"irrigation" poems
I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
*"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of* KING of FARTS!" Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.
Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed? It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
As mother nature's
Punitive measure
Against a society
In maintaining
The statuesque
That doesn't bother,
Our rivers
Had become subject
To a water thirst,
To the extent
Of projecting
Rocky ribs
Terrifyingly protruded out
For easy count!
But now thanks to
The all-out, terrace making
And reafforestation effort
Of each catchment
Farmers have made a point
And also to the afforestation
Move of the government
Rivers aside from quenching
Their insatiable thirst
Have resumed
To brim over
With floods
Drinking water
To their hearts' content.
Our forests once stripped of
Their wooded cover
Have started, fast, to recover
From afar they are seen
Robed eye-catching green
From a fry-pan sky
Allowing a shelter
Also busy
Carbon to sequester.
Wild animals
That migrated
Have preferred
Back their way to find.
Now farmers don't have
Deep to dig
To sink a water well
Or find a nearby spring.
Birds are heard chirruping
Be it winter, summer or spring,
While Brooks bubbling.
Buzzing and hovering
From this to that flower
Bees are producing
Organic honey by the hour.
Promising a bumper harvest
Farmer's plots have
Fortunately continued
To resuscitate!
Those leaving
Their denuded abode behind
Away, who preferred
To stay
'We will return back
home soon! '
Is what
They say.
Happily enough
Mother nature
Affords us a second chance
Imbued with
Environment stewardship
If we are willing to mend
Our wrong 'Feast today
famine tomorrow! ' stance.
To dispel the spectre
Of climate change
And systematically face
The global challenge
True to the adage
'We have either to
swim together
or sink together! '
Hence in fighting the challenge
Or adapting to the change
Back scratching,
We have to be on the same page.
Indeed, irrigation must
Not slip our mind
For erratic rainfall
A lasting solution
If we must find.//
Once a famous Ethiopian Poet Pro.Debebe Seifu Who had passed away had penned down a picturesque poem lamenting the land degradation, deforestation and change of climate the country was suffering.The bad scenario seemed unrecoverable.Now a days Ethiopia is reversing that sad episode.I have therefore to write a poem on this
#change #trees #erosion #climate #deforestation #enviroment #degeradation #desertification
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
this table in the
shade
these commune hippies
in the river
I wrote a poem
in my sleep
I looked at the mountains
and thought
rain
staccato
metronome
irrigation
and caps
melting
but enough of this
nature
let’s go back
to the concrete
mouth
where we walk
through the city
full of cake
bloated like
balloons
but rolling
because
cake doesn’t make
you float
no
cake only makes you
fat
the conversation turns
to the stench
there’s something dying
in the air
we leave
and roll joints
spot magnums
on tree branches
and think
only monkeys ****
in trees
and we would never
want to see
monkey ***
and ******
no
we’d never try it
and the homeless man next to us
puts his spoon
away
but god
why do we sleep
when we just wake up?
why do we sleep
to dream
such ********
things
where celebrities
feed us salami in
back alleyways
and we see our mother
pooping on
world maps?
time rips of
lyrical grass
conductive smile
soap bubbles
these beautiful
dreamtime mornings
spent thinking of you
in playhouse mountains
like a child
you smile
like a friend
I offer you my hand
and we walk
to the white
together
bill withers is there
he is singing
in his yellow
turtleneck
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
A Crop of Lies irrigate farmland
Deception grows and dies
Its corpse sustains
A cycle refrains
Cold, this night is
Cracks open the ground
Revealing a sight
Seeping through with light
Regions were found
To be taken and conquered
Sailors sailed to eat sailors
And they as well ate bread
Sounds of paranormal had
Guided every boat, then plane
Then spaceship, to the inside
Of a toy box they made
“These Crops dictate Truth”
Says Man (or monster)
Every night is cold; cracked
These Crops are impure
Livestock tell stories of their leader
It’s more of saying really
Because they’re ******* livestock
The Truth cannot tell nor talk
Reason slips off their skin
Like water off oil
Harder and harder it is
For Man to let joy soak in
Journeys of discovery
Travel through the television
Crisps, colas, pies, and cakes
Is what ******* does it
Beef pulp, French toast, tomato paste
Is what ******* does it
All we consume is ****
Crying fat morons decompose
“I really like the rain”
Says ****** with pudding stain
And her body melts and pours
As the rain does inexcusably
Great big dogs soak up in the rain
Unlike Man with his walking cane
They are all dying as they retreat
Underneath a roof of sin to replace
Emotional politicians claim they’re drug-free
As they smoke cigs and drink alcohol
Infant babies were torn apart in shopping malls
Did the World set them free?
Man (or monster) propose
To have a war on anything
Must any more children die?
Or can they get high; watch television?
What the **** is wrong with an aspect
Of harmless self-discovery
Can Man wager livestock’s epiphany?
Is it o.k. to live in a subdivision?
Or on a farm, or in the television?
Do these Crops have to dictate
Which victim we choose to mate?
To dictate our truth?
Can the fake astronaut admit?
He got ******* high; watched sitcoms
Ate potato chips, ate cereal out of the box
Never told a soul it was a hoax
Crops soak in the sweet rain
As the political Man weeps
These Crops become true
Dying Men no longer retreat
A Crop of Lies
Become so true
This wisdom is beauty
What we see now
Is as clear as day
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
Overdevelopment in Bali
The Farmers lose valuable water
For use in the hotels
The mushrooming developments have clogged irrigation channels
To rice fields inland,
Often driving them up and driving up the cost of tending the land
The shrinking amount of land available
Has threatened Bali's self-sufficiency in rice
Tourism benefits the economy
But the environment should also be respected
A String of letters
The Height of a man stand in the middle of a lush padi field
They spell, "Not for sale,"
Gede Agus says the words
Are meant to scare off investors
This is his land
He inherited from his ancestors
Development must be halted
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Merging the surges.
Converging the urges.
Surveying and delaying.
A brutally soft touch.
A swift tug.
Scramble to the rug.
Hop, twirl, stamp.
Intrinsic epidemics.
Employing harsh thoughts.
Enjoying warm laughs.
Instant confusion.
Undeliberate actions.
Sub-consciencely projected.
Magnified emotions.
Disrespectful conclusions.
Foundations laid, entrusted.
Irrigation failed, erupted.
Defied by fate.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC
another
smothered lover
in the Hollywood hills
unbag the bottle
crack the seal
oh the appeal
of intake
for the sake
of intoxication
so meek and unique
in gurgled screams
a pixie in the hand of a king
compelled
to discretely
capture the beauty
in eternity
expelled
i just felt
i had to nest a shell
and befell
clearing her residual
flirtatious signals
even in the squirms
and even in the squeals
even though i know
she yearns
to be hooked by her gills
dragged through landfills
in a projected field
where she would yield
and kiss me.
i'm gonna pretend
to love her
as i tenderly
shove her
in the river
of our love
take her under
my loving thunder
and plunder her
when drugged
dazed in her wonder
i hold her under
from above
if only for a moment
we locked eyes in love
she fit me like glove
remnants
disposed of
in a rug
posed so beautifully
for the smack
hack and rip
one pretty *****
dumped
in an irrigation ditch
triumphed
our wordless
relationship
its over *****
move on with it
in the mouths
of varmints
oh
charming
as im clicking *****
on key chains
sticking misfits
with loose lips
usually homeless
decoys
here to destroy
nothing
in my twisted ploy
to employ
maximum points
conjoint
my addictive anger
to something a little stranger
im going to dangle
her entrails
in front of her eyes
while i'm bangin her
shes looking so surprised
from every camera angle
the mangled piece of ****
what a lamo
hypnotized
in the passing of life
in the
blood
the ***
the ****
and the knife
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
sneezing has become
my main occupation
I've been busy wiping up
my nasally irrigation's
ten boxes of Kleenex tissue
I have already used
they've been frequently
catching all my achoo's
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 8:44 AM UTC
Daves squeeze.
Waayyy below Mozart
n closer to a doggy ****
she's in painted toe nails
of poodle dawgs;
in colonic irrigation
of a plastic tummy tucked clone,
she's contemporaneous
with minuscule ****
has extraneous fat Dyson'd
cyclonic Mike Tyson'd
and a crows foot is botoxed
- to *** **** ******* death.....death.
so am I wrong to like James Blunt.
am I wrong to like James Blunt.
she's cut n paste n drug n dropped
last seasons face has up n flopped
am I - am I - am I wrong;
--- to like James Blunt.
she sings sour songs in
cavernous bathrooms
with a badly strung violin voice
but smiles the smile of the fuckyoualls
I'malrightjacks,,,
Am I wrong..to.
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 8:04 AM UTC
a cucumber sandwich
shouldn't be made ahead of time
as the liquid in the cucumber
will seep through the bread like lime
you'll have a wet hand
as you lift the sandwich off the plate
your palm and your fingers
will be in a saturated fate
always make cucumber sandwiches
immediately before afternoon tea
at this juncture of time the bread
will not become so soggy
your afternoon tea guests wont abide
the seepage all over their hands
it will make them feel like
jeering spectators in a grandstand
the most tempting cucumber sandwiches
are never served wringing wet
they have a dry bread covering
akin to an indoor carpet
to stop this sort
of sandwich irrigation
you must follow
these preparatory recommendations
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
I am a cloud breaker
because the sun is always with me,
tattooed on my back.
Even at night I can see silver linings.
I am an earth shaker--
cackling, quaking laughs crack surfaces
above, and so below
of flesh and rock like lava's burning, gurgling grace.
I am a light maker.
Warm words spark & ignite dried, dusty leaves
forgotten or ignored,
clearing paths for new gardens to feast upon the sunlight.
I'm a flow waker,
building bridges of effervescent electric irrigation
with hugs between our eyes and hearts,
nourishing, cleansing bodies.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
a cucumber sandwich
shouldn't be made ahead of time
as the liquid in the cucumber
will seep through the bread like lime
you'll have a wet hand
when you lift the sandwich off the plate
your palm and fingers
will be in a saturated state
always make cucumber sandwiches
immediately before afternoon tea
as at this juncture of time
the bread will not be so soggy
your afternoon tea guests won't abide
the seepage all over their hands
it will make them feel like
jeering as spectators in a grandstand
the most tempting cucumber sandwiches
are never served wringing wet
they have a dry bread cover
akin to an indoor carpet
to stop this sort of sandwich irrigation
you must follow these preparatory recommendations
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Bring about a second war,
or pack up - and go home.
We can't accept apologies
from Sicily or Rome.
We can't impart cartography
to mayors without maps.
And no one wades the rivers here,
and water fills the cracks.
And water, liquid power naps,
repels us at the coast,
But draws us in at pipeline ends
and haunts us like Dad's ghost.
I died sometime, the future came,
and everybody smirked
and asked me, while we waited
for my casket, if it hurt.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Take the plow back.
give me irrigation, cuts
through the stubborn dirt
another hope to scar
our earthy night
blisters roll like sunrise
polished stone skins
beading my palm
the ice has grown
downward, like bridges
never finished,
wet from the sweat
of construction
we toiled for so long.
*nothing has grown
but the days.*
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
tending the garden is a lot like cultivating the mind
maintaining balance, harmony and symbiosis
is essential for both flora and fauna
providing proper PH for the soil,
fertilizing and feeding each plant
with the right kind of food
mindful irrigation, going with the flow
plenty of bustling sunshine
as well as periods of deep shade and contemplation
and lets not forget those blessed weeds
only takes a good spring rain
to turn your botanical oasis into a
wild and woolly patch of snarling jungle animals
chattering monkeys swinging from
rampant running vines
tenacious elephants stomping over
shrinking african violets
hungry, growling lions stalking the marigolds
take a deep breath, get centered try not to curse them
after all, it has been said that one man's ****
is another man's flower
gently I tug the miscreant roots
and regain my composure
realizing, they too, have a place in the Cosmic
scheme of things
the brass Buddha smiling between
the hawaiian plumeria and ruffled hot pink hibiscus
winks at me
as I evenly, attentively, consciously align and establish
stepping stones on the Middle path
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
No more to swim in your bluest seas, farewell my dear Pacific,
long did you sustain a myriad of lives, true unimaginable bounty,
you gave all for free and still we stole your life away.
Goodbye salty sea air, no more to breathe your sweetness.
Soon a plume shall come, raining poison death upon us,
watch for wicked winds of radiation,
to silent creep, and deadly seep into
soil and irrigation, you mustn't eat
of tainted wheat, now flee thee to
south of the equator.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
i am not pretty because
p r e t t y
isn't an adjective worthy nor suitable to be applied to me
Pretty does not make good
daughterswivesmotherstudentsteachersdoctorsloversrevolutionarieswriterssingershumans
Pretty is an inanimate unfeeling thing while
i am a life force--- a tornado or hurricane whipping through the air with riotgrrrrl gale force winds in the background, leaving pretty behind me in refuse
Pretty isn't synonymous with worth or good hearts.
Pretty isn't getting up in the morning and making breakfast for your hungover friends
it isn't giving someone flowers just because you care
it isn't women in in trenches digging irrigation systems for villages
or building houses for strangers in another country
it isn't the first breathe of a baby in a midwife's arms
or the sound of women being liberated.
It has no sound at all.
I'd like to think that I am that feeling you get in the summer before a large thunderstorm rolls over the mountains
and pretty
isn't
that.
And in sparse occasions that I am deemed worthy enough a piece of meat to earn this verbal badge of honor-- 'pretty'
that feeling will never outweigh the hate and anguish my body went through to earn that
'compliment'
it will never outweigh the meals skipped
laxatives eaten
amphetamines snorted
or times my fingers have been shoved down my throat until the tips of them stung from stomach acid
my body is weary of me punishing it for someone Else's ignorance and my need to hear this silly word & my throat hurts from putting my fingers inside it
& i will be ****** if i spend another second of my life hating myself and hearing women hate themselves because we weren't told we were 'pretty' as often as we would have liked
So no, I will never be 'pretty' -- I will be much more.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
When I am little
My father used to say
And even now
Saving money is equal
To saving water these
Days
How much water you use
That much money
You will spent
Those words are still in my
Mind
There are people who are thirsty
Out there
No irrigation
For agriculture
No pure water
For drinking
It's more important
To save water and
Save ourselves
Beware
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Water ripples, wind blows,
Water drips, leaf tip,
Water quenches, gratefully sip,
Water’s evolved, fish, irrigation, canals, and cruise ships.
Water water, water!
Wat-er, wha-ter, is what her
Eyes drip?
Moist damp wet water,
She cleans the land feeds the soil
Water water water!
The water is in turmoil!
Homes, families, organisms unknown,
Water is home.
Dolphins and turtles,
Plastic bags and six pack strands,
Beautiful creatures,
Water martyrs.
No more are the shores pure.
The water is at war.
“We should do more”
We’ve done enough.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 6:13 PM UTC
You’re so prosthetic
Existence constructed through defiance
Meticulous hours exhausted in revision
Intrusion into my consciousness
Old assembly bones resonant atrocious melodies
Concrete block on my mentality
Socio-economic tailgate
Bright lights on the public eye
Interrogation
Irrigation of the mouth
Roughed up face
Dislocated jaw
Hostility unleashed
Speak the ******* truth
Departed mortality rate
Breaking in is half the fun
Grind you to a ****** mess
One half in the East River
The other in the Hudson
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
Eyes
I'm sorry for forcing you to endure such demanding labor
For flooding your irrigation gates with salty tides of woeful cries
For impairing your vision as loneliness takes human form and riverwalks across your irises
Please, forgive me
Mind
I'm sorry for causing you to overthink constantly
For saturating your fields of knowledge with dangerous negative thoughts
For bullying you with these words and questioning your sanity
Please, forgive me
Heart
I'm sorry for bruising and blackening your core
For halting the flow of electric passion between your chambers and preventing your ability to attach with the strings of another
For fueling your disappointment over and over again, yet you still exhaustingly pump and beat for me
Please, forgive me
Soul
I'm sorry for draining the waters from your wells of hope
For leaving you hollow, I can hear your echoes of misery
For dehydrating you of joy and penetrating your walls with shards of dejection, I can feel you slowly dying inside of me
Please, forgive me
You
You've created a villain of despair
Who forges anger and depression upon himself
You've given me the tools to destroy my body from the inside out
Yet, my body is still running on the reserves of our recycled love
So just come to me, and tell me you're sorry
Please, I want to forgive you
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
I caught you with your dark side peeking past your pleats,
I saw it like a clear sky, when the mist cooks off the streets.
The unfinished irrigation I left drying hard upon your face -
It smells of history. Kindness is always born of a disgrace.
The internet hides us safe behind crowds of young minds,
A book of faces desiring something proven by the times.
A page to write our names on, photos of our shared birth,
Kindness rising from the street, proving what she's worth.
Candy for our generation is smooth stones of sense of self,
A tumbling togetherness, in natural rivers of joy and wealth.
Mood like sunset destiny sinking among knife blade peeks,
That cut you without warning, and smile while you bleed.
The prisons house the strangers you know from crazy nights,
They don't remember you, they simply dream of better lights.
The half empty charger hungers, and shifts from foot to foot,
Eyes of hope blink for wind. On the wall the news is good.
"A squirrel dying in front of your house may be more relevant to your interests right now than people dying in Africa."
"People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people - and that social norm is just something that has evolved over time."
-Mark Zuckerberg
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
constricted even in the way we move our bodies
told that awkward
little
movements
are
inexcusable
things to be laughed at, hidden, and learned to avoid
girls must dance by swaying their hips
in broad
round
circles
boys must shift their weight from
foot
to
foot
The motions must be fluid
like water through irrigation channels
no room for random gyrations
for the freeing movement
with no control
We have forgotten
we must lift our feet
to show our souls
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Like valleys in a desolate wasteland bear the skeletons of water
and the tundra is envious of the desert that's regrettably hotter,
these scars show where blood used to flow
and remember the life in a cave leaking tears down below.
My veins are an ardent irrigation system
That try to forget that I ever missed him, kissed him, and dissed him
and wish that I had thrown a fist at him and ****** him off.
The life from my blood is putrid and lucid and trying to rid
itself of hidden embarrassment sleeping amid a bed of emotions about to burst.
Let it dampen your thirst and immerse itself in this sobbing flood.
I need a well to siphon all of my blood back into my veins
and to feel less insane and less hopefully vain,
you're the bane of my tears and the bane of my main fears.
Humanity is persisting with an impossible dream
that seems to tease me, tearing my seams and threatening the steams of my inner hot springs to bring this kingdom down into the ground remembering nothing.
Embezzling these dreams from the hopeless lovers and the luckless lovers and foolish and moronic and simple-minded lovers.
So wait with me for the monsoon of dust because I must not wait in solitude waiting for my crowded heart to spontaneously combust.
The darkness for once is a beacon, meek and a freakin' immature fawn
exulting in our fictitious devotion, crying from it's eyes
bathing in the tears crying from the skies,
and mourning through our veins and dreaming in the morning in pain.
I'm hosting a caucus for flirtation but you're the only one invited.
We're a landscape of brutal simplicity.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
I'm writing a poem with an overly excessive name.
I'm overly excessive with my obsession.
Overly excessive with being different.
Overly-over all the situations partaking in the hyper irrigation of the words from my head to the paper causing stimulation.
We all have that overly excessive stimulation fixation
we like to partake in.
Addiction is what makes the world go round.
Chasing violence, money, *** and who knows what else.
It's all greed.
We even chase greed. We just give it different need.
War, Currency, Women and who knows what else.
I'm writing a poem with an overly excessive name.
A poem with an overly excessive greed.
An overly excessive need.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC