"imports" poems
“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
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.
late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation
purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight
all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven
My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.
a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan
She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.
pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma
It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven
my love brought
me tranquility.
my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
The Eastern wind blows and comes at such a slant,
that you can never, get out of the way, it is tantamount
both parties were in the wrong, standing in the way.
Dubai the insurance state
fifty fifty blame
what a game
shame over
honor,
terrorize the tourists,
workers, from domestics (imported)
for every hotel in sight
to oil patch imports,
oh the money,
as if it is worth the risk!
Good bye Dubai
Good bye, **** is not a male right,
the victim is a victim shamed already
by the act do not add to their plight
by dividing the blame,
your wealth enables bad
behavior with a religious fervor,
common sense,
common decency,
tells me to believe her.
Good bye Dubai, as pretty and
a delight to the eyes, you want the world
to see, I forgive you for your injustice
to an innocent like she.
©ClemC072013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Do you believe
that a poem
has not one meaning
but imports as numerous
as the eyes that experience
its existence
and try to piece together
how it exists in their life?
that the core of a poem
is some internal light
that the poet has basked in
which has manifested itself on the page?
***but that for each of us
who is touched by its presence
it is an aurora borealis
which holds us rooted
panting in excitement
lost in admiration
and appreciating that someone somewhere understands?***
that an encounter with a poem
is like trying to find shapes in the clouds
or constellations in the stars
or meanings in inkblots
that within its randomness
patterns emerge
and each one may discover
exactly what one is looking for
that within this meeting of minds
there is an universal connect
a personality test-
that reveals both
the reader and the poet
so while reading any poem
it may be worthwhile to think
what did I learn about you?
and what did I learn about myself?
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
18.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:58 AM UTC
a pier one imports parked between
penera and penn station
a physical example of literary alliteration
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
There! In the shadows, she watches
breaking hushed tranquility that shades
my eucalyptus
on a morningbeige wall
the Tingle, it’s here. a sense
of unease as she climbs my;
nick! and imports her touch. Lick
up my arms, fingers unwelcomely
running through my head
she is in my scalp
itching imprint stays, echoing off
tired skin. ruining tender visions
of whispering
eclipse filled daynight
Perhaps
they came together;
in shallow memories of dark
Chicago forbid my viewing
She’s here now. watch
wild fingers grabbing lapping
trees, ******* up their marrow
Creeping; burrowed in cold breeze
on my quiet 73 degrees
afternoon willow
her hands touch without touch,
eyes catch moments of them
past dusk, aching sunlight echoes
more distantly down time’s dust
each day she; the moon comes
closer and colder I see her
fingers, lustly peek out behind
looming, that chipped orb
the encompassing force was all;
no shades protected
retinas burned, she is here!
behind my eyes
her fingers
to close my eyes is to touch her
her ***** nails
they would drag me
I feel her
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
The White Race
&
The Black Base
In-fighting Nut-Case
Wearing kits & killing kins
Tracer bullets leave no trace!
Ak's & Ra's
Customized & hand made
Just Like Burger-king
Have it your way!
And this war is brought to you by
Your's Truly,
The infamous
NRA!
Cops shooting innocent by-standers on the block,
Innocent by-standers then copping Bump-stocks,
Dropping scores to make it count,
Odd murders 2 even out!
Sniper's posted atop rooftops,
Legislations to make him stop.
A "Mentally Challenged" Caucasian man who had gone AWOL?
Suddenly reappears like an Automatic *****
Posted @ the Hotel
Planning to **** wholesale
To get the maximum reward
Also to get closer to God,
Bodies 4 trophies
& Their Head's as his awards!
In the midst of all this
Another white supremacist
With absolutely no
Motor-skills
To run us over
& Cause massive kills
At Town Halls
Movie theaters and even at the Shopping mall
A Muslim nut-job
Planning ********
A darker American
A lighter Puerto Rican,
Or even a white broad,
Always someone@ur service
To start a brawl,
To ***** some skin
& Make it crawl,
To raise u up
Then Watch you fall.
Wild fires burning bodies bare
Of All colors,
From well done to medium rare,
White House to Gitmo
Water boarding & a bit more,
Laid back extreme sports!
**** 4 tats here,
Cliques & Gangs here
Bricks in the bag here
Clipped to the back rear,
**** yes No *** hair,
Shotguns no cab fare,
Tariffs on imports
Nuns & Nymphos
Hoes before bro's
Turning friend's into foes.
Deserted mill workers,
Over dosing on pill sherbets
Gettin' high 2 get by
Laugh hard then start to cry,
Suicides to feel Alive,
Straight up living
Just to curl up & die,
What a way to go
Get buried to touch the sKy!
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
I see you, yes I do
Gargling your coffee beans in your local coffee shop
That arrive on boats, imported non stop
The weathered hands that snatched those beans off that vine
All for you to enjoy your relaxing java time
Don't act like you didn't know, you did know
You knew it before you brewed it
I hope your comfortable in your chair
Made in China
Made in China
I hope your enjoying your computer built with uranium from over there
Imported from Africa
Imported from Africa
America, the strong
The proud
The independent, dependent on foreign imports
Now is your time to retort
But you're too busy ******* down iced coffee in mall food courts
You're drinking all that caffine but you need to
WAKE UP
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
I hear the song
of this street
a happier song
than the blues of Denver
destitution with gaiety
more hope and love,
worn souls and bodies
hoping for the
loose change that
usually ends up lost
between couch cushions
in exchange
for a simple show
instead of begging
for sympathy
carefully arranged
planter boxes
to match the seasons
and jubilance of
passers by juxtaposed
with the whitening beard
of a ***** old man
hustling for a buck
for **** or food or *****
you will never know
except for the few
honest cardboard signs
the two a.m. ***
happy and ******
eagerly striking a
conversation with
lone students
out for a simple walk
looking only for
someone to talk to
because no one
is a desert island,
we need imports
and exports of
thoughts, ideas,
and emotions
to keep the small
piece of land bearable
the man in a mask
with no skin showing
playing congas
on a hot Colorado day
hoping for a
pocket full of change,
face hidden; like
his beaten past
he is humble—
anonymously playing
for a dollar
or few without
shock or pizzazz
adults buying a drink
while a block down
children buy an
ice cream cone
both a vice
modern jazz, which flows
over the red bricked street
guitars, bongos, violins,
Home Depot bucket drums
melding together into
one, spontaneous song
improvised by the ebb
and flow of tourists
and natives with
changing verses of
a woman’s opinion
strongly voiced to a survey
while her husband
keeps the beat with his foot
—never allowed to sing
the chorus of children
shrieking and crying
in the dissonance of youth
reflected in early couples
sing infatuations
short and fleet, struggling
to keep a foot hold, but
fading like pop songs…
the experienced couples
creating movements of
pain, joy, and maturity,
dynamic blues riffs
full of emotion only
those who have felt
could understand
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
I can't trace the crown of my indifference towards you (or anyone else) to a definitive source.
Whether you are strung to me or I to you,
our union imports
several interpretations.
You might be like fishing wire:
binding limbs, constricting movement;
if I deviate, I suffer your sharp cut of resistance.
Maybe you're yarn: soft, nurturing; but again, any move that falls outside the lines of your predicated design--any undue tightening or loose end--results in chaos.
Or perhaps you are the hand that draws the line:
you, the invisible puppeteer
who governs my every wayward glance
or dishonest act at the whim of your object, your desire;
one string leads to the
magnetism of your cologne
and another, the heat
of your knees in fitted jeans
against mine.
If it be that,
then, my indifference would serve as my aide,
a final desperate cling to autonomy.
But what if we were both cast
in the same web, rendered useless
through entanglement, would we
claw towards each other, content
though the silk grows thick
with every reach?
Would we tear our way to liberty?
Or if we were to find that thing-
the source-
and cut all ties,
would magnetism wind us up again?
If I unravel, what would you do?
If you unravel, would I leave you
in a pile at my feet?
Would I cast dead strings aside
and embrace the freshness-
raw and bleeding but alive-
beneath the rage?
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
During boring
school lessons
he looks across
at Yehudit at her desk
takes in her brown hair
shoulder length
her profile
the eyes
nose
and how she sits
her large bust
her pen in hand
writing
and the teacher writing
on the board
boring stuff
time wasting scribbling
he watches her
her head bent
intent on the work
and thinks
of that time
by the pond
in the wood
he lying there
on the grass
sun above his head
and she came
and sat beside him
her peasant simplicity
overwhelming him
her show of leg
as she moved closer
her eyes large
and fire filled
and he told her
about the large butterfly
he'd seen in the woods
red and black
and white tips
and as he spoke
she touched his thigh
moved her hand along it
her fingers doing
that walking thing
on the jeans
and he proceeded
with the butterfly talk
as her fingers
walked deeper
and pressed and pressured
and he said
OK so the butterfly
isn't the most
intense subject
but hey
what are you doing
with the walking?
raising an interest
she said
and he said
two can play
at that game
and touched her leg
the soft flesh
moving his hand
just beneath
her skirt
warm and silky
and now once
you've written
that down
the teacher says
dragging Baruch
from his day dream
of memories
I'll talk about
the exports and imports
of the nation
and so he goes on
but Baruch
is only half listening
he studies Yehudit's hands
how they join together
as if in prayer
elbows on the desk
her chin resting
on the finger tips
and how her knees touch
issuing from the skirt
beneath the desk
and that time
he kissed her
under the full moon
and he howled afterwards
like some hound
and she laughed
and it echoed
around trees
and they kissed again
dismissing
the November rain.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC
All those words on Facebook
All the lines on twitter too
Undying love for someone
It just wasn't to be you
But that isn't such a bad thing
As most of them are frauds
Keeping florists going
And cheap Chinese imports
By Saturday the wifebeater will have forgotten all he wrote
The psychotic wife will be throwing things
Back to the status quo.
So why do people do it, as in spend an arm and a leg?
Valentine's was for strangers, an anonymous way to vent.
If you were right and they knew it the courtship then commenced
If you kept it up you're a stalker and the courts dealt with it
So look forward to pancake day covered in dietary sins
By then the garage flowers will be rotting in the bin.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC
Automobiles and road rage
Alcohol and steering wheels
Texting and driving
The Military and U.S. Steel
Banks and mercy
Fashion and comfort
Priests and Godliness
Trade alliances and imports.
Republicans and The Constitution
Bigots and non-Caucasians
Christians and homosexuals
Unbalanced equations.
Elitists and human flaws
The rich and the poor.
Anger and loaded guns
You and the Jews next door.
They are naturally equal
But they’re exactly opposite
Sometimes they balance
But often there’s no sense to it.
Attorneys and justice
Lobbyists and compassion.
Science and the church
Trust and politicians.
Monsanto and private farms
Pipelines and ecology
Fracking and water rights
Minorities and majorities.
Hope and desperation
Citizen’s rights and Tea Party
Media and integrity
Politics and morality
Free enterprise and monopolies
Censorship and free press
Freedom of expression
And illegal social duress.
They are naturally equal
But they’re exactly opposite
Sometimes they balance
But often there’s no sense to it.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Yet, I admit, feel a tad uninspired.
So I gently wave my hand towards
two handmaids. Essha, a musician
uses her nimble fingers to play the
Harp with other, Semui who plays
the flute, together creating a true
aurelian tune.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
There is so much ahead that my eyes
can see. Rings of still, clear waters
around the green hills of near and
far. Guards patrolling the high walls
of my borders, Knights riding horses
into my people's town. How it warms
me to see them all smiling and laughing,
going about their daily business.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
A brethren of sweet lilies in the
vase shyly bob their heads, pouting
their rosy lips which I gently stroke.
Violets coiled around the bare feet of
the caryatids, and pots of bluebells
and dahlias by my own slippered
feet.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
My star-kissed diadem, though
resting on my curls, is caressed by
the light as I turn my face towards
the horizon. Deer dance in the shade
of pure green, leaping over the silver
streams, that murmur tales and
secrets they hold within.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And by the docks of my Aurelinaea,
are many argosies with wooden
bellies and creamy sails with many
imports; of silks and velvets, satins
and eiderdown; apricots and apples,
plums and peaches, honeys, jams,
syrups and jellies from fruits and
flowers to heaps of sugars and spices,
make-up, jewels, flower-bulbs and
perfumes.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And my personal favourites - a great
assemblage of teas; herbal and cream,
drinks and oils as well as an assortment
of old tomes, Analects and books. I have
a dream that mine own library would
rival the fabled one of the once great
Alexandria.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?
even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy **** brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one *** *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
**** **** nakedness, ***** and *******
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
mouth quickly incredible tripping with youth meekly feels
moist, single, and crimsonly accelerates two bent velvet
lengths of lip, mouth, singly imports a kneading on my
short lanks of uncoloured. Dear,
who small, wan, paleness
of cheek is writ with the
quiver
of
cupid's
pricking,
treads
of thy nostril, lip, and ear silver
hangs a curving set of beads from
thy nose
and the back of your
head
is
nice
under
my
hand
pressed
thickly
into
cotton
and
your
back
,which,
slithers
and rolls
says,
"hello, destroyer"
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
This morning
Maggie was unsure
about what she could
articulate
She says that
imports are important
as she chews another
blueberry
from Argentina
and sips on a coffee
with an anonymous
unarticulated
origin
sweetened
with sugar
from somewhere
and milk
from a cow
in The Eden Valley
For which I am thankful
(And "she" is me!)
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
You have to be careful because I’m a delicate little flower
If you raise your voice
I’ll probably cry
And my petals will get torn
Because the sound of your voice holds a gale force wind
And my hands are too weak to hold on
If I cry that must mean I’m weak right?
Because that’s what crying is it’s weakness leaking out of my eyes
And causing my hands to shake with every breath I push out of my body and every word that comes from my trembling lips sounds like a whisper.
Speaking of whisper you have to be quiet too
All of yours words to me must sound
Like a soft hum
Because as soon as I hear storm clouds come from your mouth
The rain will come from my eyes and fall to ground
At my feet
I can feel the rumble of your voice beneath me
And it makes my heart pound in my ears
And it’s all too loud for a scared little rabbit like me
If I run away that must mean I don’t have the strength to face anything
I probably fall apart like the fabriage egg I crushed in my hand from Piere one Imports when I was a kid (it was an accident) and there’s no way to put me or that egg back together.
Because we are both so **** fragile that one angry glare can cause a crack in me and break everything that I am
I am fragile but I have glue to put myself back together whenever I need to
I cry but I will not let the tears stop me from letting my voice be heard
I can hear thunder in the distance and stand my ground
I am sensitive but I am not weak
Even something as delicate as a flower has thorns
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
Saint George is an englishman
Who never came to England
Born in ancient Turkey
Fighting for the Romans
Saint George is an englishman
Who never met a dragon
Willing to be martyred
Killed for saintly passions
Saint George is an englishman
Adopted as our own
Our nation full of mongrels
Imports a classic hero
Apr 23, 2024
Apr 23, 2024 at 6:17 AM UTC
Everything is amenable to a pen--
so nevermind this sudden splash of water
on this page, nevermind it all, it is
something I ought to have been able to make
for myself back home-- if I so desired it,
and finally, I'm glad that I no longer did:
You see,
travelling is a game for me. It is no
urgency, no need. When I was younger
how many times was I told that: it would be
this way? By teachers and others and televisions
that to leave home
would be the great mattering;
Let me remind you of the Acacia trees!
Nevermind this sea! And its constant blueness,
their imports of me and those who looked
like me; then their denails of me and
those that look like me when finally
the depature of their self-righteousness
A funny thought:
In RPGS they're NPCS:
In role-playing games they are
non-playable characters:
when you walk your character
to them and give a little click
upon them they might talk and say
something of their
lives
the question is, is what happens
after you switch off the video game
console. Are they always frozen
in their space in that time or is it
that the need for you to journey
keeps everybody so still in your head
that you forget that they too have
lives
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
He doesn’t know what to write about.
Not many things to be said out loud.
He’s sad, the world’s a whirling storm,
A place that lost its gentle form.
He sat in the bathroom for hours on end,
Scrubbing off the guilt—too much to mend.
Looked himself up and down with a frown,
Wished he could wash those details down.
Cut his already painfully short nails,
Still couldn’t forget the smallest details.
Mindlessly scrolled through Instagram,
But didn’t really give a ****
He deleted TikTok, Insta, all that noise,
Left with google and Wikipedia—no joys.
So he scrolls through YouTube shorts,
At least it’s not meta or Chinese imports.
Still can’t delete WhatsApp,
Feels like a trap.
But he uses Signal most of the time,
And then tries to make his words rhyme.
Jun 4, 2025
Jun 4, 2025 at 2:12 AM UTC
*Bodies mostly air
Drowning time in hurt waters
Wait of world is love*
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Public right of way
Ancient pathways
over common land
where livestock is grazed
in a traditional manner
It is important
that this local source of food
continues
for farmer's markets
and fairgrounds
Local produce
being much better for our health
than imports
from far away
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 6:14 AM UTC