exercise.
The dry earth like a great scab breaks, revealing
moist-dark loam--
the pea-root's home,
a fertile wound perpetually healing.
How neatly the green weeds go under!
The blade chops the earth new.
Ignorant the wise boy who
has never rendered thus the world fecunder.
8.6k
Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost ****** up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.
7.5k
Ode to sincerity
Unlike a candles flame
Wrath contained,
Dissipates not
but
grows and gains
Wrath contained
A brick in a washing machine
A moth in a closet
Wrath contained,
A plant growing
As Providence's Gardener is perpetually hoeing
With a deft hand doubt's seed Wrath is sowing
Wrath contained,
Is Suffering's Yeast,
To its expansion there's no end
The closed mouth is an open space for Wrath to bend
Sprouts of hope Wrath's malice fends
Away and blights
With its bligthening might
Grinds light to dust
Creeps under the plant *** it must
Break in the foundation it may
Once cheery now morose
Day-by-day Wrath dissembled its host
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
Jingle *** jingle hoes
Jingle all the way!
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open legs
Jingle *** jingle hoes
Jingle all the way!
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open legs
Dashing through the snow
In a one-horse open legs
Over the fields we go
Crying all the way
Bells on booty-tail ring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to ride and sing a hoeing song tonight
Jingle hoes, j-j-jingle hoes
Jingle all the way!
O' what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open legs
Jingle *** j-j-jingle hoes
Jingle all the way!
O' what a lot fun, what a lot fun to ride and sing in a one-horse open leggings
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 2:32 AM UTC
Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.
The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.
Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.
The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.
The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."
"You're too sweet."
"It's not a problem."
After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?
Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
We lived
In our Goodwill bathing suits
During our arduous summer isolation
From school and friends.
They were shiny, silk-like.
The scrotums were always
A size too big,
And so, sagged,
Exposing us like water snakes
Raising heads from darkness.
We sat in the back seat of the Rambler
Like three monkeys,
Towels wrapped sarong-like.
The heated air rose from the hood
As visible reminders.
This was Mammy's idea,
Hoping he would feel obliged
After many hours of hoeing and weeding.
Just an hour at the Beach.
I longed for the sound of slowly crushed stone
Beneath the tires as we backed out.
He emerged from the house,
Walked to the garage,
Never glancing our way,
A half hour later we got out.
But I saw, I heard, and now I speak.
Some fathers are never Dads.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
Summers meant harvests of berries and such,
chores to do before play.
Running barefoot in lawns that were lush,
the smell of fresh mown hay.
Hoeing the garden to keep down the weeds,
cooling off with the hose.
Bagging up the dried Marigold seeds,
finding Ladybugs in the Rose.
Swimming holes, Dead Mans alley, long evening walks.
Picket fences lead the way,
as I walked with Grandpa and talked.
Summers were the time for Rights of Passage,
lessons in growing up.
When bravery or cowardice sent a message,
with buddies there for backup.
Warm nights allowed for camping out back,
fireflies aglow.
Lying in wait for a surprise attack,
until the lantern burned low.
In those hot Summer days of sixty five,
something in me changed.
Through my talks with grandpa, a calm came alive.
He taught me how to feed the birds,
standing quietly as you can.
They would come to his whispered words,
eating out of our hands.
Grandpa taught me the importance to truly see,
what was slipping past.
I watched the world, as other kids ran free,
knowing Summer wouldn't last.
As for me, I was content to let pass,
those Summer days in shade,
learning to whistle, on a blade of grass.
**Thank you Grandpa for all you taught me.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 3:43 PM UTC
Poetry I'm sure is no little mystery
I am unsure of her ways
If she sleeps or if she is awake
Sometimes her stone tools and weapons
Sometimes her love and care
Poetry is no easy task
A poem to write can be as hard as a job
As mowing any field
As hoeing any row
Her fruits are as satisfying as any
They hold me fast for a while
But I will always hunger again
So it is out to a field to toil and work
I hope my crops are sweeter this time
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
A Sunday is a dozy day,
Where teenage beds are filled,
lie ins til lunchtime again,
they'll tell you it's a day of rest,
Then they'll hop out of bed screaming for tea,
or maybe coffee if they're more like me.
Unless of course, the reader here is getting prepped to praise the Lord.
Sunday,
Maybe,
a day for all the good folk,
to relax in their own Gethsemane,
pulling up weeds, or planting seeds,
Repairing seasonal life,
just spent or sowing more,
true and anew,
Hoeing and furrowing,
All out for growing
There are no olive groves,
running through the gardens,
of the English lords and ladies,
It's much too cold at this time of year.
Nobody's spreading gospels,
nor penning epistles in the average British gardens.
The only words spoken are spread only by birds,
In a language, not understood by many.
While the mother of nature,
she strips the trees bare.
Oh well, another Sunday en route,
half a week to go and I just couldn't care.
(C) Livvi
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
I always look
my most beautiful
when I cry;
the bags under my eyes
burn as poignantly
as waning crescents,
lips plump as they quiver
with the same multitudes
of Artemis' bowstring,
chest heave-hoeing
against the tempered
vessel of my soul.
I wear sadness
remarkably well,
you know.
Like black lipstick.
or short hair.
or poetry.
(Cleopatra's got nothing on me, baby)
My reflection tessellates
against the swell of my tears,
evolves into
kaleidoscopic fractals
of smouldering thrones
and howling queens--
into images most
strange and terrible.
(But, oh, how I welcome them.)
A delicate curtsy of words
respires from my mouth,
forms upon my tongue
its homage--
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
if shes fought her whole life
been through break-up after next
that shows that us guys only want women for ***
to all of the real women out here i'm on your side
you don't deserve none of the pain you face
and for the ones who hurt there good men
i must say that'll be hard to replace
Mane if we just man up for least
then we wont have to worry about females going gay
or turning into thots
what if someone did our mothers and sisters the same
along with the number of suicides I've seen
it's all just a shame
We tell them we'll be faithful
but then go behind and cheat
trying fix things with ***
then keep the cycle in repeat
We tell them we love them
but can't even settle down with one
Because they say being unfaithful equals fun
for all the girls out here stuck in a heartbreak just hang in there
your sun will shine again
with a good man in your life to begin
and to the guys out here hoeing around
when your older and lonely with no one to hold or kiss
just remembered those hearts you broken in your pass cant be missed
i dont know why we cant show love in might
all our women want is for someone to treat them right
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Blasphemy, blasphemy in the city of Rhapsody
Casualties, casualties increased in number, they plunder
Gold chains, gold rings, and hoes
******* up on their nose
Knives and bullet holes
Liquor fumes run out there pores
Another round it's time to pour
Ball, and steal the ones you love
Grim, like reapers, scythe laying in the trunk
So rowdy, you getting punked
Get out the house, get on the funk
I am, I am the kid who is stacking dollars
I be, I be the one they call the POWER
Stealing from yall' what is no ones
So I came to ball and unfold them
Ace of spades, I be rubbing on the jin
So dam turnt I do now know how it can be sin
She is fire, infernos desire, my mind admires, her waterfall I acquire
I just want that hot verse and that choir
Encore, encore I think I want more
Just like Ceasar, man's brain gets distorted
Because they hoeing, because the gold and drugs that come, people change when you got that dolla huh?
People change, People change, when you got that dolla huh?
Huh?
I be, I be a one man choir
Look at all these ******* in the game. 'Bout to grab that empire
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
the words i speak will make you feel that i'm teaching
It must the real stuff I say
must be the way i look at life through the day
The words i speak,
will let all know im quite different than others
might be a reason why im judged
can't say i really care
i've been living for 18 years i been known life ain't fair
The words i speak will have you shocked
cause i speak upon power
speak upon school
i even speak upon the wanna be's who think they so cool
The words i speak aren't ordinary
I speak against my mind
fight against my thoughts
they say life is a lesson
i can't tell cause lot's haven't been taught
The words i speak don't mind to be heard
don't mind to be known
until people pay attention,
i guess my words speak for there own
Cause when you talk about changing the world
people then will think your weird or even lame
But when your killing, hoeing, or thug-gin
it's like the whole world knows your name
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
hoeing weeds in-between
garden boxes
jade spider rappels
down
the side
spilt-milk peccadillos fade
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
*** stop hoeing"
"I have,
but my illness has faded,
so i'll do other things,
like...
There's marriage and there's work to do,
there's plenty hobbies too!
There's studying, playing, writing, food!
And don't forget to ****
I like to browse the Internet,
and check up on a friend.
To take a walk, or better yet,
to bulk-up, self-defend!
And reading etymology,
and entomology!
Biology, phonology,
even cocktomology!"
Feb 1, 2023
Feb 1, 2023 at 9:40 AM UTC
Planting, potting, and puttering
Weeding, hoeing, and muttering
Excavating for fruiting treasure
Dancing for favorable weather
My garden bears riches in tastes and views
A thriving bed of multicolored hues
My efforts support much life in the tending
My plants, sprouting and my soul, mending
My garden retreat, my nook, my hideaway
Under canopy of trellises and pairs of blue jays
Comforts my heart with its lush serenity
A space for growth among blooming greenery
Wafting aromas of rich, earthy soil
Fill my nostrils as I toil
Grimy fingers and sweat creased brow
Invigorates my body as I work the trowel
My labors are love transferred fingertip to root
My reward is new life, new sprouts, new shoots
My efforts take patience, tenderness, and care
Proof that in Eden a human dwells there
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC